Fosterfest

My LIfe with Migraines

2011-10-09T09:43:00.001-06:00

Headaches. Headaches have taken over my life. This is why I have not been posting. It is why so many other things in my life have been dropped or become sources of anxiety -- will I be able to drive my son to that birthday party? Will I be able to go out with friends that night? Will I be able to make it back from visiting family in Mandeville if I have to take medication while I am there? Will I be able to get to work to handle that client meeting?

I have always had headaches, even as a small child. They got much worse and were officially labeled migraines after my dad died when I was 15 (sidebar -- I've been ruminating a lot on that lately with Steve Jobs' death from a similar cancer). But still, for most of my teenage years and early adulthood, they were mainly a nuisance, but not something so severe I couldn't function. I relied on some prescription medicine when a bad one came on, and once every year or two I would have one so bad I would have to go to the ER for a pain shot. They were definitely a hazard and an unwelcome part of my life, but manageable.

When I was pregnant with Henry, I had headaches almost every day for months, but they weren't very severe most of the time. They were diagnosed (incorrectly, it now appears) as sinus headaches. So, when we decided we would try to get pregnant again, I had sinus surgery, hoping that would alleviate the congestion that I thought was causing the pregnancy headaches. But there I was, pregnant with Dean, having daily headaches that were significantly more severe than I had experienced with Henry. That struggle has been chronicled on this blog previously, but suffice it to say that the headaches I experienced, and the anxiety over treatment that came with them, are the primary (though not the only) reason that we have decided not to try for more children.

The headaches got somewhat better after I gave birth to Dean. They were bad in the first few months, probably due to sleeplessness and post-partum depression, and none of the new migraine abortive medications seemed to have any effect. After I started taking an anti-depressant for the post-partum depression, the headaches didn't go away completely, but I went from seeing my neurologist once every two weeks to once every six months because they seemed to be under control. I didn't like being on the anti-depressant -- mostly b/c of a general distrust of pharmaceuticals, but also because I just didn't feel like I needed it anymore -- so after a year, I went off it. The withdrawal was very unpleasant -- brain zaps, lightheadedness, and return of a daily headache -- but I persevered and have been without such medication for a year and a half. The headaches resumed their pre-pregnancy frequency and intensity -- predictably occurring after a period of stress or insomnia, but generally not too much of a cross to bear.

Then last fall the frequent headaches returned. Around this time, my dentist pointed out, as he has done for years, that my bite problems and possible TMJ disorder could be causing my migraines. I dithered about this, given that my neurologist discounted the theory and it would involve a lot of tests and trial treatments to follow through on it. I continued to deal with the headaches until mid-March, when we took a trip to Louisville. I had been prepared for a bad round of headaches, what with flying and dealing with the kids in a hotel, but amazingly, the headaches seemed to vanish. And barely returned for the next two months. I had my life back. Unfortunately, I started dealing with a painful ovarian cyst. I pretty much stopped exercising, except for yoga, and was very distracted by worry and discomfort for most of May and June. And the headaches came back.

I finally agreed with my neurologist's recommendation to go on a preventive medication. I was resistant to getting back on anti-depressants, so we tried Nadolol, a beta-blocker. At the same time, I started weekly acupuncture. The headaches continued, slightly less intense but no less frequent. I pretty much woke up every day with slight pain on my left temple and tension in my jaw, and at least once a week the headache became so bad I had to medicate it, which seriously interrupts my life as I can't drive and have a hard time handling the kids when I am dosed up on Ativan, Vistaril, and an NSAIDs. Speaking of NSAIDs, did you know they cause stomach ulcers? Yep, you probably did. I did, too, in some part of my brain, but obviously not in the part that was repeatedly taking aspirin and advil on an empty stomach. So, after two months of taking this stuff two or three times a week, I ended up with a stomach ulcer. Very unpleasant. Interestingly, during the three weeks or so that I was in near constant discomfort from the ulcer, and also knew I had to avoid taking NSAIDs at any cost, I had very few headaches. I thought I had really reached a turning point (more likely, my body directed stress to the ulcer rather than to my head).

During the past few months I also decided to investigate the TMJ theory. I saw two dentists and an oral surgeon, trying to get a consistent diagnosis. They all agreed that I do have serious bite problems and TMJ misalignment and that this (exacerbated by stress) is probably why I am having the headaches. I spent more than a thousand dollars, not covered by insurance, on a splint, only to find out that it may have been making things worse so I need to have jaw surgery which should be performed by someone in Alabama, and then have my splint refitted, and then wear braces for years. I was in tears after that visit.

Faced with all of that, I decided to be open to an anti-depressant. My neurologist prescribed Viibryd, a very new to the market reformulation of some established anti-depressants. It is supposedly faster-acting and has fewer side effects. But I seemed to have a pradoxical reaction -- I had not been feeling depressed before starting it (one of the reasons I have been reluctant to go this route), but within a day or two, I was feeling increasing anxiety. By day 6, I was having crying spells and such anxiety it was hard to get through the day. We cancelled the Viibryd. After a few days to get back to normal, I am now on Zoloft, which is what I was on for the PPD, so I at least feel comfortable with it, if not convinced it is necessary.

I then called the biofeedback therapist I had seen for a couple of months when I was in law school. I believe it had helped me before, and in fact that therapist was one of the reasons I became a believer in the HeartMath approach. Those ten weeks of treatment in 2003 really changed my life, but somehow I seem to have gotten away from the visualization techniques and breathing and general attitude toward stress that was so effective back then. I have only had one visit so far, but will be going back on Tuesday, and I feel optimistic.

I have to have hope.

I have avoided writing this post for quite some time, partly because I am self-conscious about laying open how much these headaches have taken over my life (I have had one requiring medication almost every day for almost the last three weeks). And I am self-conscious about people's well-meant attempts to help me -- have you tried this? Have you tried that? Maybe if you just thought less about the headaches they might go away...at least you don't have a life-threatening disease...

I don't want anyone to think I am having a pity party (I am, sometimes, but I recognize that this is both unhelpful and out of proportion). I am so very aware of how fortunate I am - that I have access to and can afford these treatments, most of which are not covered by insurance; that I have a supportive husband who can pick up the slack on the days I can't drive carpool or give the kids their baths; that I have a job that allows me to work from home on the days when I can't make it to the office. If I have to have headaches, I am pretty well situated to treat them.

I just wish I knew how. I wish I knew for a fact that I will get better, rather than relying on hope. If I knew the TMJ was the problem, I'd have the surgery and wear the splint and braces, no problem. But my neurologist, biofeedback therapist, and a dentist whose book I bought (Robert Uppgard) all say that surgery is not the solution, or at least that I should try some less invasive approaches first. So that's what I am doing.

And I have absolutely no doubt about the role stress plays in all of this. That is why I am willing to go back into therapy, despite feeling like I have traveled all this ground so many times before -- I know I am a type-A personality, I know that I am too hard on myself, I know that I compensate for a sensitivity to life's chaos by inventing arbitrary rules and goals that provide me the illusion of control, I know that I over-identify with my work and with external rewards, I know that the loss of my father makes me have a heigtened sense of life's vulnerability -- and I know that I inherited a gigantic dose of my propensity to depression and headaches from him -- he suffered with both all of his much too short life. I know all of this, and I even know how to do certain things to counteract the factors. But "to know the good is to do the good" is a heap of manure, and so now I have to pay someone else to tell me these things all over again because for some reason I will do them if someone else tells me to (hello, did I mention the external rewards factor?).

Argh. I just want to be able to have fun with my kids, to take care of them and not have to rely so much on Matthew or friends. I want to be able to do all the things I tell myself I can do when I am feeling well -- I am currently serving as a fundraising co-chair for my son's school, serving on the board of a neighborhood organization, in charge of mailing heaps of donated stuffed animals to a charity in another state, working on a children's book and a novel, oh, and trying to update this blog on a semi-regular basis. I also work five days a week and have two kids and a husband and a circle of family and friends I'd like to see more than once in a blue moon. And I would like to do all of the above perfectly.

And I wonder why I am having migraines?

Aaaahhhh...Late Summer Beach Weekend

2011-08-29T19:48:00.001-06:00

I love it when Matthew's birthday present ends up being a great gift for me, too. For his 35th, we decided to skip school and work and take a three-day trip back to Fort Morgan. We felt positively naughty as we picked Henry up from school Thursday afternoon, the car fully packed, and sped away toward the beach. We arrived just before the sun set and the boys got started accumulating sand in every crevice of their bodies while we unpacked. Matthew found the most wonderful little cottage right on the beach -- it's unusual to find a small place gulf front, but this place was perfect for the four of us. Even my getting a cold that night didn't stop me from feeling relaxation seep into my bones, just from the soft phlumpf of white sand under my feet.

We had beautiful weather and the water was as clear as a swimming pool that first morning, not a jellyfish and barely even a piece of seaweed in sight. The waves were nonexistent so the boys put on their goggles and we scuffed the sand to attract some fish. Matthew got a great video of the boys chasing them. Dean remains as comfortable in water as on land -- when the waves did pick up later that day, and we would try to lift him over one that would easily have topped his head, he was indignant, telling us, "That was not a big one!" He wanted to be out with us the whole time, which was a change from just two months ago when he preferred to be closer to shore. The four of us were able to wade out and look for needle fish and watch the pelicans glide low. On shore, the boys dug holes and built sand forts and generally played well together. We stayed out each day for a few hours in the morning and then went in for Dean's nap. After lunch Henry and I would curl up on the sofa as I read the third Harry Potter to him. Then we went down to the tent so he could fly his kite and I could read. When Dean woke up, we spent the rest of the afternoon, until almost sunset, out in the water and on the beach. After a late supper our last night, we went out to hunt for ghost crabs. The sky was cloudless and the milky way hung over our heads like a veil. Matthew even spotted a satellite, something I'd never seen before (and didn't even know you could spot). We caught a few ghost crabs and then Henry let them go while Dean and I sat in our beach chairs and I sang to him. He was so tired that night, he fell right to sleep. He and Henry slept in the same bed that night because the only bad thing about the beach house was it had ants -- fire ants. The second night there, Dean woke up with them in his trundle bed and so he slept the rest of that night with us. It was sweet -- I haven't had him in our bed since the last time he was sick. Unlike Henry, who remains a fitful sleeper, never an easy bed mate, Dean was like a rock all night long.

I finished reading The Paris Wife and started in on September Vogue, and Matthew dug into a mystery the boys and I got him for his birthday (along with a Giada cookbook, a Muppets t-shirt, a beach hat, and some cooking gadgets). We moved as a unit, pretty much in sync, which is something we are experiencing more and more as the boys get older. I am so happy that we really enjoy being with them -- and for those three days, we could give ourselves over to them completely. I absolutely love our extended family beach extravaganzas every summer, I look forward to it all year, and each summer we create memories I know the kids will have forever. But this was so different, so peaceful, just the four of us, no other agenda or schedule but our own whims and moods. On our last morning, we drove a few miles down to the end of the highway to Fort Morgan. I hadn't been down there since I was a teenager, and they've spruced it up a bit. First we took the boys to the museum and they got to see cannons and artillery shells and picked out seashell souvenirs. Then we spent an hour walking through the fort. Henry would gladly have spent all day there, exploring. It was delightful to see his curiosity and enthusiasm, his thoeries about what a cavernous room may have been used for during the war, what could be down this narrow brick tunnel, where he would end up if he climbed out of this doorway and into what he dubbed "Dragonfly Valley."

We got some hot dogs at the snack shop and then waited to board the ferry to Dauphin Island. I'd never taken the ferry before, which is crazy considering how many years we've been going there. Henry and I climbed the stairs to the upper platform and looked out over the mouth of the bay. Down below us the water was a soft, clear green, speckled with pink jellyfish the size of frying pans. I gripped him around the waist a little tighter. Dean and Matthew stood below, catching sea spray and watching two sea gulls who perched on the car ramp for the whole 30 minute journey.

It was a refreshing, delightful trip. I wish I had felt a little better -- the sore throat slowed me down, and I also think I have developed a stomach ulcer from all the aspirin I've been taking for months for my migraines -- but I can honestly say I feel ready to handle a new school year now, much more resilient than I was before the trip. We needed some mornings of sighting dolphins and afternoons of sandy feet to give us the strength to get through mornings of car pool and afternoons of homework and PTO meetings.

Life at the Edges

2011-08-14T11:24:00.002-06:00

I've been on hiatus from blogging, enjoying the less intense family summer schedule and some very intense personal projects.

We spent the last week of June at Fort Morgan for our annual family beach vacation. This one entirely made up for last year's oil-spill induced Galveston fiasco. Although there were tiny beads of pulverized oil in the surf, and a few tar balls here and there, I've seen that from time to time over my lifetime, and overall the beach was clean and the water was clear and lovely. We had almost no jellies the whole week, which meant the boys played with abandon in the waves, which were larger than usual. Henry especially took the the water really well and is very proud to tell the story of how he lost his two front teeth: "I got my teeth knocked out in a boogie board accident." It was pretty traumatic at the time; even though both teeth were loose, it was a painful way to lose them, and emotionally I had not yet come to terms with the dramatic change in my firstborn's face that losing his front baby teeth would mean. But it is awfully cute to hear him lisp.

After we returned from the beach, I immediately launched into this crazy novel-writing experiment: 1600 words a day for 30 days = something that could possibly call itself a novel. It's all based on the book No Plot, No Problem! and the web site www.nanowrimo.org. It was one of the hardest things I've ever done in my life. The only times I could write were at night after the kids went to bed, when my creative juices were at their greatest ebb, and during Dean's brief naptimes on the weekends, which is usually when the rest of my life gets organized. I stopped reading books, stopped calling friends, stopped watching anything but The Daily Show at night, and fell behind on some thank you notes and wedding gift orders. But, at the end of the 30 days, I had indeed produced 50,386 words. The next step is to wait a few more weeks and then read it over with a critical eye and decide if it merits the months of rewriting that would be required to turn it into something I could send to publishers. I am frankly enjoying the freedom to not think about that right now. I feel really proud of myself that I made a commitment to a personal goal and kept to it, and at this point, that feels like enough.

I am also enjoying reading and socializing again. One of the first books I delved into was a recent used find called Last Child in the Woods. Matthew likes to point out that I am easily brainwashed by certain prescriptive books, and he is partly right, but it's also true that I only read books that I think will enhance my understanding of something I already believe. So, in this case, this wonderful book is making me feel more committed than ever to making sure our boys experience the natural world and making me more aware of how current choices in urban planning and park funding and litigation are affecting the world they will grow up in and someday my grandkids wil hopefully grow up in. The book inspired me to take the boys down to the levee in the evenings last week. For decades Algiers Point has been partly surrounded by two levees. When the river swelled a couple of months ago, the Army Corps decided to breach the outermost levee. Now that the river has gone down, this has revealed several 12-15 foot mounds of dirt that previously made up the levee. Past the dirt mounds is the riverbank, which at this time of year is like a silty beach. The boys love going down there at sunset, throwing rocks into the river, watching the dragonflies, waving at the enormous tankers and impossibly long barges, and of course, climbing the dirt mounds. I try not to think about how toxic the dirt itself might be; instead, I've been appreciating the fact that these may be the only mounds of dirt in the whole city that kids can access without a landowner forcing them off. This little area, just a five minute walk from our front door, is the perfect example of the kind of "nature at the edges" that the author, Richard Louv, talks about in the book. Yes, I want to take the kids camping and hiking and to the great nature parks of our state and country, but I also want them to have access to the little islands of nature that we are lucky enough to find exist right in our neighborhood.

It is unfortunate that I am reading this book at the hottest time of year in New Orleans, when we spend most of our day times indoors, but Matthew and I do make an effort to shift our routines based on the seasons, such as they are down here. This summer we've been eating dinner earlier and then going outside when it is the tiniest bit more bearable. He likes to ride his trials bike while the boys and I play in the baby pool or hunt for frogs or we all take a walk to the levee. In the fall, we'll try to do more ambitious stuff, maybe go on a camping trip with some friends, maybe take the boys canoeing and fishing. I am ready for the nip in the air that I know is still months away.

I am less ready for the uptick in daily stress that comes with school starting next week. SEtting aside that aspect, I am excited to see how Henry handles being a "big kid" in his Montessori class, and how Dean takes to the more structured environment at his new school. They've both made great strides this summer. Henry has been diving into books and really getting stronger when it comes to new experiences. Last week, at our last neighborhood concert on the levee, he was at first disappointed when he realized the friend he had hoped to play with had another kid with him whom Henry did not know -- but after sitting for a while and observing their play, he finally whispered to me, "Okay, I'm going to go try to make friends and fit in," and he did, with great success. Dean is really swimming now and can get himself to the side and out of the pool on his own -- not a guarantee that my nightmares won't still come true, but I am feeling a little more reassured. He continues to delight everyone with his dancing. At that same concert, he danced until his little legs almost gave out. A friend remarked that he wasn't sure he had ever danced as a child growing up in Florida, and how awesome it is that our kids here in NOLA give themselves over to music with such abandon. As miserably hot as it is right now, there are a lot of reasons we choose to live down here. Music and the river have been big reminders lately.

Love Out Loud

2011-06-25T06:41:00.000-06:00

I am so in love with my boys. Even though yesterday I discovered we have six baseball mitts cluttering up our sports basket, which is five more than we have people who know how to use one. And even though I routinely find pee on the toilet seat. And even though they are (the littles ones, at least) SO. LOUD.

It is a strange thing having children with someone you are in love with. Wonderful, yes, but also strange. In the man I am in love with, I have grown to find certain bad habits endearing. Really. It took some effort and a lot of arguing in our first years of marriage, but eventually I grew to see the fact that he doesn't turn his socks the right way when they go in the laundry (as opposed to squished together in a ball with sweat and dirt) as a mark of adorable consistency in his character. I just grin and throw his mashed up sock in the laundry and then leave them in a pile for him when they come out of the dryer.

But Henry's dirty socks are a different matter. It leads to cognitive dissonance. With Henry, there is a voice in my head nagging me to nag, saying, "Do you want his future spouse to have to deal with his nasty habits?"

But then Henry also has some delightful habits, like wanting to tell me everything about everything. He starts every sentence with, "Heymommyguesswhat..." He still has a bit of a stutter so he often starts the sentence about five times before he announces the amazing thing he has just discovered. Like that the grasshopper he captured on the northshore poops a lot; that he's learned to tie his own shoes; that his Bakugan has a tail that only pops out of you turn it this particular way. I fight the urge to hurry him because he might just hurry right up into the age of not desiring to tell me anything.

Dean is at that charming age where I can forgive him anything. I remember Henry being this way, right at about 2 and a half and three years old. So affectionate and emotionally needy but also so determined to be independent and to do everything by himself. He's clever about figuring out solutions to his problems. Just a few nights ago, he began to be scared of the shadow of his ceiling fan. So now he asks me to put his pillow pet over his head when he lays down so he won't see it. With his pillow in place, he goes right to sleep without a peep. He is still obsessed with his pacifier ("shnoodle") but now he compromises when I tell him to give it to me. "I can have it for just one more minute and then you can take it, Mommy." And then seconds later (his version of a minute) he dutifully hands it over without prompting. Every night he requests the same three songs -- "Sweet Baby Dean" (Sweet Baby James), "Alakazam song" (Orange Colored Sky), and "Doggie in the Windome" and then dances and sings the whole time. He hates for me to leave in the morning and starts objecting "Don't leave!" as soon as he sees me put on my heels. When he gets into trouble, his anger spills over so fast and furious that if I pick him up at just the right second it dissolves into sadness and tears as he hugs me tightly.

They are essentially sweet, and care about each other. When Henry was crying the other night, Dean went over to him and asked him gently what was wrong and told him, "It will be okay." When they were at camp together this week, Henry observed Dean crying at naptime in the room next to Henry's and went to the teacher to tell her so she could go and settle him. As much as they bicker and do things intentionally to irritate each other, they can make each other laugh more than anyone else can. LOUDLY.

Sunday Snapshot

2011-06-05T13:48:00.000-06:00

I can hear them waking but the sounds are muffled enough I can let myself drift back to sleep. But even in my dream, they are waking me up: I see Henry helping Dean out of his crib, the two of them carrying their assorted stuffed animals and blankets to the sofa, Dean still sucking on his pacifier. Henry turns on the TV quietly. About five minutes pass, then they decide they are lonely and hungry, so Henry pads in to our bed room and comes to my side of the bed and says, "Mommy, it's time to wake up." Matthew stirs and offers to get up with them but Henry says, "No - Mommy. That's how it always is after you have a wedding." And he's right and it's Matthew's turn to sleep in so I pop a caffeine pill and put on my robe.

On the sofa they watch Arthur and Sid the Science Kid, snuggled up on either side of me, while I read the paper. Then Dean and I mix up some banana nut muffins. When they are baked, he eats them with "banana pennies" in a circle on his plate. Matthew gets up and we make some tea and Henry reads a book while we read the paper and Dean...disappears. Only to return with a surprise, his only accident since "finishing" potty training a week ago. All cleaned up, he asks us to turn on some music so we can dance. Modest Mouse sings about paper thin walls, then Michael Jackson croons, meanwhile Dean's and Henry's dancing is so entertaining I get the video camera.

We decide to go to Target. It takes aboutforty-five minutes for everyone to get ready -- my makeup and making the list, Matthew's grooming and eating, Henry's new tie shoes (he gets them done almost by himself), Dean's second trip to the potty. Finally at 10:30 we are out the door as the first rain clouds in weeks gather overhead. We get into the store just as the first raindrops fall. We run into a friend and gab in the pet food aisle, which is odd since none of us is buying pet food, but they're remodeling the store and it is easy to get turned around. We find almost everything on our list -- pantry items, new Toy Story underwear for Dean (we get home and it is way too big -- they didn't have any 3T but I should have held out and ordered online), some water guns that were definitely NOT on the list -- then get in line and I cringe because we have yet again forgotten to bring our reusable bags.

At home the boys eat soup and watch Spongebob while I start some laundry and we put away the groceries. I try on a beach coverup I bought and decide with a belt and heels it might work for next weekend's wedding. Dean goes down for nap and I eat some lunch, reading Barack Obama's Dreams From My Father while Henry reads a book and we share a bag of Sun Chips. Then Henry and I sit down at the dining room table and discuss a character he will create, part of my urge to force him into doing something other than reading and catching bugs. He's reluctant at first but soon gets into the details of his bad guy character, rolling his eyes when I attempt to find ways to redeem him. "He's just a plain old bad guy, Mommy, just -- bad." He concludes by drawing a picture of his character. He and Matthew play video games for 15 minutes while I deal with insurance statements and packaging online clothing returns. Then Henry and I go in the back yard to try out the water guns. I win the first two rounds but on the last round he saves his ammo and when I am out, he pelts me at arm distance for a full two minutes. I go inside and change my clothes and the laundry. Henry reads while I write this blog. Matthew just came in to tell me about the stupid questions on the forms we have to fill out for the college funds we are finally starting for the boys. The form asked which college Henry will be going to. Matthew decide to select the first option, among those presented in alphabetical order: Apparently, in the year 2023, if our hopes and dreams and sacrifices as parents pay off, Henry will attend Abbeville Beauty Academy.

Life (whether or not it ends today) Is Good

2011-05-21T15:00:00.000-06:00

If (the beginning of) the end of the world is in a few hours, then I have to say I am pretty pleased with how I've spent the day. Our new sofa was delivered this morning, preceded by delivery of the matching bean bag chairs to which the boys will be consigned until they can learn the difference between furniture and a jungle gym. Then Mom came to pick them up and take them to the Ogden Museum for a couple of hours for a kids dance and art function (Henry won second place in the dance contest), which gave me and Matthew the opportunity for a scooter trip to the farmer's market. We go through strawberries faster than milk these days. Then I got to clean out the medicine cabinet, throw away a lot of junk, and cross off a few other odd jobs that I can never seem to get to when the boys are here. When they got home and Dean went down for a nap, Henry and I walked to the library and then to the cupcake shop that opened up across from Confetti Park. He had a banana cupcake and I had chocolate cream cheese, and we chatted with some tourists from Arizona. We showed some other tourists how to get up on the levee to see the river, which is now disturbingly high. Overtopping is not an issue but the river is moving so much faster than usual and if a barge broke loose...being eight feet above seawater wouldn't help if a wall of water gushes down our street. But we just won't think about that.

No one was thinking much about it last night, when our neighborhood kids group put together a pot luck/daiquiri party at the park. The weather is still mild enough that 5 o'clock on Friday feels just right for a pina colada and some fried chicken outside. Dean is small enough and fearless enough that we still have to keep eyeballs on him at all times, but Henry is at that delightful age when he leaves my side the minute we enter the gate and the next time I am likely to see him is when he accidentally plows into me while running backward to catch something. The boys were so filthy when we got home at 8 o'clock that I put them straight in the shower.

We've been a little too busy lately, but it won't last long. Henry has one more week of school. I'm not sure who is more excited, him or me. No more waking up before 7 to drive him across town! No more homework! No more dealing with his separation anxiety -- well, at least, not for me. He and Dean will go to camp at the montessori school Henry went to before getting into his current public school, and it is here on the west bank, so it will be Matthew's turn to drive and pick up and deal with the emotional turbulence that typically accompanies Henry into any change of scenery. At least overall he does seem to be moving past the petrified stage of his anxiety. Books and talking and I think just learning his own resilience have really helped. He has still had ups and downs but right now we seem to be on a pendulum swing toward strength. The most amazing thing happened when I went to pick him up from his last after school karate lesson. He said, "Next year, I'll get a yellow belt!" Next year, I asked? I thought you never wanted to do karate again (that's been the deal all along -- he had to finish this semester, but we wouldn't make him sign up next year, and he's been consistent about reminding me of that promise after each class). He looked at me like I was crazy. "Yeah, I'm doing it next year. I like it now." I had to contain my urge to jump into the air like one of those people on those old Toyota commercials. Then we talked to his coach, who said he's made amazing improvement and said his commitment to finish the class really paid off because even in the early classes when he was hanging back, he paid attention and his technique is much more fine tuned than other kids at his level. I'm not sure how much was puffery, but Henry was delighted and whether or not he decides in the end to sign up again, it was such a joy to be able to tell him how proud I was of him for sticking with it.

Dean will have his last swim class next week. I don't quite know how to describe his behavior in the water. I wasn't feeling well this past week so Matthew was in the class with him, while I watched them and also Henry, who had a class in the adjacent pool. It was a different perspective from when I am in the water with him, just trying to keep up with him. Watching Dean in the water is like watching a colt running for the first time -- pure joy in motion (credit to Francois Lelord for that simile). He loves it so much it is frightening because he still doesn't have quite the body strength to swim independently (apparently they don't develop this until they are at least 3, though I wouldn't bet against him) but he doesn't seem to know or care. He just plunges in and propels himself forward under the water until someone lifts him up or he reaches the side (he can pull himself up half the time). He does back flips, he floats, he spins, and he comes up laughing and goes right back under again. It is going to be a scary summer.

I am curious to see how Dean will handle his new school. He has thrived at his mother's day out program, but it is only two days a week and his class has not been very academics-oriented. The new school, I know from Henry's experience, is more structured with a bit less activity and he'll go three days a week. But Dean is a quick study and very much a charmer. People seem to fall in love with him, even bigger kids at the park you wouldn't think would want to be bothered with a 2-year old who insists on playing "baby attack." Perhaps because it never occurs to Dean that he's too little to do something (unless he doesn't want to do it, like potty training, in which case he explains with a shrug, "but I'm not big yet"), and also because he reads people very well; he just seems to know how to please people. He still has a temper but he saves it for me and Matthew and Henry. Yesterday at the park he kept trying to go down the slide head first and it was causing alarm among other parents (okay, I was a tiny bit worried myself) and holding up the line so I told him he had to go down feet first. "No, don't tell me that," he said, "leave me alone." I repeated that he had to do it feet first or he would have to get off the slide. This time he yelled at me, "No, I'm not doing it like that, go away from me!" Nearby conversations stopped. But this was not my first time at the rodeo so I kept calm and repeated the deal and this time he did exactly what I asked and was perfectly happy from then on. It's typically like that -- he resists vehemently but ultimately he is a clever calculator and prefers freedom to time-out. I am holding on dearly to the last wisps of his babyhood. Henry just this week started calling me "Mom" instead of "Mommy" and I know that is the death knell for anyone ever calling me Mommy again. Dean wants few things more than he wants to be exactly like Henry, from his clothes to his speech to his friends and his toys. But Henry still loves to cuddle and Dean frequently makes my day by throwing his arms around my neck and sighing, "I love you," so I'll not complain too much.

Note to Self: Get Away More Often

2011-04-25T20:39:00.001-06:00

I am renewed.

This past Friday Matthew and I went for our first overnight without the boys in...more than a year? I'm not sure exactly how long it as been, but a long, long time. We booked a room at the St. Francisville Inn, dropped the boys off at his parents' in Mandeville, and then made the easy hour and 45 minute drive to St. Francisville. Our vacation started the moment we left the driveway. Matthew downloaded some Radioloab for the ride and we listened WITHOUT INTERRUPTIONS for the whole ride. The silence was almost as amazing as the stories.

The Inn was perfect, tucked under gracious oaks right in the heart of the historic district. Our rooms wasn't quite ready but there was a mesmerizing smell of bacon and fried chicken in the air and our host pointed us toward The Eight Sisters, right next door. Soul food, yum. After lunch we hopped on our bikes and tooled around the town, stopping at shops and getting lost and discovering little back roads and gardens. We ended up at the Grace Episcopal Church, where Matthew's mom had told us some of his relatives were buried. We first walked into the church, led by a friendly man who gave us some guides and then went quietly to a pew to pray. It was Good Friday afternoon, and the beautiful church was empty except for us and the praying man. The afternoon sun glinted in the stained glass windows and the dust settled on the worn pews. It made me miss the solitude and reflection I used to enjoy when I went to church.

Then we strolled in the cemetery. We quickly realized the grounds were too extensive for us to search for his relatives, so we each just picked a couple of plots to peruse. Matthew somehow walked right to his family plot. It was bizarre, because you couldn't make out the names on the headstones unless you stood right over them, and some you still had to trace the names with your fingers to decipher. And yet, there he was, drawn to his ancestors in this antebellum cemetery under the giant oaks.

We made a last stop at an art gallery and were surpised to that see one of our old neighbors from Baton Rouge was a featured artist, her lovely watercolors adorning one whole wall. We chatted with the gallery owner about the town and the art, including his own, and one canvas caught my eye. It was of the owner sitting on the porch of one of the cafes in town, the place we were planning to go for dinner since we'd been told they had good food and live music on Friday nights. The owner called it "Joe's Break" because he liked to close up the gallery on Friday afternoons and head over there for a beer during happy hour, which started at 3:00. We decided to gamble that we'd end up having a lovely time at the cafe and bought the painting. It's now hanging next to my bed and I love it not only because it is well rendered and calls back our little getaway, but also because it reminds me that not everyone runs the rat race. Some people , like Joe, open art galleries in small towns and close them up at 3 pm to have a drink on a front porch.

After our art splurge, we went back to the Inn and I took a (cool) dip in the courtyard pool. In the parking lot we had spotted a car with tons of NOLA stickers and struck up a conversation with the family in the courtyard over afternoon cocktails. While we didn't know them, we weren't surpised to realize in the span of a few minutes that we knew people in common. While Matthew was getting the drinks at the Inn's public bar, he ran into my former stepfather, who now lives in St. Francisville. Even a few hours from New Orleans, south Louisiana remains a small world. Note to self: go to Shreveport to engage in illicit activity.

After the pool and the socializing, we headed out to dinner at the cafe around the corner. We sat on the large screened back porch and ate fried crab claws and drank margaritas and listened to the band, an acoustic duo from Baton Rouge. We remarked to each other what a strange and pleasant feeling it was to be away from home and yet feel so at home. I can't quite relax when I'm out in New Orleans or even Baton Rouge, because we will invariably run into someone we know. Not that that is always a bad thing -- in fact, most of the time I love that -- but sometimes you just want to be on your own. Yet that usually means being in a city with different flavors and landscapes and accents. But in St. Francisville, we felt completely native, yet refreshingly anonymous.

After dinner Matthew wanted some ice cream so we got in the car and went up the highway to the gas station. Walking in I ran smack into a girl I haven't seen since I worked at my other firm, almost six years ago. We'd gotten to know each other very well over those years we worked together but I hadn't seen her since. She's not from St. Francisville, either, but it is just such a teensy-tinsy little world, and I guess the Easter weekend brought people out of the woodwork. It was nice to see her and we promised to get back in touch on fb.

That night we read in bed...from 8:30 until 11. Such a treat.

In the morning we had a delicious breakfast (note to self: bananas foster over waffles...delish) and then got back on our bikes to make a loop around the town and see some of the more pastoral views. We passed over Bayou Sara, beside cow fields, and through deep woods and then out into acres of land being cultivated by a nursery owner. It was like the Louisiana version of a Tuscan landscape, hilly and charmingly agricultural, dotted with azaleas and orange trees and crepe myrtles.

Our getaway ended with more Radiolab in the car, and then we were reunited with the boys and had a lazy lunch on the porch in Mandeville. Afterward, we all decided to cool off in the lake. Henry loved it, it's just like the ocean except not salty and no jellyfish, but Dean said it was too cold. And it was, but also just delightful to stand in the whipping waves with friends and family and look out over the lake, sparking with late afternoon sun.

Easter Sunday was also easy-breezy. After the boys woke us up at 7:15 and discovered what the bunny brought, we took them to see Rio. It was Dean's first movie theater experience and he loved it. Note to self: Easter Sunday morning is a perfect time to take kids to a movie because all the good upstanding citizens of the world are at church and so you don't have to worry about your two-year old bothering them in the movies. After the movie, we had a scrumptious ham dinner at Mom's, and then came home and the boys dyed Easter eggs in the back yard. Ah, life. You are too good to me right now.

Gretchen Rubin is a Diva

2011-04-17T12:38:00.002-06:00

I've been thinking a lot about happiness lately. This is not surprising or really very interesting to anyone who knows me; I'd say the one theme of my life has been looking for ways to be happier. I take it for granted that this is a worthy endeavor, to the point that I am constantly shocked when I discover that this is not what someone else is also most interested in as a subject for personal study. Partly, I guess I take it for granted because I actually have academic credentials when it comes to studying happiness (two degrees in philosophy) and so for a long period of my life, studying happiness was kind of my job. But also, I've just always felt a duty to be happy. I long ago got over feeling guilty or uncomfortable about my good fortune in life; I am not responsible for having been born in a stable, well-off country to stable, well-off people. But I when I gave up feeling guilty, it was because I also accepted responsibility for at least not squandering that good fortune. I sometimes imagine having a conversation with a woman my age in some remote, impoverished place in India or Africa, and I ask this woman whether she's mad at me or resentful that I have more than she does, simply though luck of birth (it's a daydream, I am allowed to be gauche). And I imagine that she says, no of course not -- but just don't whine and complain, at least make an effort to appreciate what you've got. And so I feel a compunction to try to be happy, try to cause a net increase in happiness in the world by at least not fostering negativity.

But with all this passion to pursue happiness, it often eludes me. Some of this is also my undeserved inheritance: I come from a line of melancholy people, prone to depression and addiction, and some of these people helped rear me so it makes sense that I am by nature a reserved, introspective person, prone to perfectionism and self-criticism. Also, I've had some unlucky experiences in my life, the loss of loved ones, a miscarriage, a thwarted adoption, the plague of migraines. I think because of these traits and exeriences, I seek happiness not only as a moral imperative but also as a lifeline. I need happiness to counter my pessimistic, anxiety-prone nature.

And so we come to Gretchen Rubin. The woman is not really a diva, of course; just the opposite. I am simply overcome with jealousy that she wrote the book The Happiness Project and I didn't. Reading her book, I often feel like I am reading my own thoughts -- we not only have some of the same reflections, we even have similar writing styles. I don't relate to everything she writes; in fact, my copy of the paperback is peppered with penciled notes (NO, that is not what Mill meant, question marks as to how watching your team progress to the Super Bowl could be a wise choice as a passion when it is hardly an inevitability, no matter how much time you personally spend on it...) and I think there are some fundamental differences between our personalities and circumstances. But it is remarkable how alike we seem to be. Most of my underlining is to remember a passage or act on an idea.

Like the "write a novel in one month" idea. This idea terrifies me -- if I say I am going to do something, I HAVE to do it, part of my perfectionism I suppose -- so I am reluctant to embrace it. But it is definitely intriguing because it would force one of my theories about myself into the open. I have lately been wondering whether or not I am a writer. That is, I find it hard to feel the right to call myself something if I am not actively working toward it. I don't call myself an actor, no matter how passionate I used to be about that or how much experience I have (not all that much, actually, but what I do have looms large in my own mind) because I don't currently act and have no plans to act in the future. But in my heart, I think of myself as a writer because that is what I yearn to be, and have yearned to be since childhood. In the spirit of the The Happiness Project (but again, also in the spirit of my own quest for truth and happiness, which has been going on my whole life) I have started wondering WHY. Does writing make me happy? If so, why don't I spend more time doing it? Why does the idea of setting out to develop my multiplicity of ideas for fiction and memoir make me groan with dread? Why do I feel so disappointed in myself that I am not working on a novel right now? What drives me to want to write -- mostly arrogance? Narcissism? The hope of immortality? Do I just want to have some way to describe myself at my 20th reunion other than "mother, lawyer, wife"? Should I be disciplining myself to write, or is my feeling that I need to be writing just another symptom of my perfectionism and self-expectations (i.e., don't I already have quite a bit on my plate being a lawyer, wife, mother, friend, sister, neighbor, and what's wrong with that being all of it, anyway, and shouldn't I give myself a break and let that be enough for now?...)? And on and on, as anyone who has been patient enough to read my blog consistently will recall.

I guess that is why I am intrigued by the idea of the write-a-novel-in-a-month challenge. It turns a neurotic self-immolating thought process into a quirky goal, like the way I feel when my friends tell me they are going to train for a marathon or learn to make their own pasta. Really? Weird, but whatever works for you, best of luck, let me know if I can help. I don't suddenly think of them as "my friend the marathoner" or, "my friend the pasta chef" - I just admire them for their interest and commitment in something special to them, and wish them well. Doing this challenge might make me feel less personal angst, less in identity-crisis-land about the question, "Am I a writer?" And maybe it would force me to find out if I actually like writing. And if not, maybe I can let go of that goal, and all the personal baggage it seems to be dragging with it. Or maybe I can become a diva, like Gretchen Rubin.

The one, the only -- MATT FOSTER

2011-03-26T13:10:00.001-06:00

My cousin recently went through some boxes of old things in her house and came across a letter I'd written to her and her sister when I was 14. My cousins lived in a nearby state so we only saw each other a couple of times a year, but we were very close, often spending weeks together during the summers. At a family wedding last night, my cousin gave me the letter, which was written a couple of monhts after my dad learned he had cancer, and a couple of months before he died. It has plenty of cringe-worthy teenage expressions and my views on some things in it have certainly changed, so part of me is reluctant to share it. But it was really prescient when it came to my relationship with Matthew ("Matt" as I and all of his friends called him in high school) and I thought was worth swallowing my pride to put (an edited version) out there.

"Have I got some news for you guys. Move over, Melissa -- I am going out with Matt Foster. Take a deep breath, Liss -- you heard me right, folks -- the one, the only -- MATT FOSTER.

"I guess you're wondering how this happened. It's a long story. Basically I kind of -- fell in love -- in four days...

"Since Daddy was in the hospital, Rachael and I stayed at the Fosters' for almost a week. It was cool -- Sarah and I had a lot of fun together. But the very cool part was that Matt and I got to be better friends. The best thing I ever did for both of us was when I stopped liking him a couple of months ago. That way, this time we got to be friends before anything happened between us. I really didn't like him -- romantically -- I was all set to go out with ___ when you guys were here, remember? But something happened. We spent so much time together -- we're in choir at church together, I sing for the band now -- not to mention the fact that we were living in the same house for a week. We got to know each other, and we found out we have so much in common. And he was really there for me in dealing with Daddy -- he can tell when I'm uptight, and he would just be there and let me pour it all out to him.

"Things didn't really get romantic, though, until I went with his family to their grandparents in New Orleans for New Year's. Sarah was really sick, and she slept most of the time. I'm certainly not saying I wanted her to be sick, but...it did give me and Matt some time alone...time enough for me to get my first kiss!

"I don't want to sound slutty -- but we kind of, okay, we did make out for a long time. We were in his grandparents TV room, and it just kind of happened. (By the way, it was wonderful. :-) ). Our little sisters and his Mom walked in on us. That was not cool. His Mom is actually happy that we're going out, but she still went and told everyone in his family that we had been making out -- including his dad. It was not fun.

"But we got through it, and now we're going out -- tomorrow will be our one-week-aversary. I am very happy. Things are cool at school, even though he's a sophomore and I'm only a freshman. The band is going to play at a party Friday night -- my first performance. I am so nervous!

"One of my friends told me that I was so lucky, that I had a perfect life. I couldn't believe she said that -- how can I have a perfect life when my dad may not be around for my next Christmas? Sometimes, I deal with it okay. I have a strong faith, and I know God is doing this for a reason. But it still hurts. Yes, I do have a boyfriend and I am pretty happy. But no, my life isn't perfect -- who's is?

"...I can't wait to see you again soon -- I'll try and introduce you to the guys in the band. Write soon! Peace and love, Mandy."

Nature Therefore Nurture

2011-03-16T20:15:00.001-06:00

I am finally coming up for air after Mardi Gras and a trip to Louisville and then getting back into the swing of school and work. Mardi Gras was a mixed bag, mostly very good but also terribly crowded on our favorite day because Endymion rolled after Bacchus due to weather. The kids had a blast up in the parade ladder, and we loved seeing Scott and Nan and Rocko and their friend Travis and all our other friends and family we spent time with along the route, but after five days of parades, we were DONE. Time to get on an airplane to Kentucky! We left Mardi Gras morning. The flight and the drive went smoothly; in fact, everything the whole time went smoohtly, except for the dismal weather while we were there. We stayed in a suite hotel and I am so glad, it was such a relief at the end of the day to put the kids to bed in one room and be able to read or watch TV on our own in our own bedroom. Sarah and Charles and the kids and the Aunt Sues were all terrific; we had great meals together and took the kids (the twins stayed home) to the children's museum two days in a row. While this mostly was due to the rain and the fact that their children's museum has this fantastic water play area inside that the kids could';t get enough of, it also was in due in no small part to the fact that they were featuring a Star Trek exhibit. Oh. My. God. I sat in Kirk's chair, but that was not the highlight. They built a full scale transporter and I got tears in my eyes standing on it. Then Matthew said, wait, you have to see this. I turned a corner, and there it was -- Picard's recreated lounge. It was amazing, all the props and the lighting and everything was completely accurate. I just had to stand there and soak it in. I know, I KNOW. But this is my thing, TNG is my valium, I own the entire series on DVD and have watched it and am just waiting one more year before watching it all over again. It was a beautiful moment for me. Matthew bought me a shirt that says, "What Happens in the Holodeck Stays on the Holodeck." So sexy.

But now it is back to real life and the springing of Spring. Just in the few days we were out of town, half the trees and bushes began to bud. Everything is in that glorious in between stage, where one crepe myrtle is a froth of green and the one right next to it still stands bare. The weather has been beautiful and because of daylight savings (which I despise), we are spending more time outside in the evenings. Yesterday after picking Henry up from school Matthew met me with Dean and I took both the boys to Audubon Park while he went on a photo shoot at City Park. They played on the St. Charles playground and then Henry saw a kid he recognized from school who was playing ball with his grandmother. I watched as Henry walked slowly in a large circle around them and I anticipated him coming to me and asking me to ask the grandmother if he could play. But as I watched in shock, he himself walked over to the woman and asked if he could join. And he and his friend had a wonderful time. Later when we were all getting into the car, I was complimenting him and Dean on coming right away when I said it was time to leave, and Henry said, "And are you also proud that I asked to join the game on my own?" Yes, baby, I said, looking him straight in the eyes, so very, very proud.

There have been more and more of those moments lately. He is definitely getting stronger emotionally. His startling eloquence about his internal struggles ("I feel like I have two brains; I wish the bad brain would let me do things everyone else does and not be afraid") has turned out to be an asset, though it does sometimes freak me out. He and I came up with names for his "two brains" -- there is Super-Henry, who knows he can handle things and be happy and responsible, and there is Un-Henry, who feels fearful and babyish and shy. I am struck by the fact that while we often refer to "Nature versus Nurture", it makes as much sense to think of it as "Nature therefore Nurture." There is no question that he inherited much of his reticence and emotional sensitivity from me and Matthew; but we can also nurture those aspects of him to help him get stronger, particularly since we've been there ourselves. I am working hard to help him voice his feelings and fears, and master them to some degree with breathing and visualization and the distraction of books and positive thoughts, techniques I had to learn when I was only a little older than he and began to struggle with anxiety and depression. I am so proud of him, and also hopeful because I've been there and know it can get better.

Pushing and Pulling Back

2011-02-13T15:44:00.003-07:00

Where’s the line between pushing and supporting when it comes to your kid?

Henry has been taking me along on his emotional roller coaster lately. He’s been prone to such extremes and regressive stuff that I’ve even explored whether or not someone has hurt or bullied him without my knowledge, but that really doesn’t seem to be the issue. I've tried to think of any new circumstances or emotional threads that could be going on in our lives that seem inconsequential to me but could be monumental to him, but I haven't yet thought of any. It seems it is just a part of his personality that is for some reason being expressed more strongly right now.

It started about a month ago, after he returned to shool from winter break. The first week went okay, but the second week he started having anxiety about leaving the car in the morning to go into school. That might have been just a blip, except that I then accompanied his class on a half-day field trip and the parting was very hard on him. Ever since that day, he has struggled to go into school every single day. He has gotten better in the past week, with a great deal of encouragement. I rallied a village around him at school to help out -- the mom who helps get the kids out of the car in the car pool line, his teacher, who lets him come into class early so he doesn't sit in the school yard and let his anxieties build, fellow parents who are around the school during the day and can check in on him. I am told he does just fine once he's inside his classroom and can start his work. And he's doing really well academically, seems to be well-liked by the other kids and to be getting along okay with his current best friend...he even has a girlfriend, apparently, though he wouldn't tell me her name after she ran up to him after school and gave him a big hug.

I taught him some breathing exercises that we do in the car on the way to school and that really seems to help. I also give him a little Hersheys kiss to eat as he goes into school, to help distract him. He no longer sobs on the way to school or claws the car seat as he's being helped out, so there's definitely been improvement. But now he's having to adjust to car pooling with some friends who live in the neighborhood. After I drove all three kids each day last week, the other mom is now driving for a week, which started Friday. After saying goodbye to him, I hid in the house while Matthew took him out to their car, and it was painful to watch. Matthew did a great job of injecting humor and lightness into the situation, and Henry was alternately crying and giggling as Matthew tickled him into his seat, but he still had to have his fingers pried from the car door to close it. I got an e-mail an hour later from the mom telling me he'd been great once the deed was done.

Some friends have suggested I walk him into school every day, or have Matthew bring him, but I am trying to find that balance between expecting him to fit his emotions into the needs of our family (such as the need for me to drive him most days since I have to go to work on the east bank anyway, and for him to walk himself in so I don't have to spend ten minutes trying to find a place to park in the neighborhood and crossing traffic and being late for work) and empathizing with him and making some accommodations for his anxieties (such as making friends with the mom-greeter at the car pool and giving him candy, which is not allowed, and giving him rewards to work toward like the Frostys I promised him during the week that he finally became able to get out of the car without tears). I think it is important that he learn that he can trust himself to get through his fears and discomfort, and I think overall he is making good progress.

But it is an exhausting process for me. It brings back all my own feelings and fears about school and separation at his age. I had hoped to avoid some of that by having him start school early, but it just seems to be one of his tendencies, so I have come to hope that he will learn the coping skills that I did, perhaps with less trauma. I vividly recall what the ceiling looked like in my kingergarten bathroom. This is because I once was so overcome with homesickness and tears that my teacher sent me to the bathroom "until you can calm yourself down." Well, that didn't happen. Not every five year old knows how to calm herself down, as a kindergarten teacher should have known, and I persisted in crying hysterically, in a puddle on the bathroom floor, for what seemed like years but I believe was actually a half hour. The teacher's aide found me there -- rescued me, is how I see it -- and scooped me into her arms and talked me down from my cliff of sadness and fear.

This experience came back to me in visceral detail when I went to pick Henry up from karate class after school this week. This was his third class, and like all new social interactions, he was very apprehensive and resistant about starting the first class, but had had a great time during the second class. He had been very excited about his uniform, and the news moves he learned, and being named by the master as the "most improved" student for the second week. But when I peeked into this most recent class during the last three minutes, I at first didn't see him and panicked that he had sequestered himself somewhere in the school, unbeknownst to anyone. But I craned my neck completely into the class and finally saw him: crumpled into a corner, his face bearing the signs of dried tears, the only child not wearing his uniform and not participating. I had to stand outside the classroom for two more agonizing minutes until I could talk to him and the teacher to see what had happened. On one level, the truth is that he was having a mild stomach virus and truly wasn't feeling well and the teacher did not make him dress out or participate and asked him to sit in the corner to watch the class. On another level -- the level of Henry's perception -- no one is listening to him when he says he doesn't want to do karate and the teacher didn't believe him when he said he was sick and got mad at him and punished him by making him sit in the corner.

The car ride home was difficult; listening to him articulate how much he hates having to go to karate because he doesn't know how to do it (he's not the only new kid but is joining a class with a mix of beginners and veterans) and he doesn't think he'll ever learn it and he just doesn't like it, I was reminded of things I was "made" to do as a child, things I might well have looked like I was enjoying because I was more intent on pleasing my parents and teachers than I was in disappointing them by not being a joiner, and I wanted to tell him, you don't have to go, you can quit, no one will force you. But I didn't say that because a) it needed to be a joint decision with Matthew, and b) I wasn't even sure it was the right answer. It has only been three classes, one of which was the first and one of which he couldn't participate in. I don't want to force him to do anything, but on the other hand I know this kid and he never wants to do anything new at first. If I never pushed him, he would never have played with anyone on the playground, never have gone to zoo camp, never discovered how much he loves to swim and to play chess and to read. I am not looking for any answer; I know the answer is to listen to my gut and also to him and keep finding that balance between pushing and accommodating. I just want to complain, that's all. I just sometimes want to be the kid myself and say, screw driving you to school every day, my fingers crushing the wheel as I try to hide the anxiety I am feeling about how you will handle it this morning; screw having to field that call from your dad at the beginning of each soccer game when you cry and refuse to join your team and I have to make that deal with you that if you are still miserable after fifteen minutes you can come home, and yet the call never comes because you end up having such a great time we have to drag you off the field; and screw signing you up for karate, something your dad and I both believe you will end up liking and which will help you gain self-confidence and focus and coordination. Let's just stay home and watch Man vs. Wild reruns.

And then I realize, shit, I'm the parent. I don't get to get out of it. And thank god, because there is no greater reward than when I see him get stronger, when I hear him express confidence in himself, when I get that sideways grin that tell me he loves me and everything's good. I just could use a healthy dose of that right now, because sometimes I want someone to push me, too.

Lessons from Fezziwig

2011-02-02T20:52:00.002-07:00

We’ve been busy. The good kind of busy, where you are so occupied with living life you don’t have time to stop and write about it.

We celebrated Dean’s second birthday last Saturday with a smallish brunch for family and friends. The weather cooperated and we were able to open the back doors to the porch and kids and guests streamed in and out all morning, munching on Italian casserole and chocolate chip muffins and drinking juice boxes and mimosas when not jumping on the trampoline or climbing in the play house or dunking the basketball. It was a delightful party, and really made us love our house, and the circle of friends in it even more. Dean had a grand time, he really has no problem being the center of attention. He loves singing Happy Birthday even when it is isn’t in his honor, so he lapped it up. Henry got to play with his friend Nate and his cousin Foster most of the day, and then ran down to the park with his friend Aiden while I cleaned up from the party and Dean napped.

Lately I have begun to have those creeping feelings of doom again, the feelings I get when things seem to be going too well. I am not depressed, not at all; but I feel acutely aware of the fragility of life. My good friend Toby came into town for a visit not long ago and we mused briefly about the stage of life we are in. I asked her if she ever felt like what she was doing -- being a wife and distinguished professor and active member of her synagogue, plus a number of other accomplished things I am probably unaware of -- was enough. I mean, shouldn’t it be? If she had said that yes, it did feel like enough, I would have said, well, of course, that’s a full plate of meaningful things and relationships, you should feel quite proud and satisfied. But she didn’t say it was -- she understood what I meant exactly. I have this sense of yearning for something else, some new project or way to define myself, and she summed up quite accurately a potential reason for this feeling. Like so many of my circle of friends, I have spent most of my life striving. Striving to get into college, then to get into grad school, then to get into law school, then to get a good job, and then a better job, and in the midst of all that, getting married, getting pregnant, getting pregnant again, finding the right first house, then the next house, then the next, finding that community of like-minded friends and fellow parents, finding that place in the future where things were supposed to be settled and bright.

And now, here I am -- I’ve arrived at that place. And it is everything I wanted it to be -- I love my home, I feel so fortunate to get to live in the house and neighborhood and city that I would choose even if I could live anywhere else in the world for the all the money in the world. I love my husband, adore him, actually. My kids are healthy and joyful and lovable. I like my job, and Matthew likes his, and we both make enough money to live comfortably. My family members and close friends are healthy. We’ve maintained a great circle of friends over the years and remain close with them, plus we have a new network of terrificly down to earth fellow parents in the neighborhood.

What more could I want?

I am not really sure, all I know is that want has become a habit. Not of material things, but of experiences, of goals, of that place in the future that I am supposed to strive to get to. Is this why I want to write a novel, or a children’s book, or a screenplay? Is it purely narcissistic longing for recognition? Is it truly to satisfy a creative urge? Or is it also that I just have to have something to want, that I don’t know how to fully immerse myself in where I am and what I am and who I am right now, and have that be enough?

I would like that to be enough, if only because I don’t want to miss it. After my father’s death when I was 15, I’ve never taken happiness for granted. I don’t think joy or peace or contentment is a birthright. I think it is a combination of something you work at, and something you get lucky at, and the best thing you can do when it shows up it is to give it a comfortable seat, to steal from Fezziwig. And right now I feel like all the chairs in my house are taken up with happiness, and I can’t bear the thought that one of those chairs will become empty. This week I was convinced that Matthew had some awful disease because of a relentless pain in his chest. He ended up going to the doctor and having an x-ray and everything is fine, he just injured some rib muscles. And I am flooded with relief. But when I thought it might be something serious, I just thought, well, of course. It was all too good. Something has to give. Or does it? I wish I could just settle into happiness, be comfortable with it, put up my feet and enjoy it without expecting it to disappear at any moment. Because of course it might, and eventually it will, but that was Fezziwig’s point, right? Don’t hover around it making excuses, don’t genuflect as if you don’t deserve it, and certainly don’t take it for granted, but just let happiness be, and enjoy its company.

Home Again Home Again

2011-01-04T20:51:00.001-07:00

The tree is gone, the colored lights on the rooftop will soon be out, and the front room seems bare and wonderful without all the visual fuss. We returned from our week long trip to the Smokies refreshed and grateful to live somewhere it doesn’t often snow and rarely stays below 40 degrees in the daytime. There were ten inches covering every horizontal surface up at the cabin and it was glorious, once we got there (with new wrinkles from driving up the mountain on icy roads and minus a brake line after our snow chains snapped and cut through it). Henry was able to fulfill all his dreams -- Jason and Ellen brought sleds, he made snow angels, he started a zillion snowball fights, he (and Matthew) made an enormous snow man and even sculpted a little white top hat for it. He played for hours outside and then would come in and completely freak out as his hands warmed up and burned. We developed a ritual -- he would come in, crying and almost hysterical, and I would sit him on front of the floor vent in the kitchen and make him some hot chocolate and slowly peel away his layers as he warmed. By the time the mug was empty, all was again right with the world.

Dean enjoyed the snow too but was less enthralled by the coldness. He was just as avid a snowball maker as Henry but insisted on shedding his mittens over and over, and then would complain about how cold his hands were and try to stuff them down inside my jacket and sweater. He didn’t really like sledding but enjoyed just jumping in the fluff and sometimes tugging the empty sled around behind him. He mostly liked watching the fire and having Mommy and Daddy and Jason and Ellen around to read to and play with him all day long.

It took us two days of driving to get there and two days back (Dean is not a happy camper in the car), but we still managed to pack a lot into our three full days in the Smokies. Jason and Ellen made fabulous meals every night. We hiked down the Sugarlands trail on a very cold and lovely day, but then it warmed up and the next day we drove the Roaring Fork loop and stopped to get out at Bud Ogle’s Place. The boys loved running around and around in circles in and out of the dusty, bare cabin, and I loved watching the water dripping rhythmically off the melting icicles along the roof line. We worked up an appetite and decided it was time to venture into the Burg. God, Americans are fat. I think I write that after every trip to Gatlinburg. And we only contributed to the stereotype by buying a sack full of corn dogs. Heaven help me they were good, especially with a cold Belgian beer. Henry had never had one before (a corn dog, not a beer -- tho he hasn’t yet had one of those, either) and now he wants one wherever we go.

We had lovely crackling fires every night and Henry got to make s’mores, and after the kids were in bed each night we grown ups played Wits n Wagers and I’ve Never and some other games. I got to sleep in every morning and drink lots of gin and tonics and stare at snow-covered mountains...it was bliss.

And now home, and a new year. Not many resolutions this time -- I’d like to commit myself to my technological gadgets, make one last real stab at fully integrating the alleged wonders of technology into my life before I go completely Luddite and chuck it all in frustration. I’d like to read in bed more and take more leisurely baths. But that’s about it. I was pretty happy with 2010 -- the Saints won the Super Bowl, we got a new mayor, Henry got into a great school, Dean is thriving, Matthew and I enjoyed being parents and partners (happy 14th anniversary, baby), and I hope 2011 will be more of the same. Especially the Super Bowl part.

Christmas 2010

2010-12-25T12:47:00.001-07:00

I couldn’t let the whole month of December go without at least one post, and if I don’t do it now -- while Dean is napping and Henry is playing in the new playhouse Matthew built as their Christmas present -- I never will. It is a luxury to be able to sit at all in my house on Christmas Day. This is the first Christmas in my entire life that I have not traveled to someone else’s house on Christmas (I don’t think walking down the street to my Mom’s for an early supper today counts). We spent yesterday on the Northshore with Matthew’s family and will be traveling quite a bit the rest of the week, so we ducked out of the annual Oivanki clan get together in Baton Rouge this year and are just sitting tight in our own little house for this one. It has been so nice to open gifts and make phone calls at our own pace, pack for our upcoming travels, and watch the kids playing with their new toys.

This was Dean’s first Christmas in which he was aware of what was happening. He took a picture with Santa at the neighborhood Christmas tree sale, we’ve been reading Christmas Mice and Ho Ho Ho Tucker almost every night, and he knows Jingle Bells and Rudolf the Red Nosed Reindeer by heart. When he walked into the dining room this morning he immediately said, “Look at all the toys!” Of course, the boys mostly want to play with each other’s toys, which means Henry has been spinning himself off the Sit n’ Spin (yes, they still make them!) and Dean is intent on breaking the hover helicopter. Overall I’d say they are both pleased with Santa’s selections this year, and I think the playhouse is going to be a real hit. It has two stories, working windows, and the upper floor can be accessed either via wrap-around ramp or by scaling the climbing wall we made for Henry last birthday. Matthew really outdid himself. He worked nonstop Thursday. The boys went with Maddie and Paw and Dellie to Mandeville Thursday a.m. and we picked them up yesterday, so Thursday we had the day mostly to ourselves. I spent most of it working, but it was not the chore it typically is when I know the kids are at home and want to be with them. I was actually the least person to leave the office at 2:30, but I didn’t mind a bit. Then I went shopping AT THE MALL, two days before Christmas, and I didn’t mind that, either. You want that parking spot? Go ahead, take it. You have two kids in tow? Go ahead of me in line, I have all day. I shopped without guilt, without rush, without feeling like my heart and my feet needed to be in two different place at once, it was glorious. Then I went home and Matthew and I went for an early supper at One in the Riverbend (lovely, sat at the food bar, most entertaining meal ever) and then saw Harry Potter. I slept in yesterday morning and then watched Patrick Stewart in A Christmas Carol (it is the best version in my humble opinion) while wrapping gifts. Time seemed to stretch out without any kids or guilt to interrupt it.

I am grateful for so much this year, and am not sure I am going to make any resolutions. I am proud that I achieved two from this time last year -- we did find a housekeeper who comes once every two weeks and has enabled me to be grateful for not having had to clean my microwave in six months. We also found a babysitter and started doing regular date nights -- it is so nice to have a night out to look forward to every couple of weeks. This year, my struggle is going to be to keep my balance. I have actually felt off-balance the last few months when it comes to work and the kids. Since returning from maternity leave after Dean, I’ve worked til Henry gets out of school Monday through Thursdays and was off on Fridays. I have to say that for most of the past two years that arrangement has really worked and I am so glad I had a firm willing (reluctantly) to let me do it. I have enjoyed going to Audubon Park with Dean after dropping Henry off at school, making a biweekly run to Whole Foods, catching up on this week’s episode of Parenthood while Dean napped. But for the past few months, my work has really gotten more intense and I’ve been spending one Friday after another taking client calls while in the produce aisle, frantically sending e-mails and reviewing agreements while Dean naps, and generally feeling like my mind was trying to be in two places. The nature of my work and the level of my involvement in files has simply ramped up and the fact is that I like what I am doing and don’t want to have to step away from this more challenging work. But I also can’t deal with the stress of needing to be with Dean and needing to be at work. My original plan was to return to working Fridays when Dean is in preschool this summer, but lately it just seemed like the beginning of the year is a more natural transition time. I struggled with this decision for a couple of months but ultimately decided that the best thing for me, and the kids, is to start working on Fridays again in January. I’ll still be part-time because I will leave every day when it it time to pick up Henry. But I will physically be in the office on Fridays. I think it will give me more balance because I will feel less overwhelmed at work and also more willing to put work off until the next day. The only thing I will really miss is that one-on-one time with Dean, which will now be spent with Matthew, at least until this summer. So I guess if I have a resolution for this new year, it is to take Dean to the park at least once afternoon a week, just the two of us, without a phone, so I can just focus on him and his fearless exploration. I think Dean technically gets more time with me than Henry did, since I worked even more hours than I will in January when Henry was this age, but he does have to share me, which Henry didn’t. I guess nothing is ever fair in that sense of perfectly even measure. But I feel very good in my own skin and soul that this will be a good arrangement for me and our family, and that’s what counts.

Thanksgiving 2010

2010-11-27T13:49:00.001-07:00

Going on three days in a row now without a headache -- that’s plenty to be thankful for, even if I did not have ever so much more to fill my gratitude list. Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday of the year and this year was no exception. It was just the right amount of busy and restful. The night before, I finished up a pumpkin cake with the raw pumpkin I saved and froze after we carved for Halloween. While helping Mom get her house ready for 15 guests the next day, I decided just a cake was not sufficient, so when I got home I baked an apple pie, my first. Spare me the duties of dressing and turkey and I will happily make you as many desserts as you require.

The next morning we got dolled up in hats and went to the Fairgrounds with Rachael and Philip and Jane. They moved the first post up this year because of the afternoon Saints game, so when we got there right before the 11:00 race, the place was still pretty empty, which was perfect for us. We grabbed some chairs near the paddock, the boys got to eat cotton candy without mashing it into anyone, we grownups had a cocktail, and we let Henry pick our horses. We only stayed for two races, but Henry was really thrilled when his choice won and he got to collect a whopping $1.20.

We got back to Mom’s in time to help her finish the turkey and the side dishes, straighten the house, light candles, and prepare for all the guests. In addition to our immediate family group, we hosted Matthew’s grandparents and his aunt and uncle from Lafayette, and their two sons and a friend. They brought a fried turkey and shrimp and mirliton dressing and green bean casserole and wild rice with raisins, so we had plenty to go along with our own turkey, tomato basil tart, stuffing, steamed broccoli, crescent rolls, tipsy sweet potatoes, cranberry sauce, and of course, the pumpkin cake and apple pie. Everything was so delicious, even Dean cleaned his plate.

We weren’t able to run Mom’s cable into the living room so everyone could watch the game live, so we Tivo’d it at our house and after dinner everyone went down the street to our place with their ears closed so they wouldn’t hear any news from anyone else who had been following it live. What a game. In the dire last five minutes, I decided I don’t ever want the Saints to play on Thanksgiving again. It would have left such a hollow feeling after an otherwise delightful day if Jenkins hadn’t made that game saving play.

The next day we went over to Mom’s the hang out with Rach and Phil. Henry had spent the night over there with them and he stayed in his jammies most of the day. It was cold and drizzly outside and we are not Black Friday participants. We picked up some shrimp poboys for lunch and then Rach and Phil came down to our house for some games and more visiting. It was a totally relaxing day. No shopping, no getting out in the weather, just laughing and talking and drinking and watching the boys.

Today the weather is cold but gorgeous and we went down the street to pick out our Christmas tree from the neighborhood tree sale (it benefits our neighborhood library branch). Our kids group hosted a card-making event for the kids, so the boys each decorated letters for Santa and got candy from Mrs. Claus. We sat for a picture with Santa, the every first time Henry has ever willingly done this. Dean was reluctant, but did sit on the bench with Henry and Santa and held his candy cane with an expression of intense skepticism. I’ve never pushed the Santa picture, but I have to admit I can’t help but hope this one turns out nice for the album.

Now Dean is napping, Matthew is at a wedding, and Henry is “cleaning” the bathroom. He has a toy water sprayer that came with a Hot Wheels car set, and he is vigorously washing down all the surfaces in the guest bathroom. We’ve been doing a system of checks for good behavior -- coming when called, doing his chores quickly, and helping out with other chores that aren’t normally required (like cleaning the bathroom), all earn him a check. Negative behavior -- like when he kept playing at the park when it was time to go today and I had to call him three times -- means losing a check. When he has ten checks, he gets a treat. Usually it’s just some stickers or a notepad or pencils, but a few weeks ago we surprised him with a new Reggie Bush jersey; the one we got him at a thrift store two years ago was in pretty bad shape when we got it and has hardly improved since. He wore the new one proudly at his first Saints game in the Dome last week (thanks Paw and Dellie) and again yesterday, though he was luckily out the room when Reggie bombed and Matthew began once of his frequent anti-Reggie tirades.

Henry says it’s time to take a look at the freshly cleaned bathroom...fingers crossed.

Headaches

2010-11-22T20:11:00.001-07:00

I can’t believe this week is Thanksgiving and the kids are already singing Christmas carols. I feel like life is moving so fast it is like trying to read a sign on the Interstate -- by the time I can read it and understand it, it is already gone. My heart catches in my throat sometimes when I think back on those seemingly lazy days with Henry before Dean was born. Our daily lives are just so much fuller now, they actually seem heavier, brighter, longer, and louder. I’m not sure if that means we are doing too much, or if it is the natural state of things in a household with two boys. Except for the headaches, I feel like everything is as it should be, lots of adventures, lots of laughter, lots of loving this raucous family we’ve created.

But there are the headaches., try as I might to ignore them. So, so many lately. I have reflected on whether the headaches are actually a subliminal signal from myself to myself, telling me to slow down. But even when I do everything “right” -- a week of practicing slow breathing, visualization, good sleep, and not too much stimulation -- I still seem to have just as many migraines. I can’t decipher a pattern. I can go weeks without any (though it has been awhile since that happened), and then a week of having one every day. It is the weather? Something in my diet? A stress I’m not dealing with? I honestly can’t figure it out, and I am both frustrated and relieved by this. On one hand, it would be nice to believe I really could control these headaches, that self-control could eliminate them. On the other hand, that’s a lot of pressure on myself, when I am not even sure it is accurate. I am trying to accept that these migraines may be more like having diabetes or some other condition that never goes away but can be mitigated by behavior.

I just blame myself so much when I have one; I constantly worry that I will have to let someone down by having one at an inopportune moment -- and there is never an opportune moment. Not that there’s ever a good time to have a debilitating migraine, but I have to say that in the past, before Dean was born, I think the headaches functioned as a kind of safety valve. I would have one maybe once or twice a month, and I generally took it as a sign to slow down, to go easier on myself, to recalibrate my stress tolerance. I would take some meds, ask Matthew to take over with Henry, call in sick to work, and within 24 hours I would return to normal life with a more balanced step.

Now, I don’t feel like getting off the carousel is really an option. Matthew works a lot more these days; I put in fewer hours at the office. This has the effect of making me feel like every single hour in the office has to count; even one hour of running late to work makes a serious negative dent in my billables. I haven’t taken a “personal” day in ages -- why should I need one, when I already don’t work on Fridays? But headaches don’t just come on Fridays (though they do tend to happen more often then, as my blood vessels retreat from a four days of stress). And sometimes, like when Matthew has an evening photo shoot or a wedding, and it’s just me and the boys, I simply can’t NOT do what has to be done. And even when he’s home, I don’t feel right just closing myself in the bedroom. I want to do my part, if only so the mess of the house or an extra pile of laundry is not an added stressor. Yet the headache is demanding I stop. I end up in tears, so frustrated that I cannot seem to handle the ordinary stresses of life like a normal person.

It seems so obvious that I should cut out the added stresses that can be cut out -- the volunteering and social commitments. But people rarely ask me to help on a fundraising committee or be a room mother or help out with a neighborhood event when I am having a headache. These conversations always happen when I am feeling good -- and frankly, when I am feeling good, I may in part be trying to make up for feeling bad, and even overdoing it with enthusiasm. Engaged in a bright conversation with a fellow mom, all I want at that moment is to be able to do stuff with my friends and the kids and the school. So I say yes, and sometimes the things I say yes to do provide the greatest highs of my week -- the kids at the Halloween Party, taking Henry to his first Saints game yesterday, meeting other parents at a committee meeting. But the fact seems to be, at the risk of sounding like a hypochondriac, I don’t have the tolerance that others seem to have; I crumple; I get pain that keeps me from doing the things I have to do, much less the things I want to do, and the fear of all that happening can even trigger a headache.

What is the solution? As I write this, I think of so many things that seem so obvious but maybe I just don’t want to acknowledge. Things I should have said no to. But when I think of doing that for the sake of avoiding a headache, I just plummet into rage and denial again -- I will NOT let headaches rule my life; I will NOT miss out on things I want to do and that I genuinely believe also bring me happiness and pleasure. But in answer to my defiance, the headache just laughs. Pain is not rational.

The Yearbook

2010-10-27T21:16:00.001-06:00

I am currently ignoring a stack of high school and middle school yearbooks I need to put into the attic. Nostalgia is such a time vampire; I’m not sure I can afford it right now. Has anyone ever opened one of their high school yearbooks and only read ONE note? I

I’m frankly not sure how much of my avoidance is my sincere lack of that kind of free time (the uninterrupted kind you have before you have kids) and how much is a small fear of the bittersweet. I try not to put on rose colored glasses when I look back on high school, but I do feel lucky that I really enjoyed it, for the most part. Obviously there were downs. My dad died my freshman year; my Mom and I were seriously at odds throughout most of my teen years; I recall episodes of depression, cattiness, and an embarrassing number of times I believe I acted like a tease. But overall I was very happy -- I fell in love with Matthew, I was surrounded by a web of fascinating, creative, and open-minded friends, I explored acting and music and philosophy and debate and the outdoors, I had amazing teachers whose compassion and humor and wisdom still inspire and guide me, almost fifteen years later. My senior year, especially, glows in my memory. I considered skipping that year, graduating early so I could join my cadre of friends who were all a year older. I entered my senior year feeling very much alone. But it was such a freedom, and I embraced it. I felt I could reinvent myself. And in the void of a circle of friends, I found new ones, including my dearest Ada. There was a lot of joy and self-discovery in my last year of high school.

From my current perch, it does seem like I have lost a great deal of that verve and creative spirit. There just isn’t much juice left after a day spent playing cheerleader to Henry on the way to school; six hours of pleasing bosses and clients; another long drive to school and home; being playmate to Dean and coaxing Henry through homework, getting everyone fed and bathed and read and sung to and off to bed with a kiss and a hug. By the time I get to the sofa, and the pile of laundry that usually sits on it, I don’t have much energy left to think about inventing fictional characters or writing down those song lyrics that entered my head on the drive home. I confess I find nothing more relaxing on these long week days than a glass of wine and an episode of Star Trek.

Why doesn’t motherhood feel as glamorous as high school? It isn’t as though I want to go back to that time, or even close to it. I am happy with where I am now, I have the life I have always wanted -- a husband who still thrills me, two beautiful, healthy children who make me laugh harder than anyone ever has, a house I love surrounded by friends I cherish. I am having the time of my life in so many ways. Sometimes I think it is a shame no one makes a yearbook of this time in our lives -- sure we have videos, and way too many pictures, and I even keep this blog -- but I want a book that captures all the rest of it: all the terrific fellow parents in our neighborhood, getting together on Friday nights over a bottle of wine to plan out the neighborhood Halloween party; passing each other and honking in the foggy early morning as we load kids into the car; the sight of my grandfather reading the paper on my Mom’s front porch as I walk Dean down for a visit; the sweaty-faced kids and the animated conversation that bubbles up from the sidelines at the weekly soccer scrimmage; the clink of glasses and cackling laughter at my monthly book club lunches; the happy sigh in a friend’s voice as we finally get to sink into a long conversation long distance; the look in Matthew’s eyes as he and I take in the wonder of these monkeys we’ve created, hopping around our house with the unabashed certainty that they’re the whole reason we locked eyes in the first place over a family dinner almost twenty years ago. I guess that yearbook will exist only in my head; I hope it won’t get lost in the attic.

The Stayawakeover

2010-10-12T14:09:00.003-06:00

We just returned from a one-night camping trip at Fontainebleau State Park in Mandeville. We’ve camped out three times in the past four years and it has rained 3 out of 3 times.

We still had a great trip. We got there early, pitched the tent in a shaded spot near the playground, grilled some hot dogs, and just let the boys run loud and wild for a couple of hours. The place was empty and I was really happy I decided to take off work to go (Henry is out of school for a few days for fall break and Matthew’s wedding schedule makes going on a weekend impossible). We brought our bikes so in the late afternoon we went for a nice ride around the park and checked out the new cabins. I’d like to say they are decrepit and horrible so they won’t stay booked, but candidly they seem even better than the pics online suggest. We’re thinking of renting with some friends for one weekend.

On our way back to camp we stopped at the little beach on the lake and put the boys in the their swim trunks. They played in the splash fountain, built some sandcastles, and Matthew got some lovely sunset pictures of them in the lake as clouds began to roll in. Wait, clouds? The front wasn’t supposed to move in until the next day, but there they were, ominous rain clouds slowly crossing the lake and darkening the Causeway. We made it back to the tent just as the first drops began to fall. We thought it would pass quickly and we’d be able to build a fire and cook our own supper, but it didn’t let up and finally Matthew had to make a run to Mickey D’s. That’s roughing it for you. Dean was so worn out from all his running around all day that he conked out before supper arrived, but after Henry and M and I ate, the rain finally stopped and we did build a small fire and sat around it, just the three of us, as the clouds vanished and the stars poked delicately through the sky. Henry says it was our best camping trip ever -- not sure he can really remember the others, but we were happy to have his endorsement. He kept saying, are we EVER going to go to sleep (but you could tell he was thrilled to be up with Mommy and Daddy, stoking the fire and talking about important things like what makes embers move and how come the flame dies when you remove a stick from the fire)? Finally he decided that instead of a "sleepover" we should call it a "stayawakeover."

Unfortunately, the rain returned during the night and it was hard to sleep worrying about water incursions into the tent. We ended up pretty dry but it was not a peaceful rest. Luckily, the boys slept until 8 -- unheard of, maybe we should sleep in a tent every night -- so we were less exhausted than I thought we would be as I lay awake at 3 a.m.

Henry spent the morning riding his bike -- look, Ma, no helmet! -- around and around the campground and found and caught a tree frog in the bathroom. Dean stuffed himself full of powdered donuts and promptly fell asleep on the car ride home.

Now we are back, settling in, cleaning the house and the camping gear, and getting ready for real life again tomorrow. Well, at least for me. Henry -- he of the now TWO missing teeth - gets another day off before school reclaims him.

The Thick of Things

2010-10-02T13:24:00.003-06:00

I am in the thick of it. I am trying to remember that. When I don’t remember that, I start to panic.

Here’s what a casual observer would note about my life: I have a six-year old boy who just started a new school across town. I have a 20-month old boy. I have a part-time job. I have a husband with a full-time business of his own.

Here’s what someone overly interested in my life might also note: the new school expects a lot of involvement from parents and is currently successfully stimulating my overachiever gene; the toddler is extremely active, seems to be sick or teething almost all of the time, and only sleeps for an hour and half a day (and yes, I do know that makes me lucky compared to some). The part-time job is as a lawyer and often feels full-time in its intensity and need to be on call. The home business is half the time run from outside the home, leaving me on my own with the boys every Saturday and frequent afternoons and week nights. Oh, and then there’s soccer on Mondays, art on Tuesdays, swimming on Wednesdays, plus PTO meetings and neighborhood board meetings.

I am not complaining about any of this. I just need to force myself to see it, because sometimes I don’t see it and I entertain completely unrealistic expectations of myself. Like, why don’t I start writing a novel right now? Maybe a children’s book collaboration? Maybe I should be the room mother for Henry’s class. Maybe Matthew and I should start writing music together. How about a weekly massage night? Henry and I should collect leaves and make a book of pressed flora. I can probably draft letters for my family members who need legal help. Maybe I should bake Finnish bread from scratch for my grandfather. Matthew and I should make our own Halloween costumes.

Have I mentioned that I am an overachiever?

The fact is that my children will probably never be quite so demanding of me as they are right now. Henry is having to adjust to his new school and needs help getting back into the groove. Dean is not potty trained, thinks he can do everything Henry can do, and, despite being able to express himself eloquently when he desires (“I don’t like that, take it away” he says about his peas), still prefers to communicate his frustrations with ear piercing screams. He requires constant supervision.

But this will change as he gets older. A year from now, he’ll probably be potty trained. He’ll have learned a modicum of control over his temper. He’ll hopefully be more content to sit in one place for more than twenty-five seconds. And I dream of this time. But I also don’t want to overlook what is special and wonderful about where he is right now. His talking is so entertaining. The smile he gives me when I come home from work each day is heart-melting. The boys’ relationship with each other brings so much laughter into our house that I sometimes think the walls will burst. These times will pass so quickly. Someday soon they will both be doing their own things, barely mustering interest in my affections, and I will be free to (attempt to) write books, indulge in music, enjoy a weekly massage, bake ethnic specialties. But right now I am in the thick of it and I need to remember what I am doing well. I love soccer night, right down the street from our house. It’s more like a neighborhood party some nights than an athletic event. Especially now that the weather is nice, it’s wonderful to sit in the grass with the other parents, chase Dean on the playground, and cheer for Henry. I am glad I resisted the urge to sign him up for a competitive sport; this one is purely about camaraderie and burning off energy.

Henry is loving art after school and except for us getting home a little later on Tuesdays, it really doesn’t involve a lot of sacrifice on my part. I’m glad we signed him up.

Dean and I are really enjoying swim lessons. He’s really learning a lot, loves the songs and swimming and jumping and it is so nice for us to have a special time just for ourselves, no errands to run, just time together in the water.

I am still glad I take Fridays off from work. It makes my professional life harder in so many ways, but I still think it’s the best thing for Dean. He gets me to himself until it’s time to pick up Henry. After dropping Henry off at school in the a.m., Dean and I frequently go to Audubon Park for a long walk and stop at the playground.

I am so glad Matthew’s job is still going well, and except for days like today when I wake with a migraine, I usually relish the time to be on my own with the kids. It’s harder in many ways, but we’ve gotten better at building in down-time together - fort building, reading, walks to the library, and, today, decorating the front porch with Halloween stuff and finger painting on the back porch.

It’s hard right now, there’s no question. But I am trying to see it as a privilege to have it this hard.

The Way of Boys

2010-09-12T20:40:00.002-06:00

I recently finished reading this book, and I think it has changed my life. I wish it had been around a few years ago when Henry first started asking me questions like “Can I lick the bathtub?” and deciding to drink raw chicken juice.

It is still hard for me to believe sometimes that I am the mother of two boys. Right now, Dinah and I (incidentally the only two females in the household) have retreated to my bedroom while Matthew engages Dean and Henry in their all-time favorite activity, roughhousing. Will it end in someone crying? Indubitably. Is it worth it? Absolutely.

Rearing boys is a constant challenge to find the balance between giving them room to be the wild and unpredictable creatures they are and yet not excuse bad behavior under the worn-out bromide, “boys will be boys.” They WILL be boys, but I am determined mine will grow up be to polite and well-mannered, respectful of others and especially women, and generally a benefit rather than a detriment to larger society. But there’s a lot of time and a lot of mistakes that will be made, by all of us in this family, between now and then. Dr. Anthony Rao’s book really crystallized this for me. He has a great way of explaining why boys act the way they do, how their brains are evolving, why they seem to have more trouble in the early school years than girls (I was astounded by the statement that boys are four and a half times more likely than girls to be expelled from preschool), and practical strategies for helping them adapt their behaviors in ways that will help them in environments where being wild and crazy is not acceptable.

One of the best things about the book was the way he explained boys’ shifting emotions. He reminded me that I have to let Henry make the mistakes he going to make, socially and at school, because he will learn through experience, not through lectures. It is so painful sometimes, watching Henry evolve. A couple of weeks ago, at a neighborhood concert, we had to watch him make terrible mistakes, over and over, and I just cried afterward, aching for what he going through. He didn’t understand the rough and tumble game the other boys were playing and when he tried to play it his own way, they told him he couldn’t play. Even though one kid was patient with him and tried to explain the rules, the kid Henry really wanted to play with was, understandably, just not interested in further engaging him, and that really shattered Henry’s confidence. He was in tears, and when I thought I was doing the right thing by telling him to buck up and go back in the game and just ask for another chance, he again got frustrated and this time I watched in shock as he actually hit the kid he most wanted to play with. I was far enough away that I both couldn’t intervene right away and was able tor realize I didn’t need to -- no one was hurt, and the kid just told him to go away, and Henry realized on his own that he’d gone too far. (None of the parents intervened, which I thought was terrific. At these events, we mostly let the kids play on their own and works things out without our interference, as painful as it is to watch sometimes). Eventually, Henry discovered a field of frogs not far form where the boys were playing. He was able to catch one, and this really impressed the other kids, who gave up their game to observe his frog in the captivity of their grubby little hands, and then he gave them tips on catching their own. It was a triumphant moment for him. In the car on the way to school the next day, we were thinking of things he is good at, and he eventually announced, “I think the thing I’m most good at is just being me.” Ah, if only there were a way to capture moments like that and pin them up on the fridge like a piece of his artwork or a spelling test. Surely those fleeting arcs of confidence are worth as much or more.

Dean and I just started swim lessons. He is such a little fish, and so friendly. He loved the class and I loved the pleasure of being just with him in the water, no distractions. He is talking a ton now, full sentences. He can call me on the phone at work and I can actually understand a narrative from him: “I saw a man, flag in the sky “(describing and airplane pulling a banner behind it). “I went away library, read books” (to describe going to storytime), “follow me, Henry, hand, fort” (to tell Henry he wants him to go with him, hand in hand, to the ‘fort” they made from sheets in their bedroom.

Yesterday we took the boys to Gulfport for the day. It’s only an hour drive and very low hassle. We just picked up some drive through, set up our chairs and umbrella on the beach by the highway, and frolicked for a few hours. The boys discovered a sand crab and lots of jellyfish (some of which looked like they’d been hanging out in globs of oil), but the water was mostly clear and the there was fresh white sand on the beach. We had a great time just watching them play together, kicking a ball, throwing sand, and generally making messes of themselves.

We returned and cleaned up so we could go out for my brother-in-law Jules’ 40th birthday party. Our babysitter came over and Matthew and I hopped on the scooter and took the ferry to the Quarter. We had a great time hanging out on a Bourbon Street balcony with my sister Jamie and Jules and their friends and other family. We caught the ferry back and fell into bed. We’re not used to late nights anymore, but it was so nice to be out and about with Matthew, especially tooling around on the scooter, which I don’t get to do very often.

Now it’s off to Henry’s school picnic at Audubon Park. I’m hoping to meet some of his classmates. So far he’s liking school just fine. I don’t think he’ll ever have an affinity for school like I did, and that too is part of the struggle that was explained to me in The Way of Boys. Maybe he’ll grow to love learning, love the smell of textbooks and waxed floors and fresh pencils the way I always did come August, but maybe not. Maybe he’ll just do well enough, and probably be a lot happier than I, intense nerd and overachiever that I was (and still am, if you ask Mathew, so don’t). Now that I am learning (emphasis on LEARNING) to let my boys be who they are, I am finding it quite enjoyable to watch them grow into those people. They’re pretty good at it, as Henry already noticed.

Five Years/Five Days

2010-08-29T11:38:00.002-06:00

I’m about to spend Dean’s nap time watching the Brian Williams retrospective on Katrina. It’s not ideally how I would spend these precious two hours, but I really haven’t spent much time reflecting on the anniversary and it feels appropriate.

Henry remembers nothing of the experience, which is good, but it is strange to think that for my children Katrina will just always be something that happened, not something that happened to them. They have no context for it.

It was five years ago, but sometimes it still feels like only five days have passed. I recall it all and that familiar, horrible pit of dread reforms in my stomach. I remember vividly the casualness with which we approached the storm, even two days before landfall. When we finally got in the car to head to Baton Rouge, I was only just starting to indulge the feelings of worry and wistfulness that always accompany an evac for a major storm. But when we watched the path and the severity projections, and saw the streets of New Orleans emptied of people, I remember crying in the night on my mother's kitchen floor, terrified of what was coming.

And then...all was better when we awoke. The storm had passed.

And then...we all know the rest.

When we finally returned for a clandestine visit to our house a few weeks later, I felt like the house had ghosts. I don’t believe in ghosts, but I feel like there was something, some essence, in that house that had missed us, that had grown lonely with only the birds and the sounds of the broken fence clanging in the wind.

Thus began the period of vacationing at home. It wasn’t a “staycation”, that recessionary term that has caught on lately. We had to pack for our trips at home, not clothes, but food and bottled water. We had to make sure we had plenty of gas in the car. We had MREs stashed in the pantry, and sometimes got a hot meal from some passing relief workers. Mostly we just cleaned up and repaired, with breaks to sit in the house, soaking in the brief normalcy of being there. We cemented our friendships with Chase and Trish next door. We helped neighbors with repairs and pooled groceries. We ate at the few restaurants that had reopened, swapping war stories with strangers, buying beers for relief workers. And then we got back in our car and drove to our borrowed house in Baton Rouge.

We were lucky ones, but it still looms as a period of sadness and fear and anxiety and dread. My mind was constantly in two places at once. I was very depressed, and it lasted for probably more than a year. The eventual permanent return to New Orleans was both exhilarating and the start of an incessant tension like I’ve never experienced, before or since. I was New Orleans and New Orleans was me, and that was a pretty dilapidated psychological place to be, because New Orleans was a mess and everyone was talking about us all the time. I took every national discussion or comment personally. I was also starting a new job, and Matthew started his photography venture. There was so much possibility in our lives, but sometimes it felt like one step forward, five steps back.

But having lived through that, I don’t take certain things for granted anymore. I appreciate a lazy day like today, with nothing to do but the laundry, and the kids bouncing off the walls because of the endless rain. I appreciate my neighbors. I appreciate Henry getting into a good school, and parks that are nearby and clean, and grocery stores that are open. I also try tor resist judging others who choose to live in safer, less aggravating places. I see the value in that. But I still feel that I am bound to New Orleans the way you are bound to a slightly eccentric family member. I talk bad about her sometimes, she drives me batty, but she also makes me laugh and smile and feel joy like no place else could. And I still get really pissed when an outsider doesn’t get her. And that goes for you, too, Douglas Brinkley.

The Idle Life

2010-08-20T12:17:00.002-06:00

Tom Hodgkinson has come back into my life. I ordered his new book on parenting from the library, and it has been even more delightful than the last two. His perspective is always such a healthy kick in the ass for me. I am always struggling with my type-A personality. I consider it a real character flaw, as much as I also realize it is to some extent innate and unmalleable. I just don’t want to burden my children with it. The Idle Parent is a nice reminder of how insidious the corporate mindset is, how it stokes our fears of being “good enough” as parents and habituates us to buying things we don’t need and then having to work even harder to pay for them.

Plus, I always benefit from being reminded of the intrinsic worth of things and experiences. This, more than any other, is the value I suspect Americans have lost the most over the past 50 years. I won’t go any further than that in speaking for my fellow citizens, but I can say with shame that I tend to think of the worth of something in terms of whether it will get me ahead -- not necessarily in terms of money, but certainly in terms of prestige or high regard. I am very aware of this in myself and how it infects my personal decisions, but I am now disturbed to become aware of how it is influencing the choices I make for my children. Henry has just started his new school. It is a terrific place and they offer a range of after school enrichment activities. I was hoping he would want to do drama because he already has some experience and he is actually kind of good at it. Build on what you are best at, was my thinking. He was adamant that he really wanted to do art. But Henry is not very good at art, at least not in a technical sense. I found myself internally resistant to his desire to take art. Why take art, something he so far has demonstrated no natural talent for, when he could take drama and really excel? But the fact is that Henry loves art, loves drawing, loves creating things. He easily outpaces his talents in sheer enthusiasm. And who knows, maybe he does have some undiscovered talent that I am simply too pedestrian to perceive. But the bottom line is, WHO CARES WHETHER OR NOT HE’S GOOD AT ART? Being “good at it” is not really the point of art, is it? The point is enjoyment, creativity, the simple bliss of getting lost in an endeavor -- and on that criterion, he certainly excels.

I am very bothered that I seem to approach life with this calculus. Dean loves to swim, so I am instantly thinking of future swim team glory, and yet tempering my inane daydream with the realization that the pinnacle of glories would be out of his reach, mostly likely, because he is not likely to be very tall. HE’S ALSO EIGHTEEN MONTHS OLD. Good God, am I really this base? It is disgusting, this quality of evaluating everything. I want to think in terms of joy, in personal satisfaction. I know that I should think in those terms. I tell Henry that it doesn’t matter whether his soccer team wins or loses, it’s the spirit of playing and learning that counts, and yet I am constantly performing a different sort of math. I am a hypocrite, as much as I might try to hide it from my kids.

I wish I could be otherwise. This natural ambitiousness doesn’t benefit me. It has probably kept me from discovering things I might have truly loved as a child. I took ballet from the time I was four until I was seven. I thought I liked it, I thought I was good at it. My parents thought I liked it. They took me to live ballet performances, waited backstage with me so I could get the dancers’ autographs, and bought me books about ballet. One of these was about the Royal Ballet Academy. I devoured it. It was all about how truly talented dancers showed their aptitude at a very early age, and how if you were going to be a professional dancer, you needed to begin training at that age -- my age or younger. And, at the age of seven, I evaluated both my talent for dancing and my desire to commit to it in the way that would be required if I were to have a chance at being a great dancer. And shortly thereafter I quit. The actual quitting occurred when I refused to go in to class one day. I think my poor dad was very confused -- he thought I loved dancing. But not long after I realized I could never be the best at it, or even have a chance at being the best, I completely lost my love for it. I started to dread going. So I just quit.

The same thinking kept me from keeping up with painting after middle school -- even though it eased my stress and I looked forward to it every week,I knew I wasn’t good enough at it to really make it a serious endeavor. Better to focus on acting and singing, which I was mildly better at. And so I did and I absolutely loved theater. But when I was in college I realized again that I had a choice to make. Here was something I actually was talented at. I continue to believe that if I had decided to truly make a go at it, I had a good chance of eventually making my living by acting. But I forced myself to think very seriously about what that would take -- moving to another city (away from Matthew), spending years in bad jobs trying to cover rent so I could act, networking constantly, not starting a family for probably quite some time. And as romantic as some of that sounded, I knew enough about myself to know that what I wanted more, on balance, was marriage to Matthew, a stable income, and a chance to start a family in my twenties rather than in my late thirties. So I quit acting. I haven’t acted in a play since making that decision some fifteen years ago.

I think of all the other things that I didn’t even try -- sports, astronomy and physics, architecture, psychology. All of these things interested in me, but I was not very gifted athletically, terrible at math, and too afraid of my own psychological instability to even think of making a career of helping others with theirs. Of course, hindsight is golden and the fact is that I did do a lot of things I liked and there just wasn’t time in the day to do everything. But sometimes I feel sad thinking about how many things I might have overlooked in my focus on maximizing my potential.

Are my kids going to be the same way? I don’t know. Henry seems to have a lot of my personality in him. He is very hard on himself, very competitive, and seems to have trouble seeing the point in doing something if he is not good at it. Because of these tendencies, I try very hard not to consciously push him toward or away from things, and I generally tell him he’s good at everything he tries to do. (I figure there’s plenty of time later for honest critique). I didn’t push him to sign up for the drama class -- he immediately gravitated toward art, and that’s exactly what I signed him up for. But inside there’s all this garbage happening and I can’t pretend some of it doesn’t leak out. I would like to better appreciate the intrinsic worth of more things in my own life -- the pleasure of writing for its own sake, the delight in singing out loud to an empty house -- in hopes of letting my kids continue to see that value in theirs. I think I'll reread The Freedom Manifesto as a start.

You Look Like a Squirrel

2010-07-25T19:42:00.000-06:00

It’s been a whirlwind few days. On Friday the four of us took off for Blue Bayou Water Park in Baton Rouge. Pretty much since he could talk, Henry’s been asking every time we pass it, “When are ever going to go there?” “Someday, honey, someday we will,” I would answer, in the brilliant noncommittal parental promise I learned from my mother. Well, someday was Friday.

We met up with our good friends the Dicharry’s. Rach gave us excellent advice, which was to get there right before 2 p.m., when the amusement park side opens. So although it was certainly crowded -- and that giant wave pool was every bit as gross as I always imagined it would be, seeing it crammed with bodies as we fly by on the Interstate -- it was not nearly as overwhelming a crowd as I thought it would be on a summer Friday. We started in Dixie Landin’, and I got to ride on the Galaxy, a salvaged roller coaster from Fun Fair Park, which was the run down amusement park of my youth. All of a sudden in one whiplash turn, I was twelve years old again, scouring the crowds in that now defunct park for “that boy”, whoever that was at the time, screaming with joy with whatever girlfriend was riding next to me, so glad my parents had sprung for the coveted ride-all-you-want wristband so I could get right off and back in the line immediately.

Henry loved the water park. The older Dicharry kids were great with both the boys, and I can tell Dean is going to look up to Shep just as Henry worships Jacob. Dean was very happy at first, loving the wave pool and the kiddie pool slides, but when I went to pick him up after his fourth time down the slide I noticed he was shivering, and it certainly wasn’t cold. Within a half hour he’d developed a fever, and there I was in a water park, with no baby medicine. I let him drink as much Coke as he wanted and sleep on my chest for most of the afternoon as Henry and Matthew tackled one slide after another. When we got to the Dicharry’s for dinner, we gave him some medicine and he was his right old self in no time.

We were worried about taking our planned overnight getaway while he was sick, and gave my Mom a clear opportunity to say she was not up for our original plan of staying overnight with the boys while we went to the Roosevelt Hotel, but she gave us the green light and we took it. The chance was just so rare these days -- it is hard for Mom to keep the boys now that she’s the full-time caretaker for my grandfather, but with my aunt in town for a month to help out, she was able to stay over at our place for the night. And Matthew had an unexpected weekend off due to a cancellation -- in a few weeks he’ll be back to his normal every-weekend-a-wedding schedule, so we felt we needed to take advantage of the serendipity.

We took the ferry across, grabbed some daiquiris and checked into the hotel. We went for a brief dip in the rooftop pool before heading back out to catch a movie at the new Canal Place theaters. It was my third time there -- I am definitely hooked on the “dinner and and a movie and a fabulous cocktail” all in one place. We saw Cyrus, and it was great, but we were a bit distracted by the elderly couple seated near to us. We were in the handicapped row, and the woman to my right was quite aged. She was nicely attired, hair curled, lovely earrings, but was very hunched in her wheelchair. Her equally elderly husband sat next to her. It didn’t take long for us and the whole theater to realize that she was a little senile and not a little loud. She was clearly not impressed with the movie -- “I want to leave!” she barked to her husband not long after the opening credits -- and even less impressed with the theater’s concept of waiters bringing out food and drinks to audience members during the entirety of the show. The waiters attempt to be unobtrusive, stooping as they pass a row, kneeling to take and deliver the order, speaking in hushed tones, but it does take some getting used to. “I’ve never in my life seen any theater like this, never in MY LIFE, have you? Have you every seen anything like this in your life?” she nearly screamed to her husband. “What’s that?” she spat at a waiter as he came by with our drinks. He knelt and explained the drink. I guess they decided they were not interested because it didn’t appear they ordered anything the whole movie, but that didn’t stop her from croaking loudly at the waiter as he scurried by a little later, “You look like a squirrel!” It was all I could do not to die laughing.

There was also something painful about them, and not because she was disruptive. It was just jolting to see them, this couple in their eighties, the husband apparently trying to keep them with one foot in the 21st century, despite his wife’s fragile mental and physical state. As they left the theater (ten minutes before the film ended!), she was accusing him of trying to make her fall out of her chair, and he was patiently but urgently hissing at her to “Stop it, just stop it.” You could tell he had been through this so many times before. There but for the grace of God...and it was obvious from the conversation I struck up with random women in the restroom after the show that we all felt the same way -- we couldn’t help but laugh at her outbursts, but we also appreciated the dose of perspective.

After the show, we rode the elevator down with Garland Robinette and Matthew was starstruck so I made an introduction and Garland seemed pleased that a young person was listening to his show. I think it was the highlight of Matthew’s night, the rest of our lovely evening notwithstanding.

And it was a lovely evening. We went back to the hotel for a light second dinner of small plates and limoncello at Domenica (I texted my sister that Bryan Batt was also in the restaurant), then ventured across the street for a hour or so of Jeremy Davenport’s set at the Ritz. It was raining when we went back to the hotel, the only evidence of Tropical Storm Bonnie all weekend.

This morning we slept til 9:30 (!) and took in the view and Meet the Press over a split of champagne, and then rode the streetcar back to the ferry. Lovely, lovely, lovely love.

Dean has improved all day so hopefully the worst is over and Henry won’t catch it. He is starting a week of zoo camp tomorrow and I would really hate for him to miss any. Tonight I am glad to be home in my cozy house back across the river, with both my boys sleeping and all of us under the same roof. A night away was definitely in order.

My Little Tyrant

2010-07-18T11:53:00.001-06:00

Parenting an infant was easier the second time around. Parenting a toddler the second time is SO. MUCH. HARDER.

I am exhausted by my child. Of course I love him, but I also want to desire to be in the same room with him from time to time.

It is hard to tell how much of this is due to his temperament, how much is that I now have two kids to keep up with, and how much just other circumstances, like my current frame of mind, (guilt complex, depression over the oil, and seemingly endless list of things to do). At least the very last I could try and do something about.

But I suspect it’s mostly the first two. I think this because when I am away from Dean’s presence -- when he is napping or I’m at work -- I see him in a fresh light. I marvel at his inquisitiveness, ferocity of spirit, and surprising upper body strength. I feel a renewed commitment to living in the present moment, letting life unfold without force or strain. In short, I WANT to be with him and help him experience the world. I am patient, I am affectionate, I am energetic.

And then he wakes up, or I come home.

My best intentions vanish in the time it takes him to start whining for my constant and complete attention, screaming at Henry if he thwarts him in some way (usually by preventing him maiming himself), and shaking his head “no” at every diversion I suggest.

I thought once he became both mobile and verbal, his mood would shift. And it has, somewhat. But he remains a child in motion; there is no such thing as Dean at rest, except when he is unconscious. And he is the type of fearless explorer who requires an eye on him at all times. Lately when Matthew takes the boys to the pool, Dean walks himself straight off the bottom step, intentionally plunging himself beneath the surface, where he calmly holds his breath and looks around at the underwater world until someone rescues him. This is the stuff my nightmares are made of!

When I come up with negative adjectives to describe him -- impatient, manipulative, volatile, loud, destructive, stubborn, impulsive, and possessive -- I realize that I could be writing the toddler chapter of any parenting book. I don’t think he’s out of bounds in any of his behavior, given his age. I think it just feels overwhelming to me because a) Henry was not quite so much any of those ugly words just mentioned and b) Henry requires my attention, as well.

It helps me to think also of positive adjectives for Dean, and there are many -- affectionate, mirthful, gleeful, inquisitive, enthusiastic, ecstatic, conversational, intelligent, clever, imaginative, and confident. The problem is that, like any toddler, he can be a mix of all of those positive and negative attributes in any given five minute period. Hell, sometimes, in any ONE minute period. It’s simply exhausting.

But, as I often found to be the case with Henry, he seems to know my breaking point and pull back right when I am at my wit’s end. After two days with the boys mostly on my own (Matthew had two weddings this weekend), I was at that point. But this morning as my little rooster crowed at seven a.m. (Henry remained asleep, since the two of us stayed up late watching Free Willy), he was as lovable as ever, lying on my chest drinking his milk as we watched Sesame Street. When the show ended, he found the pile of folded laundry on the sofa and snatched up one of Henry’s jammie shirts, that he’s almost outgrown. “That’s Henry’s shirt,” I said. “Do you want to wear it?” His face lit up. “Ok,” he said, starting to take off his own jammies. He usually fights me when I have to change his clothes, but this time he was motivated. Once we got the t-shirt on his little body, which was swimming in it, he glowed.

Then he climbed down off the sofa and began dropping the bowl and spoon and salt and pepper shakers from Matthew’s late night dinner onto the rug. “Mess,” he reported to me. “Yes,” I agreed, “You are making a mess. Let’s clean it up.” He obliged. Then he beckoned, “Mommy!”, asking me to help him get up on the sofa again. He tumbled himself back onto my chest and curled up against me. “Do you want me to sing to you?” “Ok,” he said. We sang a few nursery rhymes, and then he joined in on the “ABC song.” As we got to X, he shook his head. “No. No.” “You’re all done with singing?” “Ok,” he said, sliding off me onto the floor, onto his next adventure.

If only we could live at the Children’s Museum. Yesterday was Henry’s sixth birthday. We had a party for him and one of his friends last weekend at the Monkey Room (again), but for his actual birthday I promised him we could go to the Children’s Museum. My mom was able to come with us, which made it much easier to keep up with them. Henry busied himself with building projects while Mom and I took turns watching Dean in the toddler play room. I was curious to see how he would react, since we had not been there in a year. My predictions were spot on -- he was in heaven. He slid down the slides, he climbed the soft stairs, he scooted around the room on the ride-on toys, he pretended to eat and drink in the kitchen, and he cracked himself up pushing the rains around on the train table. For TWO HOURS. He was good at sharing with the other kids, though his initial reaction when anyone approached what he regarded as his territory or toy was to scream at them and possibly bat them away if they got too close. “Dean! You have to share, let the baby have a turn.” He would calm himself and extend the toy to the child. This kind of behavior gives me great hope -- he is very smart and eager to please when it pleases him. He already says “thank you” on his own, and Henry is very good at teaching him the art of turn taking. I am hopeful that as he continues to grow and mature, all the positive qualities will begin to outshine the negative ones.

In the mean time, I just have to breathe. It’s the only thing I can do. That, and smother him with kisses as often as possible.

This Place and That Place

2010-07-06T20:12:00.002-06:00

Back to work and school after a week at the beach and a long 4th of July weekend. Thank goodness for the holiday weekend, since we needed a couple of days to recover from our first experience of Galveston. The town itself was lovely, and the beach area we stayed in was relatively nice, but there were some serious downsides to this trip. The biggest was one we all expected but could not adequately prepare for -- the beach itself was so different from the white sandy beaches of Alabama and Florida where we’ve spent every summer vacation. The sand was brown, silty, more like mud than sand, and covered in seaweed. I’m sure it was a random event, but when we arrived seaweed had just washed ashore and with the tropical storm looming, the bulldozers that apparently usually sweep the stuff from the shoreline weren’t sent out. We had to wade through four or five yards of calf-deep stinky brown seaweed just to get to the water, which was itself filled with the stuff. I got used to it in the water, but it remained pretty gross on the beach. That is, while there was a beach. Once the storm rolled in, the tide came up so high there literally was no beach for three days -- the waves just crashed against the piles of sand that formed against the road and the beach houses. So even when it momentarily cleared of rain, we couldn’t run down with the boys to play in the water because there was nowhere to play except in the tumultuous surf.

So we spent most of our time up in the beach house (which was not directly on the beach, as we had been led to believe, but that’s another story), and Dean is just not at an ideal age for being cooped up in a strange place, especially one with two sets of corkscrew stairs and balconies with balusters that were spaced too widely apart to even meet code. I spent most of the week trying to make sure the baby gate was up on the stairs (thank goodness we’d brought one) and that no one left the sliding glass doors open to the death-deck.

We did try to savor what we could of the vacation. I could tell my grandfather enjoyed watching the hustle and bustle of the grandkids and great-grandkids, snacking and drinking and playing card games and guitar and basically running around in circles. I managed to read an entire book in one week, something I haven’t done in months (Then We Came to the End, on my top 20 fave books ever). We got to hang out with Rach and Phil. We went skinny dipping one night after the kids were in bed. Matthew cooked some amazing gourmet meals and mixed up some refreshing raspberry vodka champagne cocktails. We took the boys one rainy day to Seawolf Park and wandered through the WWII submarine and destroyer escort lodged there (very cool). But mostly, the enjoyment came vicariously, watching Henry finally get full swing into beach mode. The waves were huge, thanks to the storm, and he LOVED it. No fear, no hesitation this year -- he wanted to to be out there, getting literally thrown into the waves, over and over. So while we only had one day of typical beach behavior -- lazy drinking and reading and chatting under the beach tent while the boys dig and scatter and yelp and fill up their buckets -- we did spend a good deal of time down in the water, chasing them and trying to keep Dean from drowning. Speaking of no fear -- he insisted on being right there in the waves with the rest of us. Eventually he would have enough and ask to go “Up, inside!” but for a surprising amount of time each day, he walked himself into the waves, sputtering as they overcame his toddler body but happy to venture forth once again. He’s definitely a beach baby -- I only wish we had had more time to enjoy it, instead of being cooped up inside watching rain pelt the windows.

And then there was the long drive home. We’ve been spoiled not only by Alabama’s white beaches and clear water, but also by the fact that it's only 3 and half hours away. Galveston was a little more than six hours, and even though we broke up the drive with stops there and back at the Chuck E. Cheese in Lake Charles, Dean still was miserable. I have no idea how many times I turned around to offer one of many diversions, but he’s just at an age where he can’t enjoy a DVD for long and can’t understand why he can’t get out. “Out, OUT!!!” he screamed over and over for minutes at a time, sobbing. I had such a migraine by the time we got home Saturday and was so overcome with disappointment over the whole vacation, I just hid in my room for twenty minutes and cried my eyes out. It was silly -- it was just a beach vacation, and we did manage to avoid the oil and tar balls (by two days, anyway), and the boys loved it -- but I had my moment of weakness nonetheless. Part of it was still absorbing the culture shock -- the beach, that experience, that week of a slowed pace, beautiful sunsets, easy laughter, and waters and streets and shorelines I recognize like a second home -- didn’t appear this year. The environs were different, the mood was different, and I never had that sometimes brief but always rejuvenating moment when I suddenly have perspective on the rest of my life and can return to it with a renewed enthusiasm and stamina. Instead, I was just plain exhausted.

So, instead of perspective on my regular life, I have in the past two days gained some perspective on my vacation. It was certainly nice to be away from the oil news for a week. We returned to neighborhood get-togethers where every other conversation is peppered with it. Back in my office this morning, I was greeted with news of the oil in Lake Pontchartrain as I put my lunch in the fridge, and more depressing oil news as my secretary brought me the week’s mail. Avoiding reading the paper this morning had done nothing to get me away from it -- it is all around us, literally and figuratively. And so I am grateful for the good things I do have, like the luxury of getting away from it for a week, and the comfort of coming home to a community of people I love. Sunday night we watched the fireworks from atop the levee like we do every year, but this year we watched them amid a gaggle of friends and their kids, all of us having walked there together after hot dogs and jambalaya and beers at a house beforehand. The next night we gathered the kids in the park for some informal soccer. Tonight after dinner we walked down to the other park with our next door neighbors and their kids and a plastic pitcher of margaritas and let the kids run around as the day and our minds cooled. If I have to live somewhere confronted with one depressing challenge after another, I am glad I can do it in this place, with these people.

The World They Will Live In

2010-06-07T20:29:00.000-06:00

Matthew and I have always been news junkies. Before the kids, we spent Sunday mornings drinking mimosas and swapping the paper while watching This Week (back when it was Sam and Cokie!) and Meet the Tim Russert. We woke to NPR, drove to NPR, and every night we watched the evening news (ABC, pre-Diane Sawyer, now we are loyal to Brian Williams). When Henry came along, we got Tivo and just continued the tradition of watching the evening news at whatever time we got around to eating dinner. As he became older, the Tivo came in very handy as we can fast-forward through anything too gruesome (some nights, with all the war coverge, it's a really short news program in the Foster household). I realize there are drawbacks to this -- some think kids shouldn't be exposed to so much of the real world so young, others might comment that we're msising a chance to teach some serious table manners and discuss our days together. But at least at this point in our lives, I think the advantages outweigh the disadvantages. And now Dean is part of the ritual, too, and fusses at Matthew if his head gets in the way of his view.

What I love about watching the news with Henry is all the opportunities for discussion. Yes, some of it is very sad, but I believe that kids are stronger than we think when it comes to digesting the inequities of the world. I have used so many world events as a springboard to talking about how fortunate our family is. He's aware that many people have lost jobs, that some kids' parents have died in wars, that George Bush was a terrible President. He also knows that Atlantis just concluded its final voyage, that the volcano in Iceland interrupted air traffic, and that there are new drugs to fight cancer. And obviously, right now, he's very aware of the oil spill. He's been adamant lately that this is all BP's fault, asking, "Why are we cleaning up their mess? They made this mess, they should clean it up!" I am sure in that case he is echoing the protesters' comments on the news program as well as rants in our own family. But sometimes he says things that are entirely his own and that confirm my belief that this exposure to the news is making him a more critical thinker. Tonight we caught a bit of a Toyota commercial before cutting back to the news and he said, "You know what they're not talking about anymore? Toyota." I murmured assent, vaguely thinking to myself how the oil spill coverage has subsumed almost everything else. Later in the program they did a montage of graduation speakers, including Michelle Obama. In her clip she did not explicitly mention Haiti, but the overlay was a still image of a dark-skinned child clutching a doll amid horrendous rubble. Henry said, "You know what else they aren't talking about? Haiti. All these things are still happening, but they aren't talking about them." He was slightly puzzled but seemed more annoyed that the news was ignoring these other issues. I briefly explained that they were so focused on the oil spill, a lot of other stories just weren't getting much attention. I started at him silently while he turned back to his supper and the news, amazed at his perception. I continued to watch him after he got up from the table and the news ended, wondering if maybe he was taking some of this too hard and we should pull back. But as I saw him dissolve in a puddle of giggles as he and Matthew and Dean tussled on the floor, and I saw him race to the bathroom for his bath, and there was no evidence of any lingering concerns, my mind eased. I think, for now, the balance is just right. I am proud of him for noticing defects in this country's journalistic enterprise, but very glad that he's not the least bit preoccupied by it.

This is the world my children will live in. What's happening now determines the rest of their lives. We determine what benefits they will enjoy, what burdens they will suffer. It is because this country decided thirty years ago to get serious about some forms of environmental pollution that today (most of the time) their air I breathe is cleaner, the river and lakes swimmable. It is because women pushed for equality in education that I graduated from a top law school thinking the only limits on where I would end up were ones of my own choosing. It is because this country decided decades ago not to join the rest of the first world in viewing health care as an individual right but a collective responsibility that today I stand to lose the last hope I had for health insurance (the Legislature voted to cut funding for my high risk pool insurance). And it is because BP skirted regulations (and continues to lie and deflect and patronize) and the government looked the other way that Henry and Dean's generation might never get to think of their state as the oyster capital of the world, or have friends who grew up on shrimp boats, or marvel at the aerodynamics of a brown pelican as it glides beside our car crossing the Causeway. Who knows the long term ripple effects this travesty will have? If this is the world they are going to live in, they might as well know from the start what they are up against in trying to better it.

I wonder if Dean's independent spirit at age 16 months will translate into a commitment to radical action when he gets old enough to appreciate the disparities and social and environmental crimes of the modern world that Henry is just beginning to notice. Dean's confidence in himself is astounding to me -- not just because I did not witness as much of it in Henry at this age, but also because I don't think I've ever had a trace of it myself. There is simply nothing he thinks he cannot do, short of hug a stranger. Steps, waves, older kids, swimming pools -- he intends to conquer it all. And then proudly say, as he said tonight when he figured out a toy and again when he fed himself his peas, "I did it!!" Well, it sounds more like "Yedidee!!" but the enormous grin on his face says it all. This is a kid the world is going to have to reckon with.

Doing Our Part to Keep It Weird

2010-06-01T21:17:00.001-06:00

finally have a few moments to write down thoughts on our recent Austin trip, the oil, and Henry's recent adventures.

Last week we headed to Austin for a few days. Plane trips with the kids are always a little bit daunting, but I am determined that they will become seasoned travelers. Henry is an ace -- he not only loves flying but he's big enough to be an extra pair of hands, and to distract Dean when necessary. Dean was, all things considered, quite well behaved. But no 16-month old likes to be cooped up in one place for hours. We managed to keep him entertained with food and leaflets in the seatbacks (he pulls it out, he puts in back in, he pulls it out, he puts in back in) and even the beloved pacifier, which is usually denied him during waking hours.

We arrived in Austin pretty early (a 7:15 a.m. flight, which meant a 5 a.m. wake up, which meant a mid-afternoon migraine -- when will I ever learn it just ain't worth the savings to start my trip wrecked?), got our rental car, and headed for Rach and Phil's. They were both at work, so after Dean discovered all the cats, we got back in the car and went to Chuy's for lunch. Yum. Nothing like Tex-Mex to start off an Austin vacay. Then we did some grocery shopping and went back to the neighborhood for a visit to the park. When Philip got home we did a fair amount of gushing over their gorgeous yard. I mean, he IS a landscape architect and all, but still, it was pretty impressive. I felt like I was in a Southern Living spread every time I walked onto the back patio, and the front porch was perfect for catching a breeze, which we have less and less of in New Orleans as summer descends upon us.

We kept pretty busy while we were there, mostly to keep the boys occupied, but I don't think we overdid it. There was still lots of down time. Friday Rachael and Henry and Matthew and Dean and I went to Natural Bridge Caverns in New Braunfels. Henry was thrilled with all the formations, and fascinated by how far down under the earth we were. I've been to a few caverns, and these were really beautiful. It is an awesome feeling to realize how long it has taken for such beauty to develop, how long it went undiscovered by human eyes, and how it will likely still be there long after humans have left the planets. When I am feeling overwhelmed, I like to think about places like that, where it is still and quiet and timeless.

After the caverns we went to Gruene, Texas for lunch and to soak in the history. We took the boys to the historic dance hall and they both got up on the stage (the place was empty). Their penchant for dancing has become so abiding that when we were thinking of somewhere to eat in the evening on Saturday, we narrowed our criteria by "somewhere they can dance to music." Which is how we ended up at Hills Cafe...but we're not there yet. Saturday morning we went to the Bob Bollock Texas State History Museum in downtown Austin. It was huge, a lot to take in, and some of it hard to take in with Dean squirming to get out of his stroller, but Henry loved it. He's at a great age for museums. He's just at a great age, period -- eager to help, generally upbeat, great with his little brother, and more and more able to appreciate science and culture.

Saturday evening we went to Hills Cafe and enjoyed great music and a balmy sunset as we ate our burgers and drank cool, tall margaritas. The boys took over the dance floor. Henry is such a trip to watch. He is devoid of self-consciousness, but in love with being watched at the same time. It is a combination that results in some eyebrow-raising dance moves.

After dinner we went downtown, hoping to see the bats make their nightly foray from under the bridge. The banks of the river and the pedestrian walkways of the bridge were crowded with people, but the bats apparently didn't get the memo and decided not to show up. Nevertheless, it was a cool comfortable evening and the kids enjoyed rolling down the grassy banks. The next day we took it easy and had a picnic in Zilker Park. The weather was perfect, and after a long walk the cool waters of Barton Springs felt heavenly washing over our dusty toes. That night Phil made fantastic fajitas and we watched The Empire Strikes Back. Henry loved it and I hadn't seen it in so long, it was great fun to curl up on their sofa and relive it all with him.

It was a thoroughly relaxing trip, and I can't discount the escape from the oil spill as a factor. It is just inescapable here. Just when we had finally gotten to the point that you could scan the front page of the Times Pic without always seeing "Katrina" mentioned in some headline, now the paper screams at us about oil, oil, oil. It is so truly horrendous as to be almost unbelievable. The first few weeks, I dreamt about oil almost every night. After they released the first video images of it spewing out underwater, that was the image I had in my head every night as I went to sleep. Try as I might to dispel it, it was like trying not to think of pink elephants. My mind was obsessed with the obscenity of what was happening. And still is happening. There have been days when the stench was so strong in the air, I had to stay inside with the boys. Maybe I am just more sensitive to it than others -- it made my throat itch and my head hurt. Fortunately we have't smelled it in the past week or so. But now we are watching video of oil blobbing in the surf of our favorite beach. It is revolting to watch. It seems like a bourgeois problem -- oh no, my beach vacation is going to be ruined -- but seeing it there strikes me more viscerally than seeing it in the marsh. I feel badly about that -- my own state's coastline is imperiled and god knows what is going to happen to the fishing culture and economy, and the ripple effect it may have on tourism in the city -- but I've spent a week of every year of my life along the Alabama and Florida coasts. I don't think I've ever spent more than a day on the Louisiana coast, not being much a fisherwoman. The idea of not being able to celebrate the natural beauty of the ocean with my family in four weeks is distressing. And then there's the daily drumbeat of the lies, the incompetence, the destruction, the uncertainty...I feel emotionally exhausted form trying not to let it take over my psyche.

Poor Henry thinks every beach is already ruined. Yesterday, in an effort to soak up some sand and surf before it is ruined, we took the boys to Biloxi. Dean absolutely loves the beach. No wave is too big, no tumble too discouraging. Matthew and I sat on the sand and watched the boys as they played and ran and crashed and just had a great time. We can only hope (against all rational hope) that they will be able to do the same thing in a month in Fort Morgan. And that they will grow up in a state still known for its seafood, its water culture, its amazing natural habitats and wildlife, and the tourism in New Orleans that depends in a part on all of that.

Oh, and BP, please suck it. The oil, and everything else. Whatever it takes.

Down Time

2010-05-08T16:04:00.001-06:00

We're finally done festing, I think. Sometimes I manage to get us out of the house for Greek Fest at the end of May but it usually involves a lot of pushing and tugging on my part because SOMEONE usually thinks its too hot or too far away. (Lakeview might as well be Baton Rouge -- anything that involves getting on the Interstate tends to make us feel like we're on a road trip). So, at least for now, we're back to semi-quiet weekends. It's also Matthew's busiest time of the year. This weekend he has two weddings, one last night and one right now. He also typically has a couple of portraits during the week, which, as the days grow longer and warmer, means I end up feeding and putting the kids to bed on my own. Between his shooting sessions and Henry's extracurriculars, it seems I won't be getting my haircut 'til June. Henry and I have found time to do some baking inspired by the mulberries growing on a tree in our neighborhood. I've never had a mulberry before -- I don't know if they grew this year because of the cold winter we had, but they are not a fruit we find often. Last week we baked a mulberry pie and right now we are eating our way through a mulberry cake, both delicius.

We had an awesome time at Jazzfest. We bypassed an Imagination Movers arena concert a couple of months ago because I knew they were playing Jazzfest, and I was pretty sure that was the only way I was going to convince Matthew to go to the fest at all. And it worked, and the day was beautiful and we all had a great time. The Imagination Movers were fantastic. Dean often watches it when Henry does, and I had not realized how much of it he was following. He can do all the moves to the theme song, as they announce them -- we caught it on tape at the fest. Then H. and M. went backstage to see if they could meet them, and they did! Henry printed out the pics to take to school for show and tell, he was really psyched. We spent most of the rest of the afternoon in the Kids' Tent. Dean and Henry played with blocks and danced to a brass band while Matthew and I ate a plate full of crawfish sacks. Yum. We ran into some friends there, which is a rare treat. The fest is so overwhelming, we usually don't make plans to meet up with anyone so it is serendipitous when we end up in the same place at the same time. We ended the afternoon walking through the Louisiana heritage area, and Henry got down watching a zydeco band. Ladies danced with him and it reminded me of when I was about seven and went with my parents to some convention in New Orleans, I think at the Hyatt. I remember I wore my favorite dress and there was a jazz band at brunch in the lobby and I danced and danced, with almost every elderly gentleman in attendance. I remember feeling so happy. I am thrilled that my kids love music and dancing as much as I do, that it seems to be becoming just a natural part of their lives to hear amazing music almost every week and shake their little tushes off.

Dean is developing faster than a weed. It seems like every day there is less and less "baby" and more and more "boy." He is a talking quite a bit. In the morning as we enter the kitchen he asks for a "nana" (banana), and tells me he wants "dow" (down); he often asks to "bush" (brush his teeth) and for "hep" (help). Yesterday on a walk to Bob's house, sans stroller, he discovered lots of bugs - it's one of the few words I think even a stranger would recognize. Bug, book, mama, Daddy, Dinah, door, and apple are some of his most recognizable words -- and even though most people wouldn't understand him when he says "Henry" it is absolutely one of my favorites. Henry is still wonderful with him. We have so many little rituals now that I cherish. On Fridays I pick Henry up from school with Dean in the car. If it has been a good behavior week for Henry at school, we drive through Burger King on our way to music class and he gets a milk shake. When we get to the lesson, we usually have at least ten minutes to kill. We sit in the car and Henry feeds Dean goldfish crackers while I look through all his school work for the week. Henry is very patient with Dean and teaches him to say "please" when he wants to eat more. On nights when Matthew has a wedding, the boys take a bath together (actually, they do that most nights, but it's usually Matthew's task while I clean the kitchen after supper), during which they manage to splash inordinate amounts of water onto the floor but their antics and interactions are so cute I just can't bring myself to stop them. After Dean goes to bed, Henry and I usually watch a movie together and then he gets to go to sleep in my bed, a special treat. Last night he had a friend over to watch the movie, and since it was pretty late when the playdate ended, I decided to crawl into bed with him. We each read our own books for a while until we got very sleepy and then we snuggled together and went to sleep.

There is so much fragility around us -- the horrifying oil leak in the Gulf, the brittle economy, the wavering health of some of our loved ones -- and our weekday lives are so busy now, I am grateful for these quiet moments on the weekends. Some weekends they don't happen, but when they do I try to notice and squeeze as much appreciation out of and into them as I can. My kids are healthy -- what a marvel that is. They love and even like each other (my biggest fear right now is that one of them will seriously injure the other in their roughhousing). Yes, our lives are busier than I would like, but we are all together, all in one lovely little house in one lovely little neighborhood surrounded by friends and family.

Do Good Parents Let Their Kids Eat Two Dozen Strawberries?

2010-04-23T20:54:00.001-06:00

Can you eat too many strawberries? If it is possible to suffer a malady from that, then surely our family is in for it. Matthew picked up a whole box of strawberries from a roadside vendor two days ago. At first I thought, how in the world are we going to eat that many strawberries before the fruit flies do? I even baked a pound cake that day, with Henry's assistance, just to help the cause along. But there may have been no need -- yes, we gave three little crates to Mom and PamPaw, but we ourselves have managed to consume the remaining nine crates, most of them just raw while standing at the kitchen counter. They are just so good, they underscore why we should try to eat food only when it's in season -- we are really doing our taste buds a disservice to do otherwise, who cares what it does to the earth...

I've been thinking a lot lately about the subject of my last post. It is funny how when you become aware of an issue, you suddenly see it everywhere. During a lovely rainstorm Sunday evening, Matthew and I sat on the back porch, listening to the rain pound on the tin roof, and I was looking at our trampoline. I was thinking about the role the Internet plays in modern American parenting. I thought about how we laugh at how unsafe so many of the playthings of our childhoods were, at least by today's standards, and trampolines clearly fit the bill. We got one when I was just barely a teenager. It had no mesh walls, no padded springs, nothing but the bounce pad and the metal springs and the ground. My younger sisters and their friends played on it probably more than I and my friends, but my cohort definitely tested the boundaries of safe jumping. I think my friend Paul did something bad with the electrical wire hanging over the tramp -- there was electrical wire hanging over the tramp! -- and got banned for life by my Mom.

My Mom was a very careful Mom. She was not one to ignore dangers. And she says now she regrets that we had the trampoline because it was too dangerous, even though no one we knew ever got seriously hurt on it. But, really, that's what all tramps were like back then -- I didn't know anyone who had one that looked anything like the one we have for the boys. The state of the art was exposed springs and lack of containing walls. So what? Well, it occurred to me that I don't at all think of my Mom as being a "bad Mom" because the trampoline was inherently unsafe, but I would definitely think of myself as a bad mom if ours did not have all the zippers and padding and bizarre little English-as-a-second-language warning signs plastered all over it. But surely any person could have looked at the state of the art back then and realized it was inherently unsafe. Why did it take so long for the improvements? And why could a responsible parent have such an unsafe plaything in their yard back then and still be thought of as a responsible parent?

Maybe part of it -- just part -- was the lack of the Internet. These days, if I have any doubt in myself about a parenting approach or a product, I can -- and do -- check the Internet. It's my way of finding out what's considered the state of the art these days. Time outs for truculent toddlers? Check. The car seat with the highest safety rating? Check. I don't always want to ask my friends or my mother about how they would handle the situation or decision. That can get so personal, for both of us -- what if I don't do what they suggest? If my friend tells me she thought Carseat A was just fine for her kids but I buy Carseat B, will that cause any awkwardness? Better to go to the anonymity of the web and ask the great void for its opinion. Then what I do is just between me and my amazon.com account.

And that's exactly what we did with the trampoline we bought -- we read the reviews and bought what we thought was the safest option. My Mom could not have done that. She also was not subject to the "you can never be too safe" attitude that pervades the Internet, the traditional media, the latest parenting books, and the slew of catalogs marketing the false idea that we can somehow protect our children from even such a minor discomfort as the feeling of bare knees on hardwood floors as they are learning to crawl.

Please do not get me wrong. Of course I want my kids to be safe. I am just a little tired of feeling the pressure to define myself as a good parent based on the products I buy (or don't buy). Good intentions aren't enough, it seems, when everyone knows all you have to do is be willing to spend the money to buy the thing that would have kept (bad thing X) from happening.

I bet somewhere on the web someone has posted the question, Can you eat too many strawberries? Maybe I should look that up.

The Spring of My Discontent

2010-04-13T20:37:00.001-06:00

It's my favorite time of the year, festival season in New Orleans. The weather has been delightful for more than two weeks now and it has really given the whole city a new pep in its step.

The past weekend was French Quarter Fest and we spent it with our friends Jason and Ellen, in town from Tennessee. I can't believe we've been making these annual visits -- one year up we're up there, the next they're down here -- for nine years now, ever since we left Knoxville. They are wonderful house guests, completely self sufficient. I love seeing Jason asleep on the couch or Ellen rocking on the front porch with a book. And their visits are always a great excuse to go to a fantastic restaurant. This year we had brunch at Ralph's on the Park, and it was such a glorious morning looking out on City Park, I really don't understand how heaven could be any better than New Orleans in April. We also fit in some boiled crawfish, which we ate outside on our newly refurbished patio, complete with fire pit. It was little chilly that first night they were here, the perfect weather for sitting next to a crackling outdoor fire and peeling some mudbugs. The next morning we took a swamp tour through Bayou Segnette. I highly recommend it. Even growing up across from a bayou, I really don't feel I appreciate Louisiana's natural habitats as much as I should. We saw at least five or six gators (Henry was impressed), beautiful herons, basking turtles, and of course enjoyed the banter of Captain Camardelle, straight from central casting. That afternoon we took the ferry and listened to the Zydepunks. They've come a long way since playing in our back yard for my 30th birthday party - it was so packed with people, Henry and I could hardly find a square of grass in which to shake our thangs (but we did). The next day Mom watched the boys in the morning and the four of us staked a spot by the brass band stage and also wandered through the Quarter. Matthew and Jason went and retrieved the boys in the afternoon and all of us stayed out there, dancing and eating and relaxing, until almost 7 p.m.

I just wish it could always be so relaxing to be with my kids. Right before the diversion of Jason and Ellen's visit, I pretty much had a breakdown related to the stress of parenthood. I thought maybe my sense of fatigue, of the joy being sucked out of my everyday existence, was just a symptom of my tendency to become depressed, or maybe it was just because of stress I'm also bearing at work right now. But Matthew said he completely related to my rant. This was both a relief -- hey, I'm not crazy! -- and totally depressing -- hey, we're both miserable! Through my tears I just found myself saying over and over, "Is it supposed to be this hard? Am I supposed to feel this way?"

And I really don't know the answer. But I refuse to accept that someone as blessed as I am with a part-time job, a mostly stay at home husband, and two healthy, happy kids should naturally feel as tired and resentful and I often feel. I started to wonder, is it in part BECAUSE of how good everything looks on paper that I am feeling this stressed? Am I making this harder than it has to be?

I think I am. I find myself wondering why Henry seems to think our whole lives revolve around him, and then I realize -- oh, maybe it's because our lives DO revolve around him, and very consciously so. I mean, we absolutely chose to have our lives structured the way they are. I found full-time lawyering incompatible with my approach to mothering, so we have worked for years to establish the work-life balance we have now. We both work part-time, and except for when Henry is in school or Dean is at Mother's Day Out, one of us is with the kids at all times. And I know they benefit from that presence.

The problem is, we seem to think our presence is not sufficient. We seem to think that we also need to be our children's teachers, athletic coaches, artistic directors, cuisine instructors, and all around good-time companions. As much as this perfectionist parenting style often gets labeled a woman's issue, I have been surprised at how much of this self-imposed expectation of constant-presence-parenting Matthew seems to feel, as well. Often I am the one reminding him that he is not a bad parent just because he has to tell Henry for the fifth time that he cannot stop working on processing pictures to read him the Spiderman comic book. I tell him to think of our own dads and how they worked sometimes 50 or 60 hours a week, and yet we thought they were great dads. Why? Because they showed us they loved us, they took us seriously, they listened when we needed them to listen.

Need -- that's the magic word. How does a parent who is home most of the time, and thus available to their kids most of the time, determine when a kid NEEDS attention and when they are just demanding it out of habit? Surely there is a happy medium.

My angst inspired me to pick up Judith Warner's Perfect Madness again. I read it when it first came out, but Henry was an infant then. As much as it made an impression on me, I couldn't exactly relate to it, because I wasn't there yet in my experience of parenting. This week, rereading it, I was appalled. How did Judith Warner get inside my head without my noticing? I was shocked to relate to so much of it. Mostly I relate to the constant sense of not being a good enough parent. Rationally, I know that I am a good parent. I really do know this. But even though I know it, the refrain that is constantly playing in my head is that nothing I am doing is really good enough, that there's always something else I could be doing, would be doing if only I a) stayed home full time b) were a more patient person c) were a more selfless person d) got more sleep e) got less sleep f) etcetera g) etcetera h) ad nauseum.

It is hard for me to pinpoint exactly where this sense of not doing enough comes from. I am not sure I accept all of Judith Warner's premises (though I certainly agree that the lives of middle class American parents would be a lot easier if we could count on good schools, reliable child care, and safe neighborhoods). The media definitely plays a part in creating this sense of anxiety -- even canned peas aren't safe to serve your kids anymore, at least not if you're a "good mother." The media helps you feel that we need to make moral judgments about everything from the clothes our kids wear to the foods they eat to the cars we put them in to drive them to their play dates.

But maybe I don't have to know the source for sure just to become more aware of its effects and maybe have a shot at combating them. Already, by being aware of this insidious voice of insecurity, fear, and self-doubt, I am becoming better at telling it to shut the hell up. I do not want my kids to feel overscheduled. I do not want them to think that it is their parent's sole job to hang on to their every word, drop everything to see them do that "new way of jumping" on the trampoline, or read Goodnight Moon for the sixth time in a row. Maybe it would not be a bad thing for them to see me sit on the sofa with a book and IGNORE them...for maybe five minutes.

Some of this will certainly get easier as Dean gets older. My good friend who is a parent as well as a preschool teacher for the two and under set reminded me that this age -- he's fourteen months -- is one of the hardest by far. He is starting to talk and has a few signs but he doesn't yet grasp that he can use words to get what he wants; he much prefers screaming. He is completely fearless and spends most of his time trying inadvertently to kill himself. He has no patience. I know all of this is normal, but I am taking some small steps to rein him in, if only because his screaming is like nails on a chalkboard and one of us is going to crack. We're working on "using words" and have started using the play pen as a timeout when he screams even after we've acknowledged his request. I think it is helping. Mostly, I think just being easier on myself will help. My friend also reminded me that if we're batting 70% in our attempts to be a "good parent" that day, that's a pretty healthy average. Maybe if I change my definition of what it means to be a good parent, I can hit that average even more often.

Here There and Everywhere

2010-03-28T20:40:00.000-06:00

I recently made two lists. One was a list of thing I felt I needed to do. It was a long list. The other was a list of things I wanted to do. It was surprisingly short. Writing this blog was on one of the lists.

This has happened before, where the blog felt like a chore I kept putting off -- but at those times, I actually did have something very pressing going on, like trying to write a novel or trying to put together an international adoption. The only thing I have going on right now is life. And it is just so damned busy. I do not like to be busy for the sake of busyness, so I am always trying to make sure that my activities are either gratifying or absolutely necessary, and occasionally, fortunately, they are both. I really can't tell right now what category most of my current activites fall into. I can only tell that I am in a state of transition. At these times, I feel like a caterpillar halfway turned into a butterfly, not at all sure what is happening to me, hopeful that I will clear the sludge from my eyes soon and find myself somewhat improved. It would suck to find out I am actually a butterfly turning into a caterpillar.

I am sure this transitional phase is directly related to my having weaned Dean. My feelings about it are really too intense to put into words, even two weeks later. Suffice it to say that I am so thankful that I was able to breastfeed him as long as I did, knowing how hard it is for some. And I have no regrets about ending it when I did; it was time, for both of us. I planned it so it would happen a week or so before Matthew and I took a brief trip to Baltimore for a health lawyers conference. The trip was perfect -- we ate lovely Italian dinners, walked around the Inner Harbor, and even managed to squeeze in a 3-D viewing of Avatar, something very difficult to pull off at home for some reason. Mom kept the boys for us, and Henry had such a good time he asked when Matthew and I will go away again so he can stay over at Bob's for lots of days again. Hmmm, I'll have to get back to him soon on that.

Anyway, back to transitions. I have a fourteen month old and a five a half year old, so I feel I am constantly stretching as a parent, becoming limber again just when my parental muscles had begin to forget how to do certain things, and exceeding my limits when I encounter new questions and quandaries as Henry matures. How do you quiet a tantrum? How do you explain Sarah Palin to a five year old? (It's not very difficult, actually, and I am not sure whom that says more about, Henry, or the lady herself).

And in the midst of trying to help them grow up, I am still growing up myself. I am pulled in so many different directions, and right now I am struggling to figure out which ones I actually want to grow in and which ones I am just growing around, like a vine around a stake. I feel in my heart that I am not ready to make any big commitments in answer to some of the questions swirling in my head, but I am ready to answer questions about what matters to me. Usually, I feel l need to answer the big questions before I can answer the little ones. But this time I feel it is the opposite. I feel I need to tease out the values that matter to me and then the rest will begin to sort itself out. I know what the values are -- but some are more important than others, and some might actually conflict with others. A random sampling, in no particular order: financial peace of mind; staying in touch with local commerce and farming; building friendships in my community; teaching my children the importance of thanking those who sacrifice for us, like soldiers; listening to music and teaching my kids how to love it and make it a part of their daily lives; reading and helping my kids enjoy reading for pleasure; understanding science and the universe better; not letting politics poison my view of other Americans; exercising; being more optimistic and forgiving of myself and others; living in the present.

Ugh, that last one. I completely suck at it. And I think that's because it just always seems to conflict with everything else in my personality -- I am a planner. How can you be a planner and not be absorbed by the planning?

But such is my state of mind right now, and it explains why I have not been blogging as much. It's not that I don't have enough to say, it is that I have too much and it is all in such disarray. But at least it is there -- ideas are forming, questions are being asked, and I am trying very hard to be quiet enough to listen to my heart as it answers.

Year One

2010-02-26T10:43:00.002-07:00

When I became a parent, I thought I was prepared for the sickness part. Kids get sick, parents have to take care of them , day and night, that's the deal, no problemo. What I didn't count on was how often I would end up getting sick myself. I feel like someone in our family has been sick every day since about November. Right now, I'm in the middle of my second week of viral tonsillitis, and Dean is recovering from a stomach virus. A few weeks ago, both boys were very ill with fevers, coughing, ear infections, and pink eye thrown in just to spice things up. Matthew and I were getting very little sleep because one of us took one of the boys to bed with us each night, he in the guest room, me in our bed. So of course that left both of us vulnerable to whatever nasty little bugs they had, and we both ended up sick, too. We had a brief reprieve over Mardi Gras, for which we were very grateful, but for a while there we felt like we were just barely surviving. It got so depressing I had to keep reminding myself how fortunate I was that my kids only had something temporary and not life threatening. Two weeks of worry and sleeplessness gave me just a tiny taste of how agonizing it must be for parents who have a child with a chronic health condition.

It did make Matthew and me really appreciate each other, too. Even though we didn't sleep in the same bed together for almost two weeks, we felt very much a team trying to divide and conquer the task of taking care of two very sick little boys. We communicated pretty well and supported each other as best we could, and when finally - finally - both kids started sleeping through the night again in their own beds, we felt like giving each other high fives. Except by that point we were both too sick to have the energy.

Mardi Gras was fantastic. For that brief few days, everyone was well and everyone had energy, which was good since we went to eight parades in four days. We probably would not have gone so all out except we were trying to make up for missing it last year when Dean was only a few weeks old, and also wanted to experience it with Rachael and Phil and our Canadian friend, Scott, who were all in town this year. It was such a great experience, combining the Superbowl win and Mardi Gras. We saw Drew Brees as Bacchus (Rachael went up on Phil's shoulders and actually caught a bead directly from Drew, I think she can now die happy), and Rachael and I made eye contact with Sean Payton as we danced in the street screaming, "Thank You! Thank You!" and he held up the Lombardi Trophy and pointed at us during Orpheus. Henry of course had a marvelous time, up in the ladder most of time with Foster and then running between the grown-ups legs to chase errant balls and doubloons. Dean was the greatest champ of all, however, considering what we put him through Bacchus Sunday. Rach, Phil, and Scott staked out a spot at 7 a.m., and the rest of our crew joined them at 10:00. We brought Dean's stroller and pacifier and blankets so he could crash out and nap, but he never wanted to. He was riveted the whole time, yelling for beads with his little arms in the air, loving the horses in the parades and the beautiful floats. He finally fell asleep at nighttime during Bacchus, but never once was he cranky. What a perfect little Mardi Gras baby.

I find my kids fascinating, which is good since they also wear me out and drive me crazy. In some ways, Henry and Dean are like twins separated by four and half years. They both get hiccups constantly; both have great and varied appetites; both took forever to crawl and then only did so with one leg; both learned to walk at the same early age; both had acid reflux as infants; and of course they look virtually identical. But they are very different in other ways: Henry is a sound sleeper, Dean wakes if a feather floats by his bed; Henry has really never had a temper, and Dean has been throwing little fits since he was born; Henry loved toys and blocks, Dean would prefer to read books all day; Henry was content to hang out in the house with us or just watch the birds from the porch, Dean becomes restless and agitated if we don't work in a change of scenery at least once a day; and Henry has always been tall for his age, and Dean is still barely in the 5th percentile for height.

Dean turned one last month and it really felt like a huge accomplishment -- for me, as much as for him. I look back on that year with a mix of sweetness and sadness. I was so deeply sad after having him and realizing it would be the last time anyone would set a newborn in my arms and that tiny life would be mine, all mine. I went through postpartum depression and had to make the decision to go on an antidepressant for the first time in almost fifteen years. And then there were the continuing migraines and the struggle to get him sleeping through the night, which took longer than with Henry. But there was also the joy of seeing Henry step into the role of big brother, one he has filled beautifully. There was the sense of contentment knowing that our little family was finally complete. There was the excitement of adjusting to life with two active, playful, messy little boys. And then of course the simple pleasure of watching both of them develop -- Dean becoming more assertive with Henry, knowing how to ask for what he wants of us, learning to walk and talk and play, and Henry learning patience and gentleness, taking seriously the job of looking out for Dean, yet also learning his own new skills at school, the ability to read on his own, curiosity about how the world works and becoming quite astute about his own abilities to do things on his own.

We are still not sure where Henry will be going to school next year. Things looks really good for one of our preferred schools, but we won't know anything for sure for another month or two. We recently had a conference with his current school, and overall the report was good. I sometimes feel that they don't really understand him, but I am sure every parent feels that their child's uniqueness is underappreciated by others. It's just always jarring to hear that he's viewed as "immature" for his age. When I see how he takes care of Dean, steps up with his chores around the house, converses easily with grown-ups, and verbalizes his emotions, I feel he's quite mature. It's just that he has an unusual way of expressing his insecurities at times. As his parent, I see these behaviors as a sign of his creative, certifiably gifted mind. But I guess I can see how a teacher might see them as backward. For instance, when he is feeling shy or insecure socially, he sometimes pulls up his hands close to his chest and ducks his head and walks like a little mouse. I suppose a "mature" child would simply be able to overcome those feelings and force himself to walk with confidence into the room. But Henry uses his body to help him cope with his feelings, and we find that when we let him approach the situation in his own way, he usually comes out of his shell and is quite lively.

I always have to fight the urge to point out that he is "gifted" because so many people find labeling offensive or just don't even believe such categories are relevant. But I think it matters that Henry's IQ is as high as it is. It's no excuse for bad behavior or failing to follow instructions, but it does provide a context for his actions. When he feels he can't do something perfectly, he doesn't even try. He's very hard on himself (can't imagine where that comes from...). But this isn't a sign that he's recalcitrant or rebellious; he just needs encouragement to realize that he is capable. The fact that he can focus on writing and illustrating his little stories, entirely on his own initiative, for an hour at a time, and yet gets bored and doesn't really try his best on some of the more mundane school tasks is seen by some as as a sign that he has mild attention deficit disorder. There's no question that he lacks in executive function and is easily distracted, but ADD? Or just a sign of a creative personality, much like his father, who can excel at things he is passionate about but could never motivate himself in academics he found too easy or irrelevant?

Overall we're really happy with how well he is doing in school. The environment definitely encourages him to control his impulses, and he's doing really well in his core subjects. He loves science and they expose him to a lot of concepts I don't recall encountering at this age -- the layers of the earth, the anatomy of grasshoppers, the countries of the world. I am just curious to see how he will develop in a different setting, whether that's at the next level at his current school, or at one of the more traditional schools we've applied to.

I am also marveling at Dean's distinctive personality. I love that he is so assertive. Henry was easily bullied and tearful at this age, highly sensitive, just like his parents. But Dean doesn't seem to let much get in his way. With other babies, he will be the one to take the toy or push someone out of the way. Not that I want him to be a bully, of course, but is refreshing to see such confidence in him, especially given his rambunctious older brother. He doesn't shy away from conflict and makes his demands known very clearly. When he doesn't want a food or item, he pushes it away and shakes his head. When he wants something, he claps his hands and makes eye contact or will actually bring the item to me (this happens with books ALL DAY LONG). He clearly prefers Matthew and me to others, but he goes easily to strangers. Given his boredom with being at home and his eagerness to be around other people, we decided to enroll him in a twice weekly Mother's Day Out. I would never have even considered this for Henry, he was so attached to us and frankly didn't seem to need the stimulation. But Dean is thriving. The first day Matthew dropped him off, the teachers asked afterward if he had been at a drop off program before, because he adjusted so well. He loves to dance and make music, and that seems to be his favorite part of every "school" day. He also brings home art -- art, by a one-year old! If either Matthew or myself was truly a full-time stay at home parent, I am sure at some point we would have gotten around to putting paint in his hands, but since we both work part-time and have Henry to keep up with as well, it hadn't even occurred to us yet to expose Dean to that. I love having his little artworks up on the fridge, right next to Henry's illustrated stories and spelling tests.

I just love being a parent. At times I feel overwhelmed, almost bewildered by the loss of my old self in the face of each day's subsistence demands. I admit I have not achieved my New Year's goal of carving out some time for myself regularly. Partly it is because I have been sick or the kids have been sick. But partly ii is just laziness. Putting myself first is hard. It's not that I value self-denial, it's just easier to keep cleaning the house or feeding the kids than to ask someone (usually Matthew) to take over those duties for awhile so I can go for a walk or take a bath. Plus I know how quickly this time passes -- already, Dean is one, and Henry is taking spelling tests. Oh, to stop it for just a little while, just a day to save in a box that I can take out when I am old and gray and they are gone.

On Cloud Nine

2010-02-09T22:10:00.000-07:00

It's Dat Tuesday, it's Lombardi Gras, it's the greatest party on earth one week early, courtesy of the Saints and our neighbor, Blaine Kern. And if there was anything I could possibly have done about it, I would not be writing this right now, I'd be down on Bourbon having just watched the victory parade. But more on that later.

I have been composing this post in my head for more than two days, but it's been a lot of celebrating and reliving (and a LITTLE bit of working). I hope I can capture my feelings, and I don't apologize for being maudlin.

I didn't realize how tense I have been these past few weeks -- weeks? No, months -- ever since the Saints got on a streak, there was a little asterisk on my daily emotions, a little bit of hoping and a little bit of "I could truly be happy if..." And I know now that I truly am. That may sound shallow, but let me explain.

I didn't lose a house in Katrina. I didn't lose a job, or a family member. I was lucky, no question. But I almost lost the city that I had loved since childhood, the place I chose to settle and raise my family. Four years later, it is sometimes hard even for me to remember what it was like when it felt like everyone was betting against us. We were gonna be Charleston, remember that? Not to knock that city, I'm sure it's lovely, but I didn't set my sights on one of the most fascinating metropolises in the world to end up living in a postcard alone. I wanted my city back -- I wanted the museums, the endless restaurants, the beautiful parks, the great universities, and yes, the sports teams.

Those of us who came back after Katrina, who weathered the doubts and the struggles, we have had our pride the whole time, but we've been a little frustrated that maybe the rest of the world didn't appreciate the gravity of what we were were accomplishing down here, our steadfast recovery. I know some people question the wisdom of rebuilding, the wisdom of raising children here. Well, I tell you what, it means something in the face of those doubts to be able to say, if it's good enough for the winners of the Superbowl, it's good enough for me!

So that's why this is so much more than football, because we still had something to prove, to the world, and also -- let's be honest here -- a little bit to ourselves. We have a bit of an inferiority complex down here, not exactly sure why. Even as the game was winding down and it began to seem incontrovertible that the Saints were going to win, my mother-in-law was shaking her head in disbelief, saying the equivalent of "we are not worthy, we are not worthy." It's a complicated phenomenon down here -- unbelievable pride, coupled with a powerful dose of Voodoo's superstition and Catholicism's humility. And now, a resurrection.

Sunday I woke up and couldn't go back to sleep because today was the day it was finally going to happen, one way or another. Before the game, Bee and Lance and Henry and Foster and I took the ferry across the river to wander the Quarter, soaking in the vibe. Just getting on the ferry was an experience -- all the Who Dats coming off the ferry were cheering those of us getting on. And that was before we won -- everyone was just so united in spirit, everyone was a friend.

Then the game started. We've hosted all the playoff games, and wouldn't have it any other way. We loved having all our family together, cheering together, screaming together. We had king cakes (yes, plural), Matthew's amazing sausage and chicken gumbo, cheese and crackers, crawfish spoonbread, homemade fleur de lis cookies, and of course, Abita and margaritas.

After that last Saints touchdown, and then the interception, we all just exploded. Watching Drew Brees spike the ball as the clock hit 0:45, I started to sob. I didn't stop for at least five minutes. It was too much, the feeling of euphoria and validation. I ran out of the house, hugged the neighbors, kissed my in-laws, danced in my living room.

Then Mom offered to take the boys to her house so we could go to the Quarter with Matthew's parents. Yes, yes, yes, I accept! The ferry ride over was even more glorious then before, plus we ran into a gaggle of our friends and their kids heading out the celebrate. There were random cheers of Who Dats getting crunk echoing across the Mississippi as we made our way to ground zero, everyone hugging, slapping hands, universally smiling.

Then we walked up Canal, which became a pedestrian thoroughfare. The throngs were decked in black and gold, and we were hugging people we'd never seen before, slapping hands left and right. We made it onto Bourbon and walked nearly the whole length. It was as crowded as during Mardi gras, but the energy was so different. At times, the only way I knew I was still connected to Matthew was through my finger gripping into his palm as we were pulled and pushed along with the crowd, but I never felt nervous or threatened, the way I have the few times I've gone down there during Mardi Gras. And I know it was because it was us, our people, everyone feeling good, everyone supporting and looking out for everyone else. Black hugged white, young danced with old, guys in tuxes were second lining with guys with gold teeth.

We finally made it down to Oz, toward the end of Bourbon, and ducked in for five minutes on the dance floor (yes, with my in-laws!). Then it was back into the crowds, and finally back to the ferry. Matthew hoisted me on his shoulders at one point so I could see the mass of people, and it was breathtaking, so much joy crammed into one space, the throng becoming one as it coalesced on the most famous street in the world.

We finally fell asleep around 2 a.m., after watching highlight reels. I woke too early the next morning but couldn't go back to sleep replaying everything, wanting to fall back asleep only so I could wake again and say, did it really happen? Did we really win the Superbowl?

I made it into work, a bit later than usual after taking time to read the Times Pic cover to cover, and spent most of my time surfing the web, checking out the coverage outside New Orleans. I kept crying every time I saw the pictures of Drew Brees with Baylen, and Sean Payton holding the Lombardi trophy up through his sun roof as he drove through the impromptu parade of 10,000 fans who lined the streets outside the airport when the Saints returned home. When I got home, I expected to crash but was still feeling such happiness I didn't feel the fatigue at all. I imagine it was one tenth of what propelled Drew to make it to Disney World and New York for the Lettermann show, after two hours of sleep. I stayed up to watch, and it was worth it. Tivoing it just didn't seem sufficient.

Today I woke up thinking "It's parade day!!!" I went to three different places trying to get Superbowl champion hats for all of us since it was pretty cold tonight by NOLA standards, but it turns out it didn't matter that they were sold out, because capacity on the ferry was sold out. I thought we had the perfect plan -- even tho I work downtown and could just have stayed at the office and had Matthew and the boys join me, we figured we would take the ferry across like we do for almost all downtown events, avoiding traffic. Apparently a third of the metropolitan area had the same thought, because when we turned from our street onto the two blocks leading to the ferry, we suddenly glimpsed the silhouettes of people standing on the levee, stretching a football field's length from the ferry entrance. People heading in the opposite direction told us they'd been standing there for half an hour, the line barely moving. With the baby, there was just no way we could stand and wait like that. But Matthew did some reconnaissance and found out they would let people with bikes go to the head of the line, because there's a different entrance for bikes and vehicles. So we came home, he suited up all our bikes (we have a LOT of them) and I got helmets on the boys, and then we and Mom and his parents all headed out. No luck. By the time we got there, they weren't even letting bikes on and people who had been calling friends on the other side said even if we could get on, it would be impossible to go anywhere once we got there -- the crowds were unprecedented, there was nowhere to move once you disembarked. Henry was in tears, but all we could do was go home and make the best of it. We ate more gumbo, drank champagne, and watched all the coverage on TV. It was pretty good, we definitely saw more of the players and the floats than we would have had we made it across, but still...there was no place I wanted to be more than over there tonight, capping my joy with a victory parade.

Oh, well, at least there's Mardi Gras. Drew will be in Bacchus, and Sean will be in Orpheus, and I'll have my sister and brother-in-law here to share it with us. And really, like I said, I can't remember ever feeling this happy. I feel so relaxed. Our city is validated. We are here. We are back. We can stop striving so hard to prove it, so hard that it keeps us from ever fully letting our guard down anymore. My guard is down, and I should have put it down a long time ago, it just took these boys to lift it from my shoulders. Bless You, Boys.

31-28

2010-01-25T21:46:00.000-07:00

Jim Henderson has been making me cry all day. Every time they replay his commentary after the Hartley kick, I just choke up, because the emotion in his voice is just more than I can stand.

Some people still don't get it, why we care so much, why grown men were crying yesterday, why the Saints are making the national and international news. Well, that's fine, I'm not here to waste their time and mine explaining it. This post is for me, for my memories, for my love for my city.

As difficult as it sometimes is living in New Orleans, I truly believe that I am giving my kids a better life because they are growing up in New Orleans, not despite it. I just feel in my bones that this is where I and they belong, that this city is a being unto itself and that being surrounded by that pumping life force day in and day out, taking it almost for granted until you leave it (and then you know what it means), is a gift I am giving to them.

My kids get to grow up in a Disney movie. I can't quite imagine what my view of the world and my place in it would have been like had I grown up feeling that I lived where where creative, vibrant, talented, ambitious people come to make their dreams come true. But that's the message my kids get almost every day -- from The Princess and the Frog, and all the other countless movies filmed and set here; to the national news covering our ongoing recovery from Katrina, which has lately shifted to more positive than negative developments and an emphasis on all the innovation happening here in education and green building; to Drew Brees and Sean Payton and the Saints, who didn't let 47 years of disappointment, of almost-but-not-quite, of they'll-never-get-there, of 57% of New Orleanians saying they never thought the Saints would make it to the Superbowl in their lifetimes, who didn't let all that baggage stop them from going all the way. My kids get to take that kind of grit and joie de vivre for granted.

They can take it for granted, because they won't remember Katrina. They won't remember how close we came to losing it. And we still may lose it, and that's all the more reason to soak it up now.

Last night we hosted the game party at our house. It was Dean's birthday party, too (he turns one tomorrow), and I hope he'll take it as a point of pride in his adult life that we rolled both parties into one. After the cupcakes and the present opening, we all sat there for the next three and half hours trying not to have heart attacks (seriously, MawMaw had to leave the room entirely at one point). It was such a game. And when it was over -- really, truly, split the uprights over -- I ran screaming from the living room straight out onto my front porch, shouting to the heavens and the neighbors and the rest of the city my joy. Every face had tears, every block had horns blasting, fireworks going off. Then I returned to the living room and gave myself whiplash dancing in front of the TV as Matthew blasted U2/Green Day's The Saints Are Coming on the stereo.

I wanted Henry to get to be a part of the emotion and the history, so Matthew took him with him as he and the rest of the grownups took the ferry to the Quarter to celebrate. Locals hardly ever go to Bourbon, and from the pictures Matthew took, I can tell it was as crowded as at the height of Mardi Gras, except instead of drunken frat boys from Wisconsin, the street was filled with New Orleanians wearing black and gold and smiles as wide as the Superdome.

And today the city just felt like it was floating, like it had risen six feet above sea level and was just floating on the effervesence of an entire metropolitan population realizing that their dreams have come true. There were no newspapers to be found, every other car had Saints flags flying, and from the conversations I overhead in the office, everyone found it pretty hard to concentrate.

What does it mean? It means we made it, we're there, we're not a joke. We're not going to get washed away or washed out or washed over. The Saints = New Orleans = New Orleanians. We are one and the same, and that makes it personal. That makes it matter. That makes it our time.

To Tylenol and Tina Fey

2010-01-21T18:44:00.002-07:00

Is it wrong that some of the synapses are firing in my pleasure zone because both the boys are sick and so they are both -- at the same time - napping?

I don't want them to be sick, but if they have to be sick, it is nice that they both conked out simultaneously. Unfortunately, after a week of sleeping with Henry so as to calm him in his middle of the night coughing fits, I am pretty sure I am getting sick, too. Hopefully it's just a head cold. It hit him pretty hard last weekend as we had everyone over for the Saints game. He spiked a 104 degree fever and then two nights ago he threw up from all the congestion in his chest and then today the doctor said he has an ear infection AND pink eye. Woo-hoo, pink medicine and eye drops. The eye drops were atrocious at first, we were threatening to hold him down. Then, just as he did with his second round of shots a couple of months ago, he completely accepted the state of affairs and now will even hold his eyes open for them. We established a joke where I said he was really cute and has blue eyes and a sweet laugh like my son Henry but clearly he is someone else who just looks like Henry, because my Henry is terrified of eye drops. I stay convinced he's an imposter until he tells me something "only Henry could know", like his birthday, or that "Nan and Rocko are coming for Mardi Gras."

Dean is probably just coming down with the head cold that preceded Henry's ear and eye infections. This morning as I left for work it was so hard to pass him to Matthew, he was so warm and listless. It's too bad he doesn't know that if he just kept his little head pressed against my shoulder, I'd probably never ever put him down. As it is, his attitude toward life has greatly improved since he started walking and scooting around on his tush (I suppose it is technically crawling but it's about the goofiest crawl I've ever seen, even rivaling Henry's gimp crawl at this age for sheer ridiculousness). Nevertheless, we have had our battles of wills lately. I continue to win, and that gives me hope that his stubborn streak is just enough to qualify as healthy assertiveness and not enough to be considered a sign of some kind of defiance disorder. It's just that Henry was so completely affable at this stage -- I think he threw two tantrums in his entire life, and Dean's been having them since he was born. Tonight when I carried both a bowl of pureed green beans and a bag of Gerber cookies to the table for his supper, he flat out refused the green beans. I quickly hid the bag of cookies, but of course he remained aware that they had been part of the original package deal and he continued to toss his head and squeal in protest when I tried to feed him the green beans. I know he likes green beans so eventually I just put the bowl and spoon down and turned my head away, ignoring him. He continued to squeal and whine for another minute but then quieted and I approached him again, and this time he slurped it down. Afterward, he had two cookies and I had half a margarita, to celebrate our little triumph.

And now he's learned how to ambulate! He's so proud of himself, walking everywhere he wants to go. Of course, that leads him to places I don't want him to go, so there's yet another battle of wills, but again, we generally work out a solution that involves distraction and sheer determination on my part.

Tonight we are hoping to get them both to bed a little early so we can have some time by ourselves. With Henry home from school sick all week, Matthew's usual productiveness during Dean's naptimes has been sapped. He's been working in the evenings after we get them to bed, and then we haven't even been sharing a bed due to Henry being in it with me. We don't have any plans for wild romance -- just some 30 Rock and filets on the grill -- but it sounds like paradise to me.

Resolutions 2010

2010-01-02T21:13:00.000-07:00

Just yesterday morning I was telling our friends Rachel and Joel that I was not planning to make any resolutions this New Year because I just wasn't feeling in a transformative mood. Well, I've changed my mind. I have two -- very related -- resolutions to make: 1) I am going to find some time to be by myself at least three days a week (once a day seems like an impossible achievement right now, so I am starting with something that the rational part of my brain says is surely attainable -- right?); 2) I am going to start the Karp methods with Dean, a full six months earlier than I tried them with Henry.

I just can't take it anymore - the screaming, yelling, whining, inability to be by himself for even thirty seconds. I firmly believe that the key to good parenting is establishing trust, and I have been trying really hard to simply communicate with him and show him that I can understand and respond to his needs so he has less temptation to holler. But lately he has become downright demanding and manipulative. This afternoon, after two hours of helping him walk around the house, reading books, trying - in vain - to play with toys with him, all the while listening to his whining and yelling and general dissatisfaction with anything and everything, I had reached a breaking point. I thrust him into Matthew's arms and went into the bathroom to cry. What am I doing wrong that I am getting to that point? Well, on one level, I know the answer is "nothing" -- he's a toddler now, and toddlers are challenging, period. But I also know that he and I have a bit of a personality mismatch. I want to stay home, putter around, play with toys and read books. He wants to go places, outside places, new places, and is not happy to sit still for more than a minute or two, no matter how new or exciting the toy. He does like books, but he wants to read them so quickly that we're done with each one in thirty seconds or less (he turns the pages and pushes the book aside as soon we get to the last page). He just plain wears me out.

So I took down my dog-eared copy of The Happiest Toddler on the Block and am going to try again -- with gusto this time -- to implement the communication methods, the time-in and time-outs, and to build in play time outside every day. Outside is just such a challenge -- even when it's not cold, we've had the wettest December on record, and it gets dark so early. Plus, although I don't think of myself as a particularly protective parent (I generally believe that which does not kill or maim them teaches them), outside is -- dangerous. Our backyard is littered with glass, rusty nails, tools, dog poop, and other unsanitary things I don't even know about (cleaning it up is on the list, but pretty far down, and certainly behind fixing the gutters so water does not pour in our windows every time it rains). We go to the park when we can, but often I am just not in a social mood, and we always run into someone we know just leaving the front door of our house. Most days I love this (we build in an extra five "departure" minutes for just such inevitable interactions) but some days I would rather wear a bag over my head than have to converse with anyone and so we just don't venture out.

Well, anyway, between a bare knuckles implementation of discipline and hopefully carving out some time alone for myself, I hope to recapture some inner joy in the near future. The fact is, I am almost never alone. Ever. Except for in my car, and sometimes I am so desperate for that tiny slice of alone time that I won't even turn on the radio, I just soak in the quiet. But I hardly think that driving my car to and from work or the Walgreen's counts as quality time.

Also on the resolutions list -- finding a housekeeper. It's just gotten ridiculous, the amount of time I am spending cleaning my house instead of spending time with the kids or Matthew or doing something for myself. I've tried to look at self-cleaning as a virtue -- no one should have such a large abode or so much stuff in it that they can't keep up after it themselves. But we've pared down our stuff, and I hardly think that by middle class American standards our house is too big. But it is old (read: dusty) and inhabited by a shedding dog, a toddler, a five year old who I am convinced is genetically incapable of remembering to put his shoes and socks away, and two grown-ups who both work, albeit part-time. It's not that we can't keep up with it, it's just that we're sacrificing other things in order to simply maintain a veneer of orderliness and home hygiene. And that's as far as we can manage to get on a daily basis -- a veneer -- so the ugly stuff gets done even less often. That's where I think having someone come even just once every two weeks will really help. We can handle the daily laundry, kitchen cleaning, bed making, living area vacuuming, toy corralling. It's the toilets and the sheets and microwave we could use a hand with.

Hopefully by getting some help in that department I'll feel a little more present with my family. Today we took the boys to the Museum of Art for the Disney animation exhibit. It was really well done, informative and beautiful and nostalgic, and afterward we had our traditional post-NOMA dishes of gelato at Brocato's. Henry chose, entirely on his own, the pistachio almond (that was my favorite as a child, my grandmother made pistachio pudding almost every time I stayed with her) and I had the eggnog flavor, one last hurrah as the holiday season ends. We had a wonderful Christmas and New Years, but I am now ready to be done with it and move on...to Mardi Gras, of course. Christmas was busy but full of great memories -- we spent Christmas Eve in Mandeville, since all of Matthew's sisters were there and everyone could be together in one place for the first time since before Katrina. It was our first time meeting Sarah and Charles' son, Teddy, and Dean and his cousin were so cute together. It was a bit of a logistical hassle moving the whole Christmas morning production on the road, however, so I was pretty tired when we got home the next evening. We spent Christmas night having dinner with Mom and Pampaw and Rach and Phil, and the next morning we went over to Mom's again for breakfast and then opened gifts and had a turkey dinner that evening (two turkey dinners in two days, yum). Our friends Allison and Christian and their sweet boy, Pascal, stopped by for a visit that day, too. It was nice sharing thoughts with yet another mom of an almost-one-year old, and we wish we could see them more often. The next day Matthew and I both came down bad head colds, but we did enjoy visiting with Sarah and Charles and Maddie and Teddy when they stopped by for po-boys. Work was pretty quiet this week, which was good since the cold had me pretty weary. I'd mostly recovered by Thursday, however, and we drove to BR to spend New Year's Eve with Rach and Joel and their kids. It was a treat for Henry to get to hang out with the big kids, and a treat for me and Matthew, too, since Rach and Joel's house is perfectly suited for kids to run around and occupy themselves while the grown-ups enjoy some bubbly. Jane and Gaylen also stopped by so we could exchange presents (being in Mandeville this year meant missing the big Oivanki shebag in BR), and she got to see how big Dean is getting (though still, I'm afraid, not very big relative to other eleven-month olds...) We drove back to NOLA during Dean's morning nap the next day. So it was a social, traveling kind of Christmas, but a delightful one. Now I just need some "ordinary time", in Catholic-speak, to recover. And to find a housekeeper.

The Good, the Bad, the Cowboys Suck

2009-12-19T23:21:00.001-07:00

It's almost the end of the year, time to recount the good stuff, the bad stuff, figure out how it all relates to my frame of mind right now -- in other words, self-indulgent introspection, my forte.

I'll begin with some good stuff. This has been a great year for reading. I formed a book club about a year and a half ago with two friends from work. The deal was that we each got to invite another friend, and we would meet once a month or so for lunch during the workweek. That way, no one had to leave kids or spouses or clean their house, and we could be sure that most of the members in the club were good eggs. It's worked beautifully, and we've expanded to a couple more girls. Last weekend we broke from tradition and I hosted a brunch at my house while we watched the Saints game. It was pretty funny veering from animated discussion of Her Fearful Symmetry (Audrey Niffenegger) to screaming at the TV. What I loved most, even more than the mimosas and book talk, was that when the game was on, we were all equally glued to it. Don't mean to be a chauvinist, but in my experience most women, despite declaring their Who Dat bona fides, tend to kind of lose focus on the game when there are kids and other topics of conversation floating around. Not these ladies. We even took shots for the team, though most of mine ended up on the living room rug. It's a long story and the moral is -- Mandy sucks at doing shots, but it's so funny to watch everyone else snorts theirs out their noses.

Anyway, here's a recap of the books we read over the past year and a half: Trail of Crumbs (su-u-u-cked, sorry ladies, for my inauspicious first choice); Unaccustomed Earth (beautiful prose but I am not fond of short story collections); Special Topics in Calamity Physics (my jealousy over this young author's writing skills only partly accounts for my not caring much for this one, though it seemed well liked by the rest of the group); American Wife (excellent, a well-balanced novel); The Witches of Eastwick (god I hate John Updike); City of Thieves (hands down my favorite choice so far); Zeitoun (so good, we all cried at lunch); Pride and Prejudice and Zombies (entertaining, better in theory than execution);Things I've Been Silent About (I think I've now been tacitly forbidden from proposing memoirs); The Help (I think every single book club member read AND liked this book, a first); and Her Fearful Symmetry (not bad, definitely some good qualities, but disappointing overall).

So put Book Club and all the fabulous ladies in it squarely in the "good" column.

And now, squarely in the "bad" column: health insurance. I have not jumped on the "he's a sellout" bandwagon with regard to Obama's health care plan, now poised to be passed by the Senate. I elected a pragmatist, and that's exactly what I'm getting. I believe in starting small. Americans hate big change, as much as they might think they like it. There's no question our health care delivery system needs big change, and there's no doubt that whatever passes Congress this year will not accomplish that -- but I'm okay with that, because it's year one and we just need to get a foot in the door. While I accept this outcome on a macro level, I have to admit it is sad that on a micro level I will either not be helped by the current reforms or might actually be worse off. After this summer's frustration of getting rejected outright by three different insurance companies when I tried to buy health insurance on the private, individual market, I finally qualified (by virtue of those rejections) for the state's "insurer of last resort." It's terrible insurance, I have a $5000 deductible, but it covers me in a catastrophe (at least, it covers me in the event of a MILD catastrophe -- it has a $600,000 LIFETIME limit). So, although I am now technically insured, I would have to say that my personal experience with the private health insurance market has left me sorely disappointed and frankly even outraged on behalf of all the Americans who can't even get what I get. Who is throwing US a tea party?

But now back to the "good" column. Tonight's loss was painful. It is costing me not just my team's record but also an inconsolable baby whom I woke with my screaming at the TV. But I think getting to the Superbowl is more important than a spotless record, and maybe the boys needed a little fire back in the their bellies before going into the last games. I still believe Drew Brees is the second coming, Marques Colston is better than sliced bread, and Darren Sharper is good to the last drop. It has been such a treat to spend each weekend watching our team succeed where it never had before. I identify personally with the team less now than I did in 2007, and that's a good thing. I used to cry real tears after each loss, a bad game could wreck my whole week because it felt like the Saints were the whole city and we were losing our traction. It was just too much back then. Now, I have the best of both worlds -- I adore the Black and Gold, have no problem bumping Santa from tfrom the front porch flag this season in favor of the Who Dat Nation -- but I can appreciate that three and half hour spectacle for what it is -- a GAME. A game that is perhaps more important in our city than in many other NFL hometowns, but a game nonetheless. Bless You, Boys.

Another thing in the "good" column: Disney World. Definitely exceeded expectations. I get it now. Though, I still don't get what's in it for people who visit without kids.

"Bad": migraines. Still having more than than I had before getting pregnant with Dean. Not sure what's up with that. It's very aggravating to feel like I can't do all the things I want to do, at leas not without a price. I was getting better, I thought, but going on Zoloft seems to have regressed my stress capacity. Nevertheless, I feel really good about having gone on it when I did -- Dean got a more balanced, more present, more affectionate mother perhaps months earlier than he would have had I waited until my body chemistry self-regulated -- and good about being off it now. I am feeling more creative, sensual, and in touch with my feelings than I have since before I became pregnant.

Obviously, in the good column, a resounding hurrah for my two wonderful boys and loving, irrepressible husband. I think anyone who received our Christmas card this year (and sincere apologies to anyone left out, there were only so many hours in the day to locate missing addresses) can tell we are sincerely getting a kick out of being a family.

There it is, the good, the bad, the ugly. Most of it good, and the year ain't over, so there's still time to make some more merry. And then win the Superbowl.

Disney Diary

2009-12-11T10:54:00.000-07:00

I can't believe it's been almost a week since we got back from Disney World. The following are excerpts from the journal I kept about our trip.

Tuesday Dec. 1, 2009

First day at Disney World. Baby slept til 8 this morning so I was rested. We all wore our Saints jerseys to celebrate 11-0 after last night's pummeling of the Patriots. Flight was fine - Henry was so excited at lift-off. Dean refused to nap but was a good sport the whole trip. Magical Express left quickly and we were at the Animal Kingdom Lodge in 25 minutes. So beautiful, with a 50 foot Christmas tree in the center. We were pretty hungry and got immediate seating at Boma. So many delicious flavors and the Zebra Domes were as delectable as promised. The we hit the pool - the HUGE pool. A little chilly but the water slide was a blast. The we warmed up in the hot tub. Henry asked where the music was coming from and I said "From speakers in the bushes." "Speakers like men, or speakers like machines?" he asked. Dean was in heaven - "I'm taking a bath OUTSIDE!!" Then it was back to the room. I put Dean down to sleep while M & H went to look at animals with night vision goggles and visited the arcade. Now we are all in bed, writing by book light.

Wednesday December 2, 2009. Animal Kingdom.

Henry: "I kind of liked Expedition Everest, kind of did. The monster made me cry. The dinosaurs [Triceratop Spin] was cool. I liked the first starting when we went on Expedition Everest. I liked The Boneyard best. I really wanted to go on the dinosaur roller coaster [Primeval Whirl] but I was not tall enough. Now let's talk about stuff I like in the hotel. I like the three little circles that look like a Mickey Mouse face [woven baskets on the wall]. Go swimming! Sometimes I put Pop [stuffed animal from Hop on Pop] in my jammies leg. I like that picture that has all the monkeys jumping. Good night."

I am so gratified that my six months of planning seems to be paying off - we definitely came at the right time. We walked onto everything at the Animal Kingdom. Got FastPasses to Everest (2x!) but really didn't need them. Did Triceratop Spin first (2x), no wait in line at all. Henry played Midway games while I went on Prieval Whirl alone -- only ride with a wait (ten minutes and not worth even that). Then Dinoland - The Boneyard. Then Everest - H. was fine until it got dark and the Yeti shadow appeared - poor baby was in tears. Then we saw Finding Nemo - The musical. Then lunch at Restaurantosaurus - geez Americans are fat. Then back to the Boneyard (H's favorite) - he had to go in time out for going back in w/o permission while I nursed Dean.

Then we headed to Africa and did the Pangani Walking Trail - thank god for the double stroller. Then the Safari - H totally bought the "poachers stole a baby elephant" schtick and got worried when the jeep lurched. Gorgeous scenery and animals. Then M and I switched off doing Expedition Everest again. Then it was back to the buses and hotel. M & H went swimming while Dean napped and I tried to get rid of a headache. We had dinner at The Mara, then went to the arcade (Dean latched on to a tire, such a boy), then hung out in the lobby and around the fire pit until it was Dean's NOLA bedtime. We got him a stuffed Mickey at the gift shop, H picked out a "Bruce" (from Nemo) car after we talked him out of a glowing necklace (Matthew has a rule that souvenir toys have to be souvenirs-that-are-toys and not toys-that-could-be-souvenirs).

Changing out plans for tomorrow b/c lots of rain expected Friday so we'll miss out Coral Reef lunch reservation at Epcot. Hope our day at MK is as great as today.

December 3, 2009. Magic Kingdom.

Another long but terrific day. It didn't rain and in fact we had so much sunny, beautiful, breezy weather that I got a slight sunburn on my chest, despite bringing both sunscreen wipes and actual sunscreen lotion - didn't use either.

Woke a little earlier - 7:45 Orlando time - and headed straight for MK. H and I got breakfast for all at Main Street Bakery while M got FastPasses to Thunder Mtn. I got tears in my eyes when H first saw the castle - he smiled from ear to ear. Then we went to Tomorrowland and did Buzz Lightyear - we though H would LOVE it but he was really freaked out that it was in the dark. Very disappointing. Tomorrowland Speedway was a hit, however - he went first with M, then immediately again with me. Then we went to Thunder Mountain - he said he didn't want to go but the guidebook [The Unofficial Guide to Disney World With Kids, indispensable] said it was tame and there were lots of other littler kids going, so we bribed him with the promise of a toy. Alas, he was right and we were wrong - again it was a ride that started out in the dark, so he was too upset to enjoy the fun part. I went by myself and had a good time.

We had better luck at Mickey's Philharmagic - H loved the 3-D aspect and the smells. I nursed Dean during half of it and then he enjoyed it, too.

I think we went on Peter Pan's Flight next - again we had FastPasses and I can't understand why more people don't use it. It always saved us time, to it does take some planning. H loved Peter Pan and wanted to go again, so we got more FPs, but he ended up wanting to do other things by that time in the day. We had lunch at Pinocchio Village Haus, where M realized he had lost his phone - it's still gone. He needed a new one anyway, but it has meant a lot of coordinating meet-ups when we switch off.

H and I went on It's a Small World while Dean-bean conked out in the Bjorn. We went to Monsters Inc Laugh Floor, which we all enjoyed. After that we went to Adventureland and climbed through the Swiss Family Treehouse - we just watched the movie with H at the beach this summer, so it was cool to see it re-created up close. Oh, but first we sat and ate Dole Whips - yum, just as good as advertised in the Guidebook. Dean was just as interested in eating leaves, however. Then we went on Aladdin's Magic Carpet Ride, perfect for H. Dean was a little intimidated but a good sport, as always. Was it before or after Adventureland that we went to Mickey's Toon Town? Not sure, but H loved the Barnstormer - it was just right for him. He also enjoyed jumping around in the splash fountain, tho he then complained that he didn't like being wet. Argh.

Eventually we wound up back at Tomorrowland. We got more grub and I nursed Dean by Merchant of Venus while H and M went to the Speedway AGAIN. Then it was M's turn on Space Mountain, followed by mine. Wow -- 23 years of waiting and it was just as thrilling as I imagined [it had been closed when I went to WDW when I was nine years old]. I laughed like a maniac the whole time - just wish H could enjoy something like that (next visit). H and M went on the Astro Orbiter, which H also loved, while Dean and I walked around and took in the sights as dusk brought on the neon. Finally we found a great spot by the ducks on Main Street to watch the Christmas lights come on on Cinderella's Castle. H perched on M's shoulders and it really was breathtaking - so glad we came at Christmas time.

We ended the day with dinner at Jiko, at the hotel. Delicious, great waitress, perfect Lemon Drop. M's in the tub planning out Epcot, the boys are asleep, and I'm about to be.

Sunday December 6, 2009

We're home, Saints just became 12-0 in OT, and I finally have a minute to recount our last 2 days in Disney:

Friday, December 4, 2009. Epcot.

Dean had a really hard night, screaming like a newborn, inconsolable even in bed with us. He woke up early, too, but that just meant we got an early start to Epcot. Arrived just after the gates opened at 9. It was rainy and cold so we donned ponchos and headed to the Seas pavilion - we walked on to the Seas With Nemo and Friends, H really loved it, pretty cool seeing the characters mixed in with the real fish. Then we went to Turtle Talk w/Crush and H sat right up front and made a quick friend - "It's his first time in Disney World, too!" After that we toured the Aquarium which has dolphins and manatees, unlike the one here. Got some great photos of Dean face to face with the fish.

I think after that we had breakfast in the Land pavilion while we waited for our FastPass time for Soarin'. H and I went first - it was kind of a wait, maybe 15 minutes, even with FP - but it was exhilarating, really well done. H immediately went again with M while I sat in the waiting area and nursed Dean. He ended up falling asleep, which was good since we didn't plan to go back to the hotel until mid-afternoon.

It was absolutely miserable outside and our rented stroller was so wet it was useless except as a place to stow the diaper bag as we went from one wet place to another. H and M finally got to ride Test Track and then H and I went on Mission:Space. We did the Green Team "less intense" mission - H loved it, he was the Commander and I was the Engineer. I think the more intense one must be pretty awesome b/c even the Green one was really impressive. Dean and I played in the "Mission Control" area while M and H did it again. A nice "cast member" (they were all nice, must be like making yourself smile when you're angry and eventually you feel happy) let us in and turned on a machine so Dean could bat at the buttons and lights. It kept him happily occupied.
We stopped by Mouse Gear gift shop on the way out and then headed back to the hotel. Dean napped while M and H ate lunch and brought some back to me. When Dean woke up an hour later we all put on dry clothes and headed back out.

It was dark and dismal in Epcot but the rain seemed to have kept the crowds away, even tho it was an Extra Magic Hours evening. We walked on to Spaceship Earth. H accidentally hit "Japanese" instead of "English" on our car's screen, so we couldn't understand a word of the narration, but the animatronics were pretty self-explanatory, and H thought the bit with the our faces on the animated figures was pretty cool [apparently we'll be speaking Japanese in our future]. Afterward, H and I played a projected floor video game that was basically a promo for Siemens but kind of fun.

Then it was out into the mess toward the Land pavilion again. We watched the Circle of Life movie and then rode Living With the Land - I liked the tour through the experimental agricultural station (as did H, tho by time time in his Disney experience it took a lot of convincing to get him to believe the vegetables were real), but I thought the other scenes were kind of tepid. But it was nice to sit down.

It was about 8:00 at that point so we walked toward World Showcase. I was hoping we could get a table at San Angel Inn at the Mexico pavilion, but it normally takes 30 days advance reservations. The rain thinned the crowds, however, so we were seated right away. Poor Henry - everything at Disney is a trick - he thought we were really outside and we had to explain that the volcano wasn't real. Dinner was delicious, tho it was hard to enjoy the margarita with Dean at my side, a little bird only placated with food - thank goodness he's a bottomless pit.

We finished up just in time to go outside and see Illuminations. It was truly beautiful - corny music and all. H was mesmerized.

We finally got back to the hotel at 10:30. For once, we could go right to bed instead of trying to plot our next day via whispers and book lights.

We all slept late the next morning. We headed down to The Mara for breakfast, then Dean and I went to the gift shop while H and M went to the arcade again. [Note to self: never stay in any resort without an arcade]. I packed - frantically - while Dean napped. We had a 1 p.m. checkout and finally exited the room at 1:06. Whew! We had an hour to kill before our bus to the airport so we went to the lobby, where H got busy making etchings with other kids on the entryway floor (he made a lovely flying fish for Bob). We went out to the Savanna and saw the giraffes and zebras and met a pleasant young man (what am I, eighty?) from South Africa who took pictures with Henry. We also tried to find some "hidden Mickeys", with mixed success (it's hard!).

We caught the bus to the airport, ate sandwiches around an aquarium where a dead Nemo was being eaten by the other movie character fish (this really stayed with H, he was fascinated and pointed out the dead Nemo to all the other kids), hung out by a window looking out on the tarmac while our flight was delayed, and finally took off at 5:30. Dean slept on my chest during half the flight, and H got to see New Orleans at night.

And that was that. I was moved by how emotional M was about the trip ending. It really was magical and we have so many memories. Can't wait to go back.

Thanksgiving Eve

2009-11-25T20:51:00.001-07:00

Tomorrow is my favorite holiday. What I love about it is the unanimity of spirit -- there's no politically correct way to wish someone a Happy Thanksgiving. Even those who are away from their closest relatives still gather with friends; even the homeless have a special meal; and even the lowliest among us is welcome to a greeting and can find something to be thankful for, at least for a small moment. I love that as I popped the pumpkin cake layers into the oven just now, millions of Americans were doing something similar, all over the country, and frankly, all over the world, anywhere expats still hold a piece of their homeland in their hearts.

Yes, I'm waxing maudlin, but who cares. There's so much to be cynical and frustrated about these days. It's a time to be grateful, and I'm doing my best.

I'm looking forward to tomorrow, when we'll wake up and watch the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade while Matthew prepares his dish for dinner and I cook up some cranberry sauce from my grandmother's recipe, and ice the cake. Then we'll don our finest ironic clothing and head off to the races at the Fairgrounds. It's become a tradition, one I love. We're sure to see friends there, in addition to all the Foster family that will be there. Then we'll all go back to my Mom's for a traditional turkey dinner. My sister Jane is coming down from Baton Rouge. I'm hoping she'll get to hear Dean's first word -- he just clocked it yesterday, two days before his ten-month birthday. It's "hot." Unusual, yes, but oh so cute. He watches Matthew making supper on our gas stove and lately we've been pointing out the blue flames and saying, "Hot! Don't touch! Hot!" A few days ago, he started saying "Ha" when he saw the fire, but we weren't quite willing to grant that "first word" status. But then he added the "t", and there was no turning back. Now he says "Hot" whenever he can, reaching for our coffee cups, admiring the candles on the mantel this evening as we celebrated my Mom's 60th birthday with filet mignon, baked potatoes, cornbread muffins, and baby peas.

Good food, good health (barring the recent episode of what we think was swine flu that struck both me and Matthew last week), and good, sweet little boys. I love Thanksgiving.

Where is the Off Switch

2009-11-15T20:16:00.000-07:00

I think my life may be giving my migraines.

This is not my favored theory; I'd like to think the fact that I've had near-daily migraines for going on five weeks now is because of temporary factors like hormonal imbalances due to breastfeeding, chemical changes due to weaning off Zoloft, or changes in the weather. But it has been my experience that when I can't find an obvious cause for chronic pain, it is usually due to some stress or emotional issue I am not dealing with.

This is especially frustrating given that I feel like mentally I can, and am, handling my life right now just fine. Yes, it's busy, and the juggling act is always difficult, but I feel like I am keeping on top of things. But I guess maybe that's the problem: it requires great effort to keep this ball of life moving forward instead of rolling backward and crushing us. Matthew does a lot -- A LOT -- in our partnership. He not only keeps his business afloat, but also takes Henry to and from school, watches Dean while I am at work, does the grocery shopping and the cooking, plus has to keep up with the demands of our ancient house. I handle my job, breastfeeding Dean, cleaning the house, making and taking the boys to doctor appointments, taking care of them when I get home from work so Matthew can put in a couple more hours on the computer, and keeping up with homework and teacher conferences and school applications. I'd say it's about equal in terms of time and effort. But the mental strain -- I'm not sure I handle my portion as well as he does his.

Part of it is Dean -- he remains as charming and adorable as ever, but he is in a very challenging stage. Like Henry at this age, he has not picked up crawling. But unlike Henry, he hates being in one place. This means we either carry him around the house or actually "walk" with him -- he is constantly reaching for our hands so we can help him walk wherever he wants to go. This weekend I co-organized a neighborhood toy swap, with entirely selfish motives: I was desperate for fresh toys for Dean. And I got them -- but he remains unimpressed by anything that doesn't involve him ambulating. Henry at this age was quite content to sit with a new toy or book for at least a few minutes at a time. Not Dean. If it is not moving or he's not moving toward it, he is not interested. He figures new toys out so quickly and then finds them completely boring. Books are slightly more interesting, but invariably he latches on to my hands and then screams until I start walking him around. My back is killing me! I am torn between establishing trust by communicating that I understand and will respond to his desires (he can signal "up" and "more" and is just so thrilled when we understand what he wants) and establishing discipline by communicating that sometimes he has to just sit and occupy himself while Mommy does one of the million things in the house she just can't do with a nine month old baby on her hip.

So, I am somewhat embarrassed to admit, it is possible my baby is giving me migraines.

But there are other possible culprits. School applications are a big stress right now. We are pretty happy with Henry's montessori school and are actually going tomorrow to tour the elementary campus that he will transition to if he stays past kindergarten. But since he can't stay at that school past second or third grade and we suspect there might be a better fit for him even sooner, we've been applying to the other "good" public schools in New Orleans. There are basically three of them with the right balance of demographic diversity, curriculum, and arts exposure. Unfortunately, every other parent of a four-to-six year old is also trying to get their kid into those schools. There were four hundred parents at a recent open house for one of the top schools. After a two hour tour, during which we couldn't help but fall in love with the campus, teachers, and rainbow of happy, bright, well-behaved children, I asked how many applications they had for first grade last year. "About 70," was the reply. I then asked how many they accepted. The administrator thought for a moment. "Oh, I think one or two."

So I am basically killing myself filling out applications, writing essays (yes, essays), making testing appointments, and assembling birth certificates and other documentation, for...a 1 in 70 chance of him getting in? (The numbers are about the same for the other desirable schools). Argh. There are so many deadlines to keep up with -- each school has a different application deadline, plus you generally have to attend at least one open house ("to demonstrate parental commitment"), and some require testing, and almost all the applications have to be delivered in person. It's enough of a hassle for us to make these dates while juggling my work hours and Dean's nap schedule and Henry's school pickups and Matthew's appointments, I can only imagine how it must be for parents who both work outside the home, or -- I shudder to think -- for a single parent.

Now that I am stopping to think about it, I guess I do have a lot of stress in my life right now. I hope it's temporary and the migraines will dissipate once Dean learns to crawl or walk and all these apps are in and we find out where Henry will be next year...I hope. I don't like feeling like I can't handle my life, especially when I don't seem to have anywhere to cut the stress-inducers. I already have a husband who does more than his share and a job where I can work part-time and two healthy boys -- if I can't handle such a seemingly charmed life...is it possible there's something wrong with me?

Hello Darkness, My Old Friend

2009-11-01T15:45:00.001-07:00

Ah, Fall, you've finally arrived. The title of this post thus has two references -- one, to the changing of the clocks (a.k.a. Daylight Screw-with-Parents-of-Small-Children Time), and two, to the fact that I am now in my third week of weaning off Zoloft. Emotionally, I am doing just fine, and I am enjoying experiencing the full range of my emotional choir again. Physically, it has really been a drag. Beyond the typical withdrawal symptoms of tingling hands, dizziness, mild nausea, and insomnia, I have had an almost-daily migraine since I lowered the dosage two and half weeks ago. I am following the doctor's instructions so that the whole weaning off takes a month, but I had not counted on the headaches. I don't know for sure that they are caused by the change in chemical levels, but it seems like a good culprit. I am just hopeful that this is a temporary situation as my body adjusts. If it turns out that I need an SSRI long-term in order to avoid these constant migraines, I suppose it is a small price to pay, but the fact is that I haven't felt like myself since I became pregnant and I've been very much looking forward to feeling normal again. I am very grateful that the Zoloft was available to lift me out of my post-partum depression, but I missed the highs and lows of my emotions without mood elevators. Yes, I get more irritable and sometimes even more melancholy without the medication, but I like the intensity and rawness of my sadness without medication, the sanguinity of my happiness in its unmediated state.

In other news, we had a fantastic Halloween. Last weekend was the neighborhood Halloween Party at Delcazal Park. I presciently volunteered to man the "big kids" inflatable, since it turned out that's where Henry spent all of his time. Then I went home and watched the Saints rise like phoenix to topple the Giants. We had a pretty quiet week (a good thing, given the migraines), but did squeeze in an open house at one of the three schools we are applying to for first grade. One is a Montessori; one is foreign language immersion; and one is full-time gifted. All are public, which means that every parent in Orleans Parish who gives half a care about their child's education is applying and admission is by lottery. We'd be happy with any; we're just hoping he gets into at least one.

Friday night I took the boys to Tout de Suite for a Halloween shadow puppet show. "Miss" Jill made candy-corn colored pizza slices for all the kids, and it seemed like every kid we know in the neighborhood was there. When we all took our seats, the weather outside was unpleasantly warm, but during the brief performance, fall arrived, raining and chilly. Luckily, the kids were all in costume and baring skin is generally not the costume norm in the under-10 set, so they were plenty warm on the walk/ride home.

Yesterday I took Dean to the thrift store and bought warm jammies for both kids. Then we carved our jack o'lanterns (Matthew's had swine flu and was barfing its guts all over the front steps; I carved fire and traditional triangle eyes into Henry's, and mine was a happy little feline-face). We met up with Max and Chloe for trick-or-treating. Dean was all bundled up in a little bear costume we got from a friend -- it was a little small on him so I had to cut the "head" off and attach it to a hat, but he was cute as a button touring the neighborhood in the Bjorn strapped to Matthew's chest. Henry had a blast. Did we ever seriously worry about this kid's shyness? It has evaporated, along with every trace of his baby fat. At the puppet show, he was right up front yelling at the puppets during audience participation time. Last night he put on his mask at every house and showed off his "Spiderman moves" to anyone who would watch (it's a very fine line between web-flinging and giving the sign of the horns, but no one seemed to take offense). At the end of the night, as we gave out the last of our candy to some weary trick-or-treaters (Henry invited them to "Help yourself, take whatever you want, we have tons"), Henry announced it had been not just the best Halloween ever, but the best DAY ever. At age five, I envy him the lovely experience of having reality match the expectation that things just get better and better. Not that I don't also expect life to continually improve, but I sort of look at it like long term investing in the stock market; Henry looks at life like a day trader, and he always manages to buy low and sell high.

Dean is doing well. He just got his first tooth, a shy little sliver of white on his lower right gum. I will miss his gummy smile, like I miss every day of his babyhood that passes. We have a bit of a mutual adoration society going on right now. I just can't get enough of his bright eyes and wet grins, the way he understands almost everything these days, the way he reaches for me when he's in anyone else's arms, the way he smiles up at me in the morning after he's finished nursing next to me in bed. The only thing I could possibly complain about is his yelling as a form of communication, but I really see that as motivation to work on new baby signs and keep giving him new experiences. We recently switched from three naps and five breastfeeding sessions a day to two naps and four feedings. Spending three hours straight cooped up in the house is a recipe for frustration, for both of us. On my days as primary caregiver, I try to work in a midday errand. Today we all went to breakfast at Jill's, something we haven't done in months, and it really ate up some time before that first morning nap (plus, Dean loves to stand at the play table and watch Henry build legos). Between the mornign and afternoon naps, I took the boys to one of my favorite stores, Brad and Dellwyn's Flag Shop, on Magazine. I can't think of anything more visually stimulating for a baby than being in the store, with flags festooning every inch of ceiling, wall, and floor, plus all the wind chimes and rainbow catchers. We picked out a "Who Dat!" flag, just in time for tomorrow's Monday night football game. Can't wait to eat some dirty bird.

Fall Stuff

2009-10-16T15:19:00.003-06:00

The Internet and I are no longer in a committed relationship. We're not exactly officially separated (we still hook up now and then), but we are free to see other ways to spend our free time. And I've been taking advantage of this.

I used to be able to crank out some blog posts, get on facebook, and respond to e-mails in a timely manner by doing these things while the kids were napping. But Henry doesn't nap anymore, and when Dean naps, I try to deal with the gazillion other things I need to do, like fill out Henry's school applications, help him with his homework, take care of laundry, cleaning the kitchen, writing thank you notes, scheduling appointments, etcetera, etcetera. Until I can hire a personal assistant (not likely), it seems posting to this blog and keeping up with the nuances of everyone's daily lives on facebook is going to continue to be low on the priority list.

But we have been doing some cool things lately. Dean is developing by leaps and bounds. He's becoming much more communicative -- he signs "more" when eating and can do other cool tricks like raise his hands when we say "How big is Dean-bean?" and clap when asked. He also turns the pages of books when I am reading to him (he loves books as much as Henry did). And when these nice claps and signs don't get him what he wants, he is perfectly content to scream at anyone passing by at the top of his lungs. Which of course inspires Henry to scream, too. It's really loud in our house most days.

Dean still refuses to crawl, however. Given that this is my second baby who seems more interested in standing than crawling (despite the fact that, unlike Henry, Dean loves to sleep on his belly), I am starting to think this is more a genetic predisposition rather than a failure of encouragement on my part. Nevertheless, I continue to torture him by plopping him down inches away from a desired toy (or, more often, a coveted pacifier). No effect.

Henry is doing great with his swim lessons at Love Swimming. He jumps into the water and can propel himself (it's not exactly stroke swimming but it gets him from point A to B) with his head underwater. He loves going, and I actually love taking him. This is one of the things about parenthood that surprises me the most - I always thought I would dread the driving-to and sitting-at parts of having kids, but I really enjoy those car trips and I even find the time spent sitting during the activity kind of nice. Henry talks more when he's in the car with me - I find out all kinds of interesting things about the kids he likes and doesn't like at school, which teachers are "bossy" (he's very opposed to bossiness these days) and which he can fool into thinking he's paying attention when he's really not, what subjects he likes and which games he doesn't like. I really think some tangible good has come out of these conversations -- he was getting into trouble a lot because he would talk to one of his friends when they were supposed to be sitting silently (Henry voluntarily identifed this kid as one of the "bad kids"). I told him how I got into trouble a lot for that when I was little, even when I wasn't the one starting the talking, I was just trying to tell my friend to stop. We practiced how to look at his friend to tell him 'I want to talk but we have to be quiet right now' and I am guessing it may be working because Henry says he and his friend are both "good kids" now and there have been no time outs for weeks since we had that conversation.

He's finally reading on his own now, too. His reticence with this really baffled me and Matthew. Henry loves books, loves being read to, and even loves just sitting alone and paging through them. But he would refuse to actually read them by himself, even though we knew he was capable of it. Homework was also a battle of wills -- even though his homework was straightforward and he could easily finish it in five minutes, he would take more than a half hour just because he was whining and letting himself get distracted and literally dragging his feet. I was able to cajole him a little and threats and timers also helped, but ultimately he just decided on his own about a week ago that he likes doing homework and now he often finishes before I get back from doing the laundry to check on him. Plus he's picking up books and reading them on his own, without prompting. He especially loves Dr. Seuss, but I went ahead and ordered him some of the paperback "first readers" featuring Spiderman and Transformers, anyway.

Speaking of Spiderman, he should be making an appearance in our house on October 31st. Henry decided that was what he wanted to be this Halloween. We're totally ready for the big day -- the front of our house is draped in fake cobwebs embedded with black and orange spider rings, plus there's a skull hanging on our front door, pumpkins and bat decals on the front window, a giant (like, two feet wide) black spider crawling on our front porch rocker, and bats hanging from our dining room chandelier. I love Halloween and I love that Henry is old enough to really get into it now.

Tomorrow I am taking Henry and Dean and Foster to a pumpkin farm on the Northshore. Matthew has a wedding so we'll stay the night in Mandeville at Paw and Dellie's. I used to be really hesitant to go any significant distances without Matthew or my Mom to accompany me, mostly because I was having so many headaches and didn't want to be stranded somewhere, unable to drive because of the medication. But the headaches have gotten much better recently. I've been taking Zyrtec and that seems to be helping some, plus I've been sleeping better now that Dean consistently sleeps through the night. I guess everything is starting to feel more settled, so I'm a little less stressed. And I've gotten better at recognizing the signs of a migraine and taking medication much earlier -- half the time, I can get away with just two tylenol and a 12 ounce Coke. So, although I still prefer traveling with Matthew (not just for the convenience of a second parent but I am also pretty fond of the guy), I've recently taken the boys overnight to Baton Rouge and figure this trip to the Northshore won't be much different. Plus, we finally (finally!) have a blast of cool air down here, so we can experience a tiny smidgen of the autumn sights, sounds, and cold weather attire that the rest of the country gets to have for months. Then, armed with four pumpkins this year, we'll truly be ready for Halloween.

A Day in the (Messy) Life

2009-09-23T19:57:00.002-06:00

I think we are all finally on the mend. In addition to the colds Matthew and I developed a couple of weeks ago, last week Dean developed a fever for two days and then broke out in a rash. I think it was just roseola -- Henry had the same thing at this age -- but he was not his usual happy self for about a week. It really gave me empathy for parents of kids who are naturally more fussy-tempered than Dean.

Weekend before last (man, time is flying by) we drove to Uncle Wil's camp on the Bogue Chitto River. It rained the whole time, which we expected, but we still enjoyed the respite from the city. The weather was cooler, and I loved listening to the rain on the roof. Henry chased frogs and explored the river's edge and practiced darts with Matthew. As much as we enjoyed it, I always find that after a trip -- no matter how brief -- I love being back in my house and in the neighborhood. I love that I can go all weekend without getting in my car, walking instead to the library, the grocery (we finally have a little corner store three blocks away), the wine shop, the park. And our home really feels like a refuge, a place I can rest...most of the time.

Which leads me to the subject of today's post -- how to keep a house neat? I am not talking about clean, not because I don't think having a clean house is important, but because it is so far down on my list of priorities that it borders on endangering my family's hygiene (please don't use the microwave). No, I'm talking about how to keep the detritus of our lives from taking over -- the legos, the balls, the dirty clothes and ice cream dishes, the screwdrivers and pacifiers and junk mail and camera equipment and magazines and tiny magnetic refrigerator letters...we've pretty much given away and thrown away everything we reasonably can at this point in our lives. Lots of stuff has to be kept for now because Dean will be growing into it. And I've tried my best to organize -- almost everything does indeed have a place...it just doesn't usually end up there until I throw a fit at some point over the weekend and insist that we all clean up the house. I'd like to accomplish that on a daily basis, minus the fit.

We've realized that we haven't been expecting enough of Henry. That is probably for a couple of reasons, and they both go back to one thing -- our own laziness. It is so much easier, less time consuming, for us to clean up his messes ourselves than ask him to do it. Asking once is sometimes enough -- he's usually very prompt and polite about responding to a request. But then you have to herd him like a dazed sheep -- he just can't seem to stay on task. And often I don't get get to the point in my day where I can start cleaning until it's almost his bed time, and I usually decide that getting him in bed is more important than hovering over him for fifteen minutes while he puts away his toys and dirty clothes. But we attended an open house at his school this week, and it drove home to us how little responsibility we ask him to bear around the house and how capable he is of doing more. At school, he cannot start on another project until he has put away the first. He must always push in his chair when he leaves a table. He must wash his own cup and plate after snack. We have a few chores he's regularly expected to complete -- set the table, put away the silverware from the dishwasher, empty the bathroom wastebaskets -- but that's pretty much it. He's not learning to keep up after himself on a regular basis, and so we've decided to make that a new priority. It will undoubtedly take more time right now, but I don't want him growing up thinking it's okay to live in daily mess.

I also thought I would take this opportunity to offer, for my own ailing memory as much as for anyone else who could possibly be interested, a snapshot of Dean's schedule these days. He'll be eight months in a few days, and he's learning to do so much, even pulling himself to standing in crib this week. He'll be in kindergarten before we know it, and then it will be hard for me to remember this brief stage in all of our lives.

Henry still wakes up earlier than Dean -- Matthew's day usually starts when he wanders into our bedroom and says, "Daddy, it's seven o'clock!" I doze off for another half hour or so until Dean wakes up. I pop my caffeine pill and nurse him in bed -- by the time we're done, I have the mental stamina to face the day vertically. Matthew gets Henry ready for school while Dean plays on the floor and I get dressed for work and eat breakfast. I leave at about 8:30 and they head out the door to get Henry to school shortly thereafter.

Back home, Matthew feeds Dean a small breakfast at 9:15 and then he's down for a nap at 9:30. Most days, he naps until 11:00. Then he gets a bottle while I pump at work. Not entirely sure what they do at that point -- sometimes they run errands, sometimes they give Dinah a bath, sometimes I think they see who can burp the loudest...then Dean has lunch (usually applesauce or cereal or some other kind of pureed fruit, plus cheerios) and takes another nap at 12:30. On good days he sleeps until 2:00, when he gets another bottle (across the river, I put up the "DO NOT DISTURB" sign on my door), and then he and Matthew get back in the car to pick Henry up from school at 2:30. I get home a little before 3:30 and if we don't have a playdate or Henry's swim lesson or a doctor appointment (the calendar is getting awfully cluttered these days) I play with Dean and give him an afternoon snack and then he goes back down for a nap at 4:00. Then I help Henry with him homework and "clean" the house (see above) like a mad woman. Dean wakes up a little after 5 and I nurse him and then and he and Henry and I go for a walk or Dean and I sit on the porch while Henry jumps on the trampoline or we just sit on the floor and play with toys. Matthew starts supper at 6:00 and we usually eat at 7. Dean sits with us in his high chair and in addition to his pureed veggies or some other glop, he usually eats bits of our food (he loves whole baby peas, cheddar cheese, pretty much anything safe for his little baby mouth to eat -- I have yet to see him turn anything down). Then it's time for Dean's bath, then Henry's. I nurse Dean and get him to bed by 8:00, then direct Henry to clean up his things, read him a story, and then Matthew brushes his teeth and we say prayers (he has insisted on the Lord's prayer since we read about it in Little House, and we also spend some time naming the people we love and things we love about them or hope for them). And then he's off to bed at 8:30. Whew. Then I drink some wine or get in front of the TV or read a book -- apparently, anything but post to this blog.

Errands Envy

2009-09-07T11:20:00.002-06:00

Stealing some time at the computer while Dean is bouncing up and down in his jumperoo and Henry is rediscovering his toys after spending the night at Bob's and Pampaw's.

It's been a quiet holiday weekend, mostly because Matthew and I have been sick with head colds. This afternoon we're going over to Chase and Tricia's for some barbeque (we seem to have established a tradition of getting together every government holiday) but that will be my fist outing since I took the boys to the pediatrician Friday afternoon. Boy was that fun -- they both had to get shots (I also got a flu shot) and Henry devolved into a caged animal. It was unlike anything I've ever seen, and I definitely wasn't prepared for it. Ultimately, reasoning and cajoling proved ineffective and the doc and I had to hold him down on the floor to get him immunized. It SU-U-UCKED. But surprisingly, he was perfectly understanding about the whole incident -- it's like his five year old brain could comprehend the fact that the government makes the rules that see he has to have these shots for school, but just couldn't manage to keep himself sitting in one place to endure it. He didn't seem to harbor any hard feelings at all toward me or the doctor about it. Matthew and I haven't decided whether or not to give him the H1N1 shot if it ever becomes available, but now at least I'll know to bring knee pads and other protective gear if it comes to that.

The doctor visit also confirmed that Henry has allergies. He's been coughing for more than 3 weeks now, but without any other symptoms. And he's long had an itchy nose. I just didn't want to medicate him for it unless it began interfering with his life, and recently the coughing has been so severe it;s keeping him up at night and we started to worry he would gag. Matthew has also had a revelation about the powers of allergy medications, having started taking Zyrtec and discovered his fatigue and malaise disappeared overnight. So Matthew, who I think would have been completely against medicating Henry for allergies just a few months ago, was overwhelmingly in favor of Henry taking Zyrtec as well. It's too soon to know if it is really helping, but we also put away most of his stuffed animals and washed all his bedclothes and vacuumed the nursery just for good measure.

In the world of Dean news, these days Dean has two things he loves to do while eating: pooping and talking with his mouth full. Lucky for him he's so cute.

Matthew and I have been talking lately about how cramped our lives feel right now, emotionally. Everything on paper is where it should be -- we have our two healthy boys, our careers are going well, finances are not the challenge they were for so much of our married lives, we love our house, our neighborhood, our city. Yet we still feel overwhelmed. We've concluded it's just the nature of parenting right now. There's certainly nothing amiss, and we very much appreciate all the good we have in our lives. But when 8:30 rolls around and both of the kids are finally in bed, we are just so exhausted, physically and mentally. And as good as the advice to "take some time for yourself each day" sounds, when you are the parents of two small children, there's no such thing as "free time." And time for yourself just doesn't feel as relaxing, as nourishing, when it's stolen. We steal it nonetheless -- a bath here and there, a half hour of reading for pleasure -- but the time doesn't have the same quality it did before we had kids. And we're okay with that -- as I reflected in an earlier post, we both know how brief this period of our lives (and our children's lives) will be. But when you envy your spouse for getting to go to the grocery store by himself -- well, you know you've left carefree days long behind.

Anniversaries

2009-08-28T12:09:00.000-06:00

Yesterday was Henry's first official day of kindergarten. He's a little confused by that term, since he's in the same "primary" class at his montessori school as he was in last year, but I took a "first day" picture anyway. It was a terrible reentry. He's been out of school for a month this summer, and yesterday afternoon he said he wished he had only been out for two days because a month was too long for him to be used to it again. Yesterday when Matthew dropped him off, he completely freaked out and it took three teachers to get him out of the car. But then he calmed down, as we knew he would, had a good day, and was completely nonchalant about it this morning, even knocking on the school door himself to be let in.

Wednesday was Matthew's birthday and we had a very low key evening. That morning, he decided he didn't want any fuss, he just requested a "cake I can eat with coffee for breakfast." So Henry and I baked a lemon pound cake that afternoon, and Mom and my grandfather, who moved in with her this past week, came over for takeout from Lebanon's and some of the cake, still warm and moist from the oven. Henry gave Matthew the presents he picked out for him at the grocery store -- a pineapple, mini-watermelon, Kit Kat Bar and Reese's Peanut Butter Cups. (I had suggested to Henry that Daddy might like a nice bottle of wine, maybe of the Shiraz variety, but Henry insisted Daddy wanted a pineapple because it was "juicy" -- and he was right).

Last weekend we spent our first night with Matthew's parents in Mandeville since Dean was born. It was also the first time we've really had a chance to kick back and just enjoy the surroundings, since we are usually there for a particular family or community event. This time, Matthew brought his windsurfer and while he and everyone else was down at the lake, I sat in the house and read a book while Dean took his afternoon nap. It was such a treat to sit for a spell with absolutely nothing to do except read -- there was no laundry to do, no household chores, no kids to keep up with, no computer access -- I just sat there for an hour and started reading Zeitoun, my book club's next selection which my mother-in-law also happened to be reading. It's a sort of authorized biography of a well-known New Orleans painter (he painted my in-laws' house before Katrina and is currently painting our next door neighbors' house) who was treated as a terrorist in the chaos after Katrina and imprisoned for months. It's a timely read, considering we are at the anniversary of the worst man-made disaster in history. Last night we sat up late talking with Scott, Rachael and Philip's friend (and ours too, now, but I want to give credit where credit is due) about where we think the city is going. Scott is from Canada but has lived/visited all over the U.S. and adores New Orleans. He's actually spent the past three days volunteering to rehab houses that have sat empty since the storm (there are still thousands), and it was so nice to chat with an "outsider" who nevertheless seems to grasp the confluence of political and natural factors that complicate our recovery. I still can't quite believe it has been four years -- but there's Henry, starting kindergarten (he was only a year when we evacuated) and there's Dean, seven months old and still just as happy and smiley as his big brother at this age. I am reminded once again of how lucky I am.

Beaching

2009-08-21T09:56:00.000-06:00

Just snuggled Dean into his crib for the night. In the past couple of weeks, he has started sleeping on his side, and now he even seems to prefer his belly. During his wake time, getting him to be on his stomach is almost impossible -- he screams and immediately flips himself onto his back. Now, he gets angry if we try to move him on to his back when he's in his crib -- thank goodness for the movement monitor, since I know he's supposed to sleep on hjis back to reduce the risk of SIDS.

Overall, his sleeping has continued to be greatly improved from a month ago. We spent last week at the beach with my family and the extended Koske crew, and Dean was pretty hard to settle our first night there. But once we stuck him in the closet (he was in a port-a-crib and we didn't shut the door, it's not as barbaric as it sounds) he seemed happier -- fewer distractions, I guess. He was a real trouper at the beach. We got into a routine pretty quickly -- during his first morning nap, we'd all head out the door and into the sand and bring the baby monitor (it was a 20 second sprint from the shore to his bedroom door). When we woke up, I'd nurse him and then he'd spend some time on a blanket under our beach tent. I took him into the water at least a couple times a day, but the sun was so bright I didn't want to risk giving him a sunburn. The water really excited him. He would screech an squawk at it, like its existence was a personal affront to him, but he was giggle and coo when it splashed up on his legs.

Henry quickly made friends with some boys next door. Matthew and I both remarked on how neither of us was ever very good at those sort of spur of the moment palships. In truth, Henry was not the one who initiated it, and if the boy his age had not been as outgoing as he was, it's possible they never would have hooked up. But luckily the neighbor boys were extremely outgoing, polite, and very patient with Henry, since he was a good year younger. They encouraged him to go into the water (there were a lot of jellyfish, more on that below) so that he was boogie boarding by the middle of the week. They caught and tortured jellyfish, buried each other in the sand, and flew kites every evening. It was terrific.

And then Kate and her kids came -- eleven month old Thomas and three year old Anna. So then Henry had the chance to be the bigger kid and show her the beach, the crabs, the waves, and how to dig really deep holes. By the end of the week, our group's umbrellas and tents stretched in a line in front of our beach house, a happy little conclave of bright beach toys and sandy chairs and wind-swept heads looking out toward clear, azure water.

Aside from the jellyfish, the water was great. There were a couple of treacherous days when the jellys outnumbered the people 10 to 1, but on the other days there were hardly any and you could spot them easily But on one of the treacherous days, Matthew ventured out on his windsurfer. He went so far out I lost track of him on the horizon, and when he came back he was shaking and looked like he had seen a ghost. He actually came close to losing his life -- the farther he went, the more and bigger were the jellyfish, wider than a frisbee and blanketing the ocean as far as he could see. There were thousands. He was terrified to turn around, since he sometimes falls off as he turns against the wind, so he kept going out, thinking they would dissipate but in fact they just got larger and more numerous, like a nightmare. He finally turned around without falling and psyched himself up the whole way back -- don't fall off, don't fall off, don't fall off. And thank god he didn't -- I really think he would have been in mortal danger if he had fallen and gotten tangled up in one or more of those enormous jellyfish, with no one around to assist and in too much pain to get back. It turns out the swarms were so unusual they were reported on the national news.

It was a great week. We took a trip to nostalgia by howing Henry Flight of the Navigator and Swiss Family Robinson. We had group sing-a-longs while the guys played guitar. We ate great meals and drink lots of beer and sangria. We played Taboo and the women kicked the guys' bottoms. My sister and I swapped books and moral support. My Mom fished and fished and fished. I got a tad of a tan.

And now back to real life. I had a migraine this week that last 24 hours. Those are becoming less common, but now that I don't have insurance coverage for them for 6 months, I am always terrified that it will become one of those three day ordeals hat ends with me in the ER. Those are so rare I can count them easily over the past 15 years, but somehow when I know I can't afford it, it stresses me out more than ever. I have pretty much backed off the health care debate. I was becoming obsessed, anrgry, constantly agitated. I;ve given money, stood in the heat waving signs, gone to Mary Landrieu's office in person, made phone calls and e-mails...I don't know what else I can do without giving myself more migraines, which is hardly helping anyone. The week at the beach, I avoided the news entirely, and I'm trying to keep from getting so involved now that I am back. Maybe I'm a coward, but I just can't take the stress right now.

Ah, Sweet Sleep

2009-07-31T09:40:00.000-06:00

I'm writing this while Henry is in the shower with Matthew and I am listening to Dean protest his bedtime. There doesn't seem to be any other time to post, otherwise I would be writing more often! We've had another busy couple of weeks, which is not to say there hasn't been some down time...just that I spent it reading or talking to friends or doing something else that didn't involve sitting in front of a computer. I really try to crank out the hours at work while I am there and don't feel like getting back on the computer when I get home.

So Henry tuned five Friday before last, and that Sunday we had his birthday party at the Monkey Room. This year I decided not to order a cake but to make it myself -- Henry loves baking and I figured we could do it together the day before, while Matthew was at a wedding. What I didn't figure was that I also had to come up with a wholesome-nutritious-individual-serving snack for Henry to bring to school on his birthday (I baked and iced 5 and half dozen mini-muffins), prepare two containers of finger sandwiches (Mom helped), bake the two birthday cakes (they were from a mix and Henry did the sprinkles), and then whip up a batch of gluten-free brownies for the kids who couldn't eat the cake. Whew -- by themselves, each one was not that hard. I was certainly was not aiming to be Martha Stewart. But by the end of the weekend, I was so sick of my oven I was almost ready to put my head in it.

Okay, that's as far as I got yesterday in composing a post. All of a sudden Henry was out of the shower, the baby needed another pacifier, and there went the rest of my evening. So here I am again trying to crank this out. Henry is now on the Northshore for the night, Dean is napping, and I've finished a really stressful week at work and am trying to head off a migraine.
Anyway, Henry's party was a success, he loved all his new toys, and I think he really did appreciate all the effort his daddy and I went to to make sure he had a great birthday. I don't want to spoil him, but he's really such a good kid and it really gives us pleasure to make him happy. But next year it's either store bought muffins or store bought cake, I ain't doing both.

Dean has had us pretty tired for the past month. He started sleeping through the night right around 3 months, but then about six weeks ago he started waking up more and more often, all night long, sometimes ten times. He would go back to sleep as soon as we gave him a pacifier, but that was hardly a good solution. His pediatrician gave me a pep talk on "cry it out" and we decided we had to try it.

Okay, that was as far as I got with the post LAST night, let's see how far I get now that Dean is having his morning nap. It would probably help if Matthew was not banging on the house trying to put up a fence so the dogs (Mom's and Dinah) can stay here while we all go to the beach in a week and half, but did I mention we're going to the beach in a week and a half? so I am not going to complain.

So ever since we tried to let him cry it out, Dean has been a much better sleeper. He really only cried much the first night, and even then it was only for a few minutes. I don't think I would have had the stamina to take it much longer than that. We wouldn't have done it at all except we were both becoming zombies, and we figured it wasn't good for him to be having so much interrupted sleep, either. It is too soon to break out the bubbly (or, in this case, the sleeping pills), since I know how quickly old habits can resume and some kids just never sleep well during the night...BUT...it does seem like we are on the right track, and last night he slept the whole night. Since Henry was at Paw and Dellie's, Matthew and I were able to sleep in until Dean woke us at 8:45. I feel like I could run a marathon!

One of the things the doc suggested was that I stop nursing him to sleep at night. All his other naps, I always put him down awake and follow the wake-eat-play-sleep routine, but at nighttime I was doing what I always did with Henry, nursing him in the dark and then putting him down mostly asleep. Now that I try to keep him awake, I can read him a little story immediately after he eats. Henry picked the one we're reading now -- it has fuzzy bees in it and a buzzing sound chip at the end. Dean loves it, and Henry was so happy to be able to pick it out. Henry adores Dean so much I really think he would swallow him whole if he could. As it is, we are constantly having to remind Henry to be gentle and not squeeze him too hard or smother him with kisses. It's hard for him, because Henry now identifies himself more as one of us -- the big folks in the house who take care of the baby. He is always quick to give the baby a pacifier, tells me when Dean spits up, and sighs an adult-sounding sigh when the baby wakes up too early from his nap. And yet he is only five, after all, and I neither want him to feel adult responsibilities nor test his limits by doing all the things we do with the baby. I am glad he's getting some only-child time at his grandparents right now. Not that we've been neglecting him, but sometimes a kid just needs to be a kid.

Five Years

2009-07-16T19:59:00.000-06:00

I can't believe my little man is turning five tomorrow. Five years of parenthood...sometimes it feels like I've been a parent forever, and sometimes I feel like he was born just yesterday.

We've been so busy lately, but it's mostly been a good kind of busy. I am occupied with child care or my job or housework or paperwork pretty much all day, until I fall into bed, but most of it feels fulfilling. I could do without the search for health insurance -- a long story there, which many of you know about from my e-mails on the subject, and which I hope to say more about on this blog in the future -- but everything else seems worthwhile.

It is different parenting an infant this time around. With Henry, I always felt tugged between devoting myself entirely to him, and trying to hold on to that independent part of myself, the part that wanted to drink more, listen to the music a little louder, sleep in a little later. I didn't know when life would return to "normal" - and of course, I now know that it never does, not really. But it does get a lot closer. Once Henry was a year old, I could contemplate spending a night or two away from him. Once I weaned him (also around a year), I could drink a bit more liberally, and sleep a little later. Eventually, he learned to dance to the music, too, and is usually the one asking for me to turn it up.

So I know how quickly infancy passes, and for that reason I am trying even harder to hold on to it, enjoy it, not feel that tug. Dean will only suck on my cheeks and giggle while I kiss his toes for long, and for only so long will I occupy his entire field of emotional vision. If that means rocking him to sleep in a back room while every one else listens the band on Mom's front porch, so be it.

That was how we spent yesterday afternoon/evening. Algiers Point hosts Wednesday afternoon concerts during the summer, at different venues in the neighborhood. Yesterday's was at the Crown & Anchor Pub, right across the street from Mom's. She set up a fan on the porch and pulled out some chairs, and MawMaw and PawPaw came over and Matthew's Uncle Wil and Aunt Cindy and cousin John and Mom and Matthew and I sat there, taking in the band set up a few houses down. They shut off the street and a few hundred of our friends and neighbors enjoyed the slight breeze, drank cold beer, got food from the local restaurants that set up tables, and just gabbed and had a good time. Henry's pal Chloe was there so they had a good time running around and working on drawings. Dean enjoyed it less -- he handled it better than the one we took him to last week, which was twice as loud and hot, but he still was not a fan of the experience. Eventually I had to take him inside to see if he would go down to sleep, hence the rocking in the back room. Between taking care of him and checking on Henry, I missed most of the music, but that's okay. I now know how soon I'll be sitting on some porch, enjoying a beer while it's still cold, and wishing more than anything that I had a little downy-haired baby on my lap to spill it.

All In

2009-06-28T15:50:00.002-06:00

Ever since I started working in the office again, the days just seem to fly by. It's been a busy couple of weeks. I've had two bouts with mastitis, breast infections that knocked me out (I literally almost passed out at one point) for a couple of days each time. Matthew had two weddings, Saturday and Sunday, last weekend. I took the boys to Baton Rouge Sunday to see Pampaw and the rest of the Oivanki gang at Uncle Steve's for Father's Day. Monday I found out I was rejected for health insurance. Dean has had trouble sleeping all week -- one night he was crying so inconsolably we thought he had an ear infection and had to take him to the doctor today (he's fine). And then there's the fact that rain has been almost non-existent, except for one afternoon deluge for which we were very grateful -- it was getting so hot I was starting to lose the will to live (or at least to exercise).

We're really happy that Matthew now has two weekends off in a row, after ten straight weekends of weddings. But of course, that busy schedule means he now has lots of weddings to process, so there's really no time off for him. It's nice for our pocketbook, but the workload is really stressing both of us out. Right now he's fixing one of our windows because it leaks air, and we're trying to keep as much of the cool inside where it belongs. We took the boys to The Children's Museum today since it has been too hot to go outside, except to swim. Henry's doing really well in that department. In the past few weeks he's gone from refusing to put even his mouth in the water to actually swimming back and forth between the two of us. He's still not a strong swimmer by any means but we are getting closer, and he's so proud of himself. We just made a Michael Jackson compilation to listen to in the car so he can get to know the King of Pop as well as he knows AC Newman and REM. We also downloaded the Thriller film off YouTube and let him watch it (well, most of it, we skipped when MJ turns into a werewolf). This whole week of memorials has brought back my childhood Friday nights, when we would arrive to spend the weekend at our country house in Rosedale and I would put on the Thriller album in my bedroom and just dance like crazy. I couldn't have been more than 7 or 8, but I knew every song by heart.

I am trying not to overlook the wonder of Dean in the middle of the heat and the stress and the fatigue of keeping up with both kids. He has such a lovely personality. He smiles at least as much as Henry did at this age, which is to say almost all the time. He loves his bath, though yesterday he rolled himself over face first in the water, not a pleasant experience for him or his Daddy. His favorite sound to make is a high-pitched screech that woke me from a sound sleep at 7 a.m. the other morning. I ran into the nursery thinking one of my children was on fire, only to see Henry pointing at the crib where I found Dean with an enormous grin on his face. He and Henry have this little game they play where Henry laughs and laughs and then Dean starts talking to him and they're both going back and forth making these funny little half-laughs, half-murmurs. I've tried to catch it on video, but Dean gets very self-conscious on camera and clams up. He also loves peekaboo and sucking on things -- he'll even suck on my chin. He's a fat little man, all chubby cheeks and round little foot-balls. I love watching his feet when I feed him at nighttime. He gets so relaxed and his tiny toes curl up and down and his fat feet cross each other and his sweet blue eyes begin to close as he drifts off to sleep.

I always trusted that I would love both of my boys equally, but it is fascinating to me how the love I feel for them is different, just because they are different. There's no question it's equal, but my relationship with each of them is such a contrast. I am simply in love with Dean, captivated by his every breath, passionate about all his changes. I am deeply loving toward Henry, more compassionate than passionate, but no less enthralled with his development. Rearing them is the most challenging thing I have ever done, but also the most satisfying. Matthew and I set out to have kids knowing the sacrifices that would be involved but knowing that you get out of life what you put into it, and it was time to go all in. I am so glad we did.

Hello Happy Happiness

2009-06-13T19:57:00.002-06:00

I know that the attainment of perfection is a hollow aspiration...but, um, have you met me? Well, anyway, laudable or not, I have to say that I think my life right now is as close to perfect as it has ever been, and I am truly happy.

Seems strange that at a time when I'm filled with such contentment I would cease posting to this blog. I have needed some time to adjust to working, to get into the rhythm of the new schedule, and maybe I've just been giving myself a chance to acclimate. Whatever the reason, I am going to try to be on here more often.

My current state of mind stems from a number of things, but I think what has catapulted it into "happiness" (a term I do not use casually), is that I've crossed the last hurdle post-baby and am still standing. Going back to the office was a big step for me. I was pretty sure it would be a smooth transition, but if anything was going to be a hiccup, I figured that would be it. But it has gone wonderfully -- Dean took to the bottle pretty well, pumping is fine, Matthew is enjoying his time with the little guy, and I've really enjoyed being back in the professional atmosphere of the office. I like putting on my makeup and heels in the morning. I like listening to NPR in the quiet of my car. I like focusing my mind on new projects, catching up on the latest industry news, working with my friends and feeling competent again (reasonably) at something other than a one-handed diaper change. And just when I get tired of working and long for a leisurely day with my boys, it's Friday and I'm home all day.

I feel like I have been working to get to this point for SO LONG. Really, it goes back to when I first went to work full-time after having Henry and passing the bar (I had worked part-time up until taking the exam). It was a crushing blow to realize that my plan of working full-time while Matthew was the stay-at-home parent was akin to sticking a knife in my heart every morning. From that point on, we worked toward a goal of both of us working part-time. I eventually negotiated a 40-hour a week schedule (part-time in the legal world), but it was another year before Matthew's business gave us enough security to think about my cutting back further. And by then Henry was older and in school and I was feeling more comfortable with my schedule, so we decided to wait until after we had another child. Two years of trying and almost adopting and trying again later, we finally had that wonderful second child and I had worked four years in a job where my bosses could trust that I could still be a meaningful contributor to the firm even at only 24 hours a week. So here we are -- I work about six hours a day Monday through Thursday and take over primary child-care duties Friday and Saturday. I'm not sure how much closer to the much-mythologized work-life balance you can get.

But it's more than just my wonderful new work schedule. It's Dean and how delightful and manageable he is. Let me just say again, so there is no ambiguity: I have always wanted three children and the fact that my body/psyche/whatever-it-is-that-f*cks-me-up-when-I-am-pregnant makes it unwise for me to be pregnant again has caused me a great deal of sorrow. But it is what it is and I have accepted the fact that I will have two wonderful healthy boys in my life and that's it. So I have moved on to the silver lining phase, which is I WILL NEVER HAVE TO GO TWO AND HALF MONTHS WITHOUT SLEEPING EVER AGAIN. While there were parts of the newborn phase I loved with both my boys and my heart always gets soft and weepy when I think of their tiny little hands and coal-black newborn eyes and near weightlessness in my arms, let's not overly romanticize it: at least for me, the first two and half months of my sons' lives were spent with sleeplessness, constant crying from acid reflux, and, in the case of Dean, migraines and post-partum depression. Now that he is a well-settled, sweet-tempered almost-five month old who usually sleeps through the night, it finally dawned on me that the worst is over. I have no illusions about the other challenges of parenthood, but barring chronic illness or other tragedy in any of our lives, I think I can handle all of it better than I can handle almost three months without sleeping more than three hours straight. Whew.

So here I am/we are: Henry is reading and is such a proud older brother, he's just blossoming in so many ways (today when I couldn't look at something he was doing he told me with a shrug, "Okay, but I don't know what you're missing."); Dean is rolling over and babbling and sucking on his hands like they're covered in illicit drugs (I think he might be getting a tooth); Matthew is way too busy but still seems to thrive on the challenge; and I simply can't think of much to complain about...except the weather, I can always complain about summer in South Louisiana. Damn it's hot.

Cleanup on Aisle Five

2009-05-24T19:49:00.000-06:00

Well, it finally happened.

Saturday, in a burst of parental optimism, I decided to take both boys with me to the grocery store, my first attempt at such a feat. Everything was going fairly smoothly until we were shopping for the last item on our list, rice. I was trying to find the basmati when Henry said, "Look, Mommy, I found ketchup." I turned around to remind him that we have a "no picking things up" rule at the grocery store. One second after I told him this and also said, that's not ketchup, that's spaghetti sauce, so let's put it back -- CRASH.

For the first millisecond, I simply didn't believe it had happened. My child had not just dropped a glass jar of gourmet spaghetti sauce all over the floor and all over me. I was never going to be THAT MOTHER -- you know, the one who's kids are always running around, making messes, and generally causing everyone in their vicinity to regard them as if they have the swine flu. And yet, there I was, covered in spaghetti sauce, with Henry crying because he had cut his finger and Dean crying because Henry was crying. Believe me, I wanted to be crying, too.

The store employees were remarkably cheerful about the whole thing, and Henry's finger was fine. But I was still completely freaked out and just wanted to get out of that store FAST. So we skipped the rice (pretty much everyone had to skip the rice while they cleaned up the aisle) and I was grateful to find a line with just one other person in it. As I was signing my name on the slip, Dean decided he had had quite enough and began screaming at the top of his lungs. No amount of sweet talking and pacifier-bribing would quiet his crying, which then turned into gagging -- while he was still strapped into the car seat in the grocery cart. So then I had to hastily get him out of the seat while people are standing behind me, waiting to exit the store.

I was shaking by the time we all finally got into the car.

Wow. Now I know how THAT MOTHER feels and I will never again judge her so harshly.

The day ended up pretty well. Henry and I baked a chocloate chip banana cake from scratch -- it took most of the afternoon and at one point I think Dean and I had such a combination of spit up and flour on ourselves I couldn't tell which was which -- but I am glad we did it because it gave me some one-on-one time with Henry, at least while Dean was napping. After Dean went to bed for the evening, Henry and I stayed up and watched "James and the Giant Peach" and ate our cake. At one point Henry said, "Mommy, I love you. And I like you." And later on, he said, "This was a special night." When I asked why, he said it was because we got to bake a cake and watch a movie together.

Days like that make it so much easier to get over the recent turbulence I wrote about last post. He's improved a lot since then. I think maybe his teacher had the same realization we did about moving on to more challenging work, because he started coming home with books to read to us and his school work seemed to have gone to a new level. He can now spell almost anything if it follows phonetic rules and he really seems proud of his ability to read on his own. There were also dramatically fewer time outs reported.

He also did wonderfully in his little final performance for his acting class. It turns out he was the youngest by far. I think Matthew and I sometimes forget what a small child he still is -- seeing him there, surrounded by six year olds, and still managing to hold his own, really reminded us of how he is still a baby in some ways. When he came onstage, walking on tip-toes with his hands near his face like a little mouse, all the other parents went, "Awwww." He was too intimidated to end up playing the part in which he was cast, but he served admirably as the MC, introducing each scene with his teacher by his side. He was so thrilled to be in costume, with his face painted, and he just seemed to love every minute of it. We were so proud of him.

In Dean news, he is now grasping things and rolling over and developing a sense of humor. I got some full belly laughs when I tried sticking his toes in his mouth. He really loves his massage and yoga time, and I do, too -- it definitely helps me feel connected to him and I think will be a nice afternoon ritual when I go back to the office (next week is my last at home).

I am actively working to manage my migraines. They've picked up again since I started working, and tend to peak on Saturdays when I am juggling both boys on my own all day. I have a hard time accepting that they remain such a big factor in my life, but I am making a commitment to maintaining my biofeedback regimen and practicing the Heartmath techniques and just trying to S-L-O-W D-O-W-N every day. Why is relaxing so much effort?

Transitions

2009-05-15T11:55:00.001-06:00

Sorry for the hiatus, but resuming work has been a bit of a transition. I think I have the kinks worked out now, at least for the next couple of weeks, after which I'll have another transition as I return to the office.

The first week back was pretty rough, but not for the reasons I expected. Dean and Matthew handled being on their own just fine, and being able to nurse him throughout the day really made me feel connected. It was the actual WORK that was tough -- within an hour of starting work, I had three projects from three different bosses and everyone needed everything ASAP. With only six scheduled working hours a day on my proposed new part-time gig, I was really under the gun. I ended up having a migraine for three days in a row. Once I got everything done, however, things slowed down, and this last week was a more typical, manageable pace.

The other thing that made last week difficult was that Matthew had so many things going on. May is a really busy wedding month for him -- everyone wants their bridal portraits and engagement sessions done when the weather is nice, and of course they also book more weddings then. Last week he had a session -- either a portrait, or in one case, an actual weeknight wedding -- almost every single night of the week, in addition to his regularly scheduled Saturday wedding gig. So that meant right when I finished working, I had to switch into single-mom mode, all with a migraine or the effects of medication resulting therefrom. There was one afternoon in particular when the nitty-gritty of motherhood really hit me in the face. Ultimately, the kids have to eat, and at that moment there was only one person who could feed them, headache or no headache.

But all's well that ends well and this week was pretty good. No migraines, no evening portraits, I got my work done, and we even bought a new car. Yep, we traded in the Jetta station wagon for a six-person Mazda 5. It was a little sentimental letting the Jetta go. It was our first new car ever, and we bought it when I was pregnant with Henry. We brought him home from the hospital in that car, and it's been pretty good to us ever since. But now we have two kids, which means two car seats. And more and more often we were finding ourselves in a bind because we couldn't fit a third -- carpooling would mean Matthew couldn't bring Dean, and that would pretty unworkable once I'm back at the office. Plus, Henry actually has a social life now, yet we could never bring any of his friends anywhere if Dean was going, too, not unless we took two cars. Matthew was adamantly against getting a minivan, and we're not really SUV people, plus they tend to cost more than we wanted to spend. So we ended up with a silver Mazda 5. It's pretty cool, actually. I am most excited about the ipod jack. I realize this is de rigeur on most new cars these days, but the Jetta and the Versa don't have them, so I'm psyched.

Mother's Day was a long day, but a good one. It started with my sleeping in (after a early morning nursing session), followed by a lovely brunch Matthew cooked up, with my Mom bringing over the champagne for Mimosas. Then we spent the day cleaning the yard and the porch and bought some kiddie pools -- one small one to cool our feet on the porch, and another big one for Henry in the yard. It was a low key day, but I still ended up utterly exhausted by the evening, mostly because of issues with Henry. My dear sweet boy is turning into a bit of a behavioral challenge. The sweetness is still there, but there are equal doses of obstinance, flippancy, and sass. Plus, he seems to have inherited Matthew's absentmindedness. Even when he wants to do the right thing, he is easily distracted and often sluggish. He's also been getting "timeouts" at school. It turns out they use these more as cooling off periods for the kids and it isn't always necessarily a punishment, but apparently there are times when he simply will not obey his teacher. Earlier this week she called us to say he had thrown his work on the floor. Matthew and I ended up having a sort of intervention with him when he got home. Usually, he doesn't like to talk about his day right when he walks in from school, though I can often coax details out of him later at bathtime or when we're reading books. But this day we told him no TV (punishment you would think was akin to cutting off his toes), and we were going to talk. It was a revealing conversation, but we are still unsure of the solutions.

I am worried that the Montessori environment is not quite right for him. I thought at first it would be great because he could work independently and at his own pace. But over the past six months, he has gone from being a shy kid to being very outgoing -- he seems to really like group activities and he certainly has no shortage of energy. I think maybe having to sit in one place and do work all day without a lot of interaction with other kids is a bit much for him (you can usually hear a pin drop in his classroom). He also seems to be frustrated by some of his work, and I have to confess I myself can't imagine enjoying the repetitive nature of it, either. As I understand the Montessori philosophy, the kids learn component skills -- fine motor skills, abstract mathematic concepts, phonetic sounds -- before they learn how to integrate these. I know all parents think their kids are brilliant, and I certainly don't want to excuse garden variety bad behavior as being a result of my child's supposed exceptionality, but the fact is Henry tested with a very high IQ when he was evaluated for gifted. I am convinced he would be reading more now (though he's made great leaps in the past month) if he was given a chance to memorize words, rather than just learn phonetic sounds. And I am certain he would like math if he could see the point of it -- he has a very mathematical mind (Spoon in my head) but it seems to me like the work he's doing at school doesn't make a lot of sense to him.

Anyway, this is a long way of saying that we have concerns. We're taking the usual steps to address them -- staying in touch with his teachers, doing some behavior modification at home, trying to give him creative outlets like acting class (which he adores), and considering other possibilities for next year and beyond -- but in general it is just unsettling to feel like my little guy is not shining like I believe he could. The teacher sometimes complains that Henry is just "too silly." I can understand her impatience, but his innocent goofiness is one of the things I cherish about him. He is growing up so fast; there is plenty of time to be serious.

The End of Maternity Leave

2009-05-03T17:23:00.004-06:00

Today was Dean's first trip to the zoo, as Henry pointed out, unprompted, as we got out of the car. I can't say he was more fascinated with it than he is by the sound of rain falling or the shadows over his changing table, but it was a successful trip nonetheless. Henry, of course, loved it, especially the new animatronic Dinosaur exhibit. I found it mildly reminiscent of the creepy drum-banging bears at the Chuck E. Cheese parties of my childhood, but he was totally into it. He also enjoyed smashing the stinging caterpillars with his shoes. I'm not sure people from outside South Louisiana can understand the menace of these horrid creatures, but they terrorized our childhoods. They are despicable. And they were everywhere, all over the zoo, hanging onto tree trunks, crisscrossing the sidewalks, even lying in wait at the end of the slides and tunnels on the playground. Maybe spraying the trees for them is bad for the zoo animals, or it goes against the zoo's environmental policies. I can only hope that the reason they did not exterminate them (as a bunch of neighbors banded together in our neighborhood to do this season) was not the one a zookeeper gave us as we instructed Henry to stomp on one: "Oh, no, don't kill it, it's a living creature." Only by the grace of my foot, you nincompoop. It's like keeping a wasp nest in a swingset -- there's a time and place for all creatures, I suppose, but a zoo playground is not one of them.

Anyway...

Matthew is in the kitchen chopping up some zucchini, fresh from our garden, for supper. Dean is napping, and Henry and I are both in the office, he playing computer games on Matthew's computer while I blog. Rain is falling (finally) gently outside. It's a mellow end to my three and half months of maternity leave. Tomorrow I start working again, albeit from home. Next month I'll be back in the office, hopefully on a reduced schedule I am still negotiating. It's because of the potential for that schedule that I think I am less freaked out than I might otherwise be about returning to work. Nevertheless, I am still feeling melancholic this evening. I cannot conceive of another time in my life when I will be off work for so long, short of retirement. Not that I have spent the time eating bon bons, but it has been nice to have this time, especially since the first two and half months were difficult, with the sleeplessness, migraines, and just general assault on normalcy that is life with a newborn. Being home and being the primary caretaker to Dean has meant I've gotten to fully bond with my little guy, to learn his likes and dislikes, his tickle spots and favorite games, the cry that means tired and the cry that means bored. I am just so in love with him.

I have two sons. This still seems both thrilling and strange to me. My experience of the "baby blues" this time (not to be confused with the more serious depression that only set in weeks later) was focused on how Dean is my last baby, my last newborn. The pain of this knowledge was so raw and piercing those first couple of weeks. I sometimes held him in my arms, rocking his sweet little body, crying until the wispy hairs on his head were soaking.

Time (and the misery of waking every two to three hours for two months) soothed some of that grief. Of course I know I could just decide to try again for another child -- but for ever so many reasons I know that is not going to happen. It was hard to conceive Henry, even harder to conceive Dean, and then there were the actual pregnancies themselves, fraught with pain and depression. I have two happy, healthy children, which is more than many people ever get. Even though it is not what I had in mind for so many years and even though it requires some emotional acceptance, it is enough.

In a way, the end of this maternity leave gives me an opportunity to reflect on all the good that is in my life. I feel like I have beein trying to get to this point for at least two years. Once I finally felt ready to be pregnant again, my polysyctic ovarian syndrome made conception very challenging -- drugs and doctors and my constant worry that I was doing the right thing weighed on me for months. Then we turned to adoption, going through all the interviews and paperwork and spending more money than I care to think about, only to have to abort the whole enterprise when international agreements feel through. Then it was back to fertility treatments. Dean was conceived on our last official "try", when I insisted on trying Clomid one more time, even though my doctor didn't hold out hope and the other drugs had not worked. I was so afraid something would go wrong throughout the whole pregnancy, especially when I had to medicate to get through the migraines.

And now, here he is, apparently healthy, unarguably happy, irrepressibly cute. I have two beautiful sons. I have a loving husband who is a terrific father. I have a job I actually like, a comfortable house in a neighborhood I love, and I am no longer feeling so weighed down by depression that I can't appreciate and enjoy these wonderful things.

So, yes, I am sad about maternity leave ending. But really, I have much to celebrate.

The Joy of Closets

2009-04-27T10:16:00.000-06:00

We had a very busy and exciting weekend. The new closet is finished! "New" implies that there was something closet-like there before, which there wasn't. Matthew basically tore down/converted an old kitchen into the floor plan for our master bathroom and walk-in closet. The bathroom is not finished yet (the tiling and painting are done, but the toilet and vanity aren't yet installed...or even selected) but the plywood wall between the bedroom and the new space was finally ready to come down on Saturday, so that we could move our clothing from the piles of boxes and makeshift shelves in our bedroom and guestroom into the lovely carpeted closet, with bright white shelves painted last weekend by Matthew and Henry. It is glorious to see everything neatly folded and hung in its place and have that chaos out of our bedroom. Plus, I can now easily get to the washer and dryer. Prior to the start of the renovation project, I always was in charge of laundry, and although its not a task I relish, I like doing it my own way and not having to ask Matthew to deal with it. So now I can get all Dean's spit-up drenched clothes and bibs washed whenever I want. Ah, the little things that make one happy.

Once the clothing and shoes were moved into the new space, we had room in other areas of the house to rearrange other stuff, so yesterday we tackled reorganizing the guest room and the walk-in pantry (which basically serves as our only other closet). We also culled a lot of clothes and household items, which I am planning to drive over to Covenant House this afternoon to donate. And now I have space in the guest room to store some of Henry's toys -- it's been really hard on him having to wait until the baby as awake to get his things out of his room, so now he'll have stash on hand and the space in which to play with it. There are still more boxes than I care to count, filled mostly with books, and stacks of decorative items and wall hangings jumbled in corners, but those will have to wait until we can redo the guest room.

One of the wonderful things about getting all this done this weekend is that I won't be distracted by it when I start working from home next week. Yes, materrnity leave is about to be over. I have mixed feelings about it. When I ask myself if I would rather be a full time stay-at-home Mom than work part-time, the answer is (somewhat surprisingly) No. I really like my job (most of the time) and the sense of competence it gaves me in an area outside domestic life. On the other hand, if I ask myself if I am really ready to go back to work NOW, the answer is also No. But since I'm not sure I could ever say for sure that I am ready, and given the answer to the first question, I think I have to just jump back in as planned.

I think it will be emotionally difficult working from home this next month. It's an arrangement I negotiated in order to have more flexibility to nurse Dean (he still eats seven times a day) and I'll go back to the office on a regular basis the following month. I think it's a good plan, but it will be challenging not being the one caring for him during the day. We've developed such a nice little routine. He usually (which is a relative term, defined as "for the last five days") sleeps until between 7:30 and 8:30 (I know, amazing) and then I feed him and play with him on his mat (he just discovered his hands and loves to bat at things), then I move him to the baby papasan and let him listen to its horrible music and watch me while I clean the kitchen. Then we go into the bedroom for his massage. Then, if the weather is nice, we sit on the front porch and watch the neighbors pass by and the mockingbird parents flit around, guarding their babies. Then it's time for his nap. On a good day (like today) he'll sleep for an hour and half or more, so I can clean the rest of the house, brush my teeth and basically make myself presentable, and catch up on e-mails and household business. Then he's awake again and we spend the rest of the day doing pretty much the same stuff, usually going for a walk with Henry once he's home from school.

I was mostly motivated to get him sleeping through the night early by the need to control the migraines, but the other benefit (beside the sheer pleasure of sleeping seven or eight hours in a row) is that it has given me the chance to enjoy this time. Rather than merely surviving, which is how the first ten weeks felt, for the past few weeks I've been able to feel like a human being, to find humor and joy in the day, and to delight in him. And I've been able to accomplish a lot of other personal goals, like visiting my grandfather in Baton Rouge and friends I haven't seen in a while, getting things around the house organized, and even catching up on some reading. I know things will get more complicated once I am working again. But I am going to try very hard to maintain some of this sense of calm, the appreciation for the gentle unfolding of each day, the grace to recognize (especially in the witching hour of the evening, when Dean is crankier and Henry's energy leaves me breathless) that this is a temporary time of my life, one to cherish and have the patience to enjoy, knowing that falling into bed exhausted at the end of each day because of energy spent caring for my boys is really more of a gift than anything else.

Good Things

2009-04-20T11:14:00.000-06:00

It's amazing the difference a week or two can make in the life of a newborn...and his mother. Dean is now the happy, adaptable, adorable baby his big brother was at this age. And...drum roll, please...he has started sleeping through the night. I was going to put that in caps, but I thought it might be tempting fate. Even writing it at all makes me want to knock on all available wood. But for the past week he has slept from his 11:00 pm feeding straight through to six or seven a.m. I feel like a new human being! And although we've been making a concerted effort to keep him on his regular eat-play-nap schedule, his nighttime sleep habits seem immune to the activities of the day -- we dragged him to French Quarter Festival two days in a row, followed by a trip yesterday to a birthday party in Madisonville for Henry's friends, and he still got a good night's sleep. I am so relieved.

And -- more knocking on wood -- I have not had a migraine since I started taking the Zoloft. That's almost three weeks now. I guess my brain really needed the seratonin bath. I still stand by my decision not to take anti-depressants during the pregnancy, but I do wonder what difference it would have made in the migraine frequency and intensity. Oh, well, no regrets, just so happy to be pain-free again for the first time in months.
\
My friend Rachel just gave me a t-shirt that says "Motherhood is not for sissies" and I have been wearing it proudly. It's funny -- motherhood (and parenting) is so commonplace, it is so easy to take for granted what a difficult job it is. And yet I can think of nothing more challenging. Being a parent requires use of all your faculties, all your virtues, and the suppression of ever-so-many vices. Taking care of Henry and Dean these past few months has really stretched my emotional capacities. I haven't been writing about Henry much on here, but I really should, he is undergoing a transformation almost as dramatic as Dean's. A few weeks ago I signed him up for an acting class for preschoolers. Not for the reasons one might guess -- I really don't care if he develops any skill or passion for it -- but just because it seemed like a good way to channel his energies and give him the creative outlet I'm not sure he's getting at school. I was a little worried about how he would adjust -- except for school, we've never dropped him off at any activity before. And my fears were justified -- the first day, when Matthew brought him, he clung to Matthew's legs and would not separate under any circumstances. Matthew and I had to convene once they returned and figure out how to handle it. Certainly we didn't want to force him to do something he hated, and I didn't want to traumatize him with separation anxiety. But we felt confident that he could do it, that he could get over his fears and that he would actually like the class once he got used to it. And we wanted him to have that confidence in himself, too. If we had let him quit, we thought it might make him think he couldn't handle new situations. So I spent a good deal of time talking to him about the class, and about how sure I was that he could do it. He maintained that he couldn't, and that he would not participate, but he did agree that he would try it again the next week. And I thought that was a good start. So the next week I brought him. The whole car trip he kept saying he didn't think he could do it, and I calmly repeated that I thought he could. We did a quick goodbye at the class and I waited to see if the teacher would call if he melted down irretrievably. But it didn't happen. And when his daddy picked him up an hour later, he was actually excited, and very very proud of himself. He's now learning lines to be the "ant" in the play, and the teacher says he's doing great. So score one for Henry.

Henry is so bright and articulate and emotionally in tune with others that our next big challenge is figuring out a balance of adult-time and kid-time. He wants to be a part of all our conversations, constantly asking what we're talking about and even chiming in with, "That's right" and "I know" even when he's NOT being included in the dialogue and has no clue what we're discussing. On one hand, this is kind of cute and I know he comes by it naturally -- Matthew and I have both been told we were more comfortable with adults than with other kids when we were his age. But on the other hand, it can be annoying and seems to verge on inappropriate. I don't want to hurt his feelings, but he has to learn boundaries. His interest in adult things is combined with a quickly developing sense of entitlement that is DEFINITELY not appropriate, and which we are working earnestly to curb. But overall it indicates to me that he is really growing up, really learning to express his own desires and interests, and at this point I am mostly grateful that this maturity allows him to delight in Dean and be incredibly understanding and helpful, rather than resentful or competitive. I hope they are always as happy with each other -- no one can get a smile from Dean as quickly as Henry.

Life seems to be getting into a rhythm and I am feeling so happy about my beautiful boys and my lovely city. There is no place like New Orleans in spring, especially during festival season. The sunshine, the birdsong, the brass bands, the crawfish...it's hard not to appreciate all the good things on a warm day in April.

Settling In

2009-04-13T14:53:00.000-06:00

It's been about ten days since I started the Zoloft, and I am feeling better. I still don't feel as happy as I believe I have cause to feel, but I am no longer crying every day and everything just basically feels surmountable, where before it felt impossible. I also haven't had a migraine since I started taking it -- and that has gone a long way toward making me feel more in control of my daily life and outlook.

Dean is just delightful these days, smiling and generally becoming more "settled." I remember that happening with Henry at this stage -- in the space of a couple of weeks, he went from being a baby I described in my diary as "never happy" to being content and comfortable in our routines. Dean is proving to be pretty adaptable and easygoing, as our frequent hiking in the Smokies suggested he would be. Yesterday we took him to the Hornets game, along with Henry and Bob, and he just sat there, taking it all in, nursing when it was time, and then sleeping blissfully through the screaming as the Hornets whupped the Mavericks. Then we drove across the lake for a casual Easter dinner with Matthew's parents and left Henry there for the night. It was nice to be the parents to just one child for an evening, though the disrupted schedule yesterday had Dean waking up a lot more last night. At least when he was fussing we didn't have to usual worry of him waking up Henry in the next bed.

Today Dean and I took our first stroller walk (up to now, I've been taking him around the neighborhood in the Bjorn). He wasn't too happy with the arrangement at first, but once we started moving the bumps and breezes lulled him to sleep. The only problem (and I realize that for parents whose newborn never sleeps, this hardly seems like a problem) was that he feel asleep two hours before his next scheduled feeding. I knew he would not sleep straight through that stretch, and sure enough he woke up and resisted going back to sleep. I had to make a decision -- let him get up cranky and thinking he was due a meal, or have our first "cry it out" session. He was clearly tired and in need of more snoozing, so I decided to let him cry. It was really tough, and I'm not sure I'll continue with it, but with me standing next to him shushing and offering the pacifier, he eventually did tire himself out and drift off and has now been sleeping for a good half hour. There are so many decisions like that, all day long, never knowing for sure if you're making the "right" call. I've learned to just go on instinct and try to be consistent, and remember that there's nothing that can't be undone. It also helps that I have a happy and healthy four-year old grinning at me half the time, a testament that I at least managed to "get it right" once before and have a good chance of doing so again.

Getting There

2009-04-07T11:07:00.001-06:00

I've been on hiatus, for both practical and emotional reasons. On the practical level, we've been BUSY. After Rach and Phil left, we hopped in the car for a two day drive to the Smokies, stopping at Rock City and Lookout Mountain along the way. We were at the cabin for a week and then made the 12 hour drive home (normally ten and a half, but nursing a newborn slows you down a bit) in one day. One VERY long day.

Then we had a lovely but busy rest of the week and a wonderful weekend, going to the Algiers Riverfest and having our friends Allison and Christian and their new baby boy, Pascal, over for the fest and some impromptu crawfish ettoufee. Today is the first day I've had a moment to sit down with the computer for more than two minutes (tho Dean probably senses this and is about to wake from his mid-morning nap).

There were some cherished memories made in the Smokies. Although I spent the first twenty-four hours sick with food poisoning (bad red beans and rice from a Popeyes on the way up) and had to deal with a couple of migraines while I was there, we managed to hike with the boys almost every day (Laurel Falls, Gatlinburg Trail, a trail I can't remember off the Roaring Fork motor tour, and our annual favorite, the Little River trail). Henry just loved it, especially running ahead of us and hiding behind trees so he could jump out and "surprise" us. Bob came with us and was Henry's favorite scare victim (she was a really good sport, sounding believably surprised even on the tenth "Boo!"). I loved thinking about how much fun it will be when Dean is older and we can all go on real hikes together, to some of the ones Matthew and I loved doing when we lived in Tennessee -- Andrew's Bald comes to mind -- and camping along the river in summer.

Our friends Jason and Ellen were with us for most of the week, and Ellen treated us to a fabulous home cooked meal every single night. This made life so much easier, as Matthew and Bob were available to help with Henry and Dean. Dean started really "waking up" out of his newborn phase during the week, smiling and cooing more often, and he was really a pretty easy baby most of the time, falling asleep in the Bjorn as we toted him around the mountains. He also likes being in the car seat -- Henry hated it and screamed almost our whole trip when we made this trek with him when hewas two months old -- but Dean usually fell asleep within five minutes of a drive and would only cry when he was hungry. But, boy, did he cry then. We had to stop a couple of times in really remote places just so I could make sure he was not going to choke to death while screeching.

Perhaps my favorite memory of the trip was when Henry learned to ice skate. I had tears in my eyes, I was so proud of him. It was a little like watching your child learn to walk, except accelerated -- he went from hanging on to the rail for dear life to scooting around the ice on his own in barely over an hour. Matthew was a very patient teacher while I had Dean on my chest and video recorded the experience for posterity. I was so impressed with the way Henry kept getting up and trying again after each time he fell, big irrepressible grin on his face each time. It seemed like he was experiencing pure joy, just loving the challenge, the novelty, and laughing every time he collapsed between his Daddy's legs.

But I can't pretend that everything over the past few weeks has been sweetness and light. The truth is I have been dealing with some serious depression for about a month now. I feel like it started before my sister came for her visit but really revealed its depth when she left. I spent the three or four days afterward crying at the drop of a hat, all day long. Perhaps what disturbed me most was the fact that I realized I was sometimes going a whole day without really talking to Dean or interacting with him. I changed his diapers, nursed him, rocked him to sleep, but I was too tired and depressed to muster a smile or chat for him. And I realized this was maybe more than a brief dip in my mood when Henry saw me crying -- when I told him that Mommy was just having a bad day and would feel better soon, he said, 'Yes, but then you always get sad again and that worries me." Matthew was worried, too, and I started to think that I should get some help. I talked with a couple of close mom friends who told me about their own experiences with post partum depression and what they described really seemed to match what I was feeling. One friend, whose judgment and good sense I trust almost more than anyone else in the world, told me that when she finally went on an anti-depressant when her last child was born, she wished she had done it with her first two, because he was the first child whose infancy she enjoyed. I was concerned about taking drugs while breastfeeding, but my OB assured me it would be fine. And the fact is that if I relied on my own internal resources to get through this, which I've always done in the past, it could be half of Dean's little life before the depression lifts, and I have to weigh the impact on his emotional development against any riskk the medication could pose to him. Considering everything, I decided it would be best to go on Zoloft for a while.

I'm still very ambivalent about it. I haven't taken medication to deal with depression in thirteen years. It sort of feels like a cop out, especially since I feel confident that once I can get some regular sleep under my belt and Dean gets through the fourth trimester, a lot of this sadness and despair will evaporate. I mean, doesn't everyone with a newborn get worn out and depressed at some point? Should we really be medicating a natural, and temporary, state of mind? On the other hand, I did read that 75% of women who experience depression during pregnancy will also have post-partum depression, and there is no question I was very depressed during the pregnancy. So maybe my emotional synapses got into a bit of a rut -- if this medication will help me get on a new path sooner, so that I can be to newborn Dean the engaged, present mother I was to Henry at this age, I believe it's the right thing to do.

I have felt better over this past week. I'm not sure how much of it is the Zoloft, how much is the renewed confidence I got from a visit with the biofeedback therapist who helped so much during the pregnancy, and how much is the simple fact that Dean is getting easier to handle and more endearing every day. I marvel at his delicate beauty, sweet temperament, and especially the heart-stopping smiles he gives to Henry. The migraines have also been better the past few days, so I'm sure that's helping, too. If Dean can just start sleeping regularly through the night (a feat he has managed once, so I am keeping my fingers crossed we'll be there soon), I feel I can finally enjoy all the sweetness in my life right now.

Seven Weeks

2009-03-18T17:00:00.000-06:00

Dean turned seven weeks old on Monday -- it is hard to believe it has been seven weeks since that long night of contractions and that blink-and-you-missed-it c-section. He has changed and developed so much over the past couple of weeks -- the smiles are more frequent but no less amazing, the Zantac finally seems to be helping, and his chubby little cheeks attract kisses like fat pink magnets. I wish I could report that I have started catching up on sleep, but we still have a way to go on that front. There has definitely been improvement -- we've stopped automatically changing his diaper before every feeding during the night, which means he can stay swaddled during the nursing and usually goes back to sleep pretty easily. The spitting up remains a problem, especially at night, when I either have to sit with him upright for fifteen or twenty minutes after nursing, or gamble on a major spit up after I lay him down. The frustrating thing is, he often seems to have a spit-up episode even if I have gotten a good burp out of him and kept him upright the recommended amount of time, so I am starting to experiment with the gamble. I've gone back to the Babywise basics, and he is now sleeping for longer stretches. It's amazing how much you forget in just a few years -- I was doing the eat-wake-nap thing and sticking to good intervals between feedings, but had completely forgotten the most fundamental concept, which is to establish circadian rhythms by starting each day with a feeding at the same time. Now that we've started doing that consistently, he's stopped feeding every two hours at night and has gone to 3 and sometimes four hour stretches. I am starting to feel we're back to two steps forward, one step back, instead of the other way around.

I am feeling even more motivated to get him sleeping through the night after the horrible night we had Saturday. After a long but basically good day keeping up with both Henry and Dean while Matthew had a wedding (it rained all day so Henry and I played Simon Says, read books, and built a fort in the dining room out of sheets and pillows and chairs), I had a massive migraine. Advil did nothing, so an hour later I tried the Imitrex my neuologist recently prescribed. By the time Matthew came to bed at 12:30 am, the pain had woken me up and was so bad I was nauseous. So I took a Vicodin -- anhour later the pain had gone from a 10 to a 9, so I took another. I was worried about nursing the baby with all those drugs in my system, so I had to pump-and-dump twice while Matthew gave Dean his first bottle (with stored breastmilk) since he was four days old. It was an all nighter for me and Matthew. At seven a.m., I called my mom and like an angel she appeared at our door and helped with the boys throughout the day so we could nap here and there.

I'm convinced that weeks of interrupted sleep is the culprit (tho my breastfeeding-guru OB did inform me today that I don't need to pump just b/c I take a Vicodin, and the pediatrician agreed, so that's one less thing). I know from experience with Henry the difference a regular schedule of feedings and routine can make in terms of sleeping through the night, so I am continuing to push with the schedule even though it has made things a little complicated with my sister Rachael in town. Luckily, she understands and has been really helpful, even coming over early this morning to take over watching Dean and Henry after the 7 a.m. feeding. Then she and Philip and Jane took Henry to the Insectarium. Matthew's little sister, Maddie, also came over today to meet Dean for the first time (she's been at college in NYC), so it was a busy day for our little social butterfly.

I am trying to maintain my perspective, though it erodes a little more with each delirious night. My early feelings of indecision and self-doubt have largely gone away as I've gotten more familiar with Dean's habits and patterns, likes and dislikes. It helps that I have the confidence gained from dealing with Henry's reflux and sleeplessness. I do still get frustrated, of course, but I know that Dean is healthy and getting happier each day, and I remember how so much of the early behaviors resolved themselves by the time he was three months and that "fourth trimester" was finally behind us. Right now I am just trying to keep my eyes -- my bleary, bloodshot, aching eyes -- on the prize.

Argh

2009-03-13T12:33:00.001-06:00

Tired. So very tired. I feel like we are moving backward insteads of forward.

If I had had time to write this post yesterday, it would have had a very different tone. Anytime I can get a total of 7 or 8 hours of sleep between the hours of 10 pm and 10 am, with at least one stretch of 2.5 - 3 hours if Dean sleeps for 3.5 or 4, I feel like I can handle anything. My mood is happy, I have energy, I get things done around the house, I keep up with Henry, I usually even manage a brisk walk. Yesterday the weather was lovely, I returned books to the library and then walked along the levee with Dean in the baby carrier on my chest. And there must have been another good night this week, because I remember I took Henry on his bike with us for a long walk and we had such a good time, talking to neighbors, smelling the flowers, enjoying the sunshine.

But days like today I just want to cry. I did manage to get some sleep, but it went something like this: nurse Dean at 10 pm, hold him upright for 15 minutes so he doesn't spit up everywhere, get him down and get myself into bed by 11 pm. Wake up to Dean crying at 12:45 am. Nurse him, fall in and out of sleep with him in chair until 1:45 am, get Matthew to help putting him back to sleep. Wake up to Dean crying at 2:45 am. Try to get him to go back to sleep, no go, nurse him, swaddle him to go back to bed -- his eyes fly open. And stay open. I am in tears by 3:30 am so Matthew takes him and Dean spends the next hour and half spitting up, over and over, until he finally conks out at 5 am. Wake up to Dean crying at 7:00 am (so he managed to go for four hours between feedings, but DID NOT SLEEP for half of that). Take care of him and Henry until 8:00, wake Matthew up to take Henry to school. At that point Mom came over to relieve us, so I went back to sleep for a few hours. Now Matthew is getting his turn.

And so it has gone for at least half the nights for the past week or so. Some nights are good -- he goes between 2.5 and 3.5 hours between feedings, and goes back to sleep pretty easily so I am back in bed within 45 minutes. But those nights are seeming fewer, when they should be becoming more regular. There is simply no pattern, and we are now at almost 7 weeks. I've been doing all the babywise scheduling/routine stuff during the day (not easy with a reflux baby), we have a nighttime routine, we keep the room darkened and don't interact during nighttime feedings, but -- still no predictability yet. And it is not only exhausting, it gets me depressed. I have to start working again in a little over a month -- I know that's a third of his life so far and newborns can change so much in that much time, but a part of me just panics that it will still be like this at that point, and I don't see how I can function.

I don't like feeling like this -- I know I am fortunate to get as much sleep as I do, and to have my Mom close by to help, and to have a husband who works from home and doesn't seem to resent being woken up during the night to help me when I feel I've reached a breaking point. And I wouldn't mind some horrible nights if I felt it was two steps forward, one step back. But right now it feels like the reverse. And I am just...so...tired.

Five Weeks

2009-03-04T13:51:00.001-07:00

Dean turned five weeks old on Monday. Five weeks, so many changes.

In no particular order (which is an apt description for my brain these days):

We are still working on the reflux/spit up/fussiness problem. We started him on Zantac, but I think the dosage may be low since we won't have his official weight until his check-up tomorrow. From what we can tell while he's squirming on the postage scale, he's at least nine pounds now. That's a pretty significant weight gain from his birth weight of 6 pounds 3 ounces, and it is one of the signs that he might just be getting too much milk, in the wrong balance. After he spit up about ten or twelve tablespoons immediately after eating this mid-morning, Matthew and I started googling and our latest theory, compliments of the Internet, is that I have an oversupply and he's getting too much foremilk, which makes him gassy, and he's getting too much milk overall, leading him to spit up copiously. He may also have acid reflux, which makes his burps and spit ups painful. But we'll see. Based on this latest theory, I now have to nurse him with him sitting straight up on my leg -- it's a very strange position, but I'll do whatever will work -- and can only nurse him on one side per feeding. We'll see how it goes, and what the doctor thinks tomorrow.

His sleeping at night is pretty good overall -- brilliantly good, compared with Henry at this age. But he likes to be awake in the middle of the night after his second feeding. I can usually last an hour and a half before I have to wake up Matthew, just so I don't risk nodding off while he's in my arms. I guess some would say one solution is to let him cry it out, but I am not only not desperate enough yet to put myself through that, but it would also take some advance planning to let Henry sleep elsewhere because there's no way he could sleep through the wailing. That's another interesting thing about Dean -- he has a temper. He is generally affable, but when he gets mad, he gets MAD. He can turn completely purple in seconds, screaming with such ferocity he momentarily stops breathing. Henry was generally fussier and thus cried more overall than Dean, but never could Henry's crying have matched the intensity of Dean's. The few times I've had to let him cry for a couple of minutes, while I scambled to get food for me and Henry and run to the bathroom, his crying was so intense I found myself in tears from the sheer torture of listening to it. In time, I will have to let him learn to comfort himself, I know -- but for now, while operating on so little sleep and still trying to figure out why he spits up so much and seems in agony after most feedings, I'm going to avoid that battle.

A good friend with a first baby not much older than Dean asked me recently if it was easier with the second baby. I've had some more time to think about that since our conversation, and I still can't say the verdict is decisive one way or another. In some ways, it is so much easier -- I am not afraid of Dean the way I was afraid of Henry. Well, afraid of the baby is not really accurate -- I suppose I was afraid of myself handling the baby. I didn't feel adequate at comforting him, nursing was difficult and confusing, and I had no idea when the sleepless nights would end. Matthew and I also were unpracticed at being parents together. He said himselkf recently that it's easier this time because instead of getting mad when Dean cries, he is more inclined to laugh. With Henry, everything felt so overwhelming, laughter was the farthest thing from our minds. (Which is interesting, considering that Henry now provides us with so much humor in the midst of our stress -- last week, he was playing ball with Matthew and said, "I'm keeping my eyes on the ball, but my hands are not agropalating...I don't know how to say that word." Yesterday he was treated to ice cream with a friend after school and came home to tell us he had had "Bumpy Road" ice cream). Henry also slept so erratically that I think we were both more sleep deprived at this point. I'm not sure if it is Dean's temperament or our attempts at scheduling and routine (probably both), but when I put DEan down for a nap, MOST of the time (3 a.m. feedings notwithstanding) he stays asleep for at least an hour and half. Henry's sleeping was completely unpredictable and it made us literally a little out of our minds.

In other ways, the second baby is harder, mostly because of the first! Henry is a terrific help - he adores Dean and is quick to assist if I ask him to retrieve a pacifier or burp cloth or let Dinah out if I don't have a free hand. And he is remarkably understanding of the fact that Matthew and I can't always respond to him immediately like we could before the baby arrived. But he is still a four year old, and a boy, and his energy can be really draining by the end of the day. He's a little more sensitive these days, and he's testing the boundaries. Some days he's downright obstinate and flip all day and it takes everything not to scream. But most of the time he's the same happy Henry, and the biggest challenge then is just juggling both of them, especially when Dean is awake and refuses to be put down. Mom has been a big help when Matthew has a wedding, and Matthew is also home and can help a great deal, but he still has weddings to process and a bathroom to finish and is running most of the errands these days, so it's just me a lot of the time. When I manage to bake banana bread from scratch with Henry while holding Dean, I feel like Superwoman. When I can't seem to get a cup of yogurt for Henry or remember to go to the bathroom while holding a spitting up Dean and the laundry is piling up all around us, I feel like a failure. So it all depends on the day, the hour, the minute.

We have had some memorable experiences lately. Mardi Gras was only one day for us this year, but we made it a good one, watching Thoth on Magazine with Bee and Foster and my Mom and some friends. I was glad Dean's first public outing was to a parade. On Mardi Gras itself, we actually went to Baton Rouge to introduce Dean to my grandfather, the original Kaarlo, and to see Bee and Foster, and then to my godparents' house out on the levee road outside of Baton Rouge. It was a long day, but a great one. We got some video of my grandfather speaking in Finnish to Dean, and Henry got to tear around with Foster, and then he and his Daddy had a great time on the four-wheeler out in the country while I got to catch up with my Nana'an. This past Sunday we celebrated PawPaw's 80th birthday on the Northshore and watched the Mardi Paws parade. Henry got to jump in a space walk and explore the shores of the lake, which was quite low, and Dean was held by pretty much every family member, which gave my shoulders a rest. We feel so fortunate to love close to so much family. My boys are always surrounded by so much love and affection.

Now Henry is home from school and I can hear Dean squawking in his crib, so it is time to get a snack for H-bomb, change a diaper, and continue the nursing experiment.

things i think at 5 a.m.

2009-02-23T16:16:00.002-07:00

Blue pearlescent light sliding
Underneath the shade.
Soft tug of sleep at my eyelids,
Fierce crying in my arms.
Milky air rising;
Pain passing;
Peace.

Tiny head smelling like
Oatmeal
The way Mama, my mama, makes it:
Warm, creamy, brown sugar and butter.
Sweet oatmeal baby,
Like mama:
Asleep
With eyes open.

To sleep, perchance to...oh, nevermind

2009-02-19T21:34:00.000-07:00

I keep waiting for time to compose a nice, well-thought out post, but that's apparently not going to happen, so I figure I better just dive in and write whatever I can while I have few minutes.

Dean is still doing very well. Now that he's filling out, the suspect vertebra is less pronounced. And he's starting to get that cute little wrist cleavage that I just love on babies. Breastfeeding is going well in the sense that he nurses well and often and he's gainig weight, but it is also driving me crazy in that there are so many variables involved it is hard to tell what may be making him fussy. My migraines are returning unfortunately, probably because of interrupted sleep and general lack thereof, so I have been experimenting with different levels of caffeine and trying to track any patterns, but doing so is only making me more anxious. He also started spitting up slightly more than is probably normal, so I tried nursing a little differently but that seemed to result in green poop, so I went back to my old ways but am still having trouble minimizing the spit up. Because Henry had reflux, we are on watch to see if Dean develops the symptoms, but right now he's borderline -- happy about half the time and fussy the other half - whereas his big brother was fussy pretty much nonstop until we put him on medication. Argh. What I find most daunting about motherhood in these early stages, even more than the terrible sleeplessness, is the sense of responsibility for EVERYTHING. If he wakes up a half hour after going down, is it because I didn;t get a good burp out of him? Should I nurse him only on one breast so the balance of foremilk/hindmilk is the same? Or stick with what worked with Henry? If I nurse him at 8:30 pm, should that be his "nighttime routine feed" with lights low and everything quiet or is it okay to watch TV and let Henry run around wild? Is is bad for him to have green poop? If I have to take my migraine medicine, will my milk run low? Should I be trying harder to get him into the Babywise routine, even though he still resists waking up about half the time I try? Am I consuming too much dairy, is that why he fusses?

What gets lost in all this ridiculous analysis and agonizing is the fact that Dean is healthy, growing, happy most of the time, and today, HE SMILED. Real, genuine smiles. You just know it's real when you see it, when he locks eyes with you and that grin starts, it's like a jolt of electricity and you think, oh yes, THIS is why I am doing all of this. I can't wait to Henry to get a good one out of him.

Speaking of Henry, he's doing great. I am so proud of him, he's helpful and gentle and has shown amazing maturity during this transition. I wish I could remember right now some of the cute things he's been saying lately, but my memory is so foggy these days.

Last night Matthew and I spent our first moments alone together out in the world since Dean's birth -- we went a few blocks away for one of the Mexican prix fixe dinners at Aunt Leni's Cafe. It was so lovely to be the two of us, knowing our boys were close by with Mom watching them. Our neighborhood is great for that. Today Henry and Dean and I walked down to the library, also just a few blocks away. It's nice that my first ventures out with him can be in such a safe, comfortable, close environment.

Anyway, time for his NINTH feeding of the day. Then, to bed...hopefully.

Welcome, Dean Kaarlo!

2009-02-03T20:57:00.002-07:00

Dean Kaarlo Foster was supposed to be born today, But instead he decided to come eight days early.

I had trouble sleeping all through the weekend before he arrived. Sunday night was the worst, with contractions coming every four to six minutes and becoming uncomfortable, but still not what I would have considered real labor. I tried taking a bath, drinking lots of water, watching TV at 4 am, nothing worked. Because I was scheduled for a c-section, the labor and delivery nurses said to come in and be checked. We threw some things in the half-packed suitcase and called Mom to watch Henry. We arrived at the hospital around 6:30 am. Within an hour I went from apologizing for bothering anyone with what surely was not real labor to being stuck with IV needles (four times since my veins kept collapsing) and wheeled into the surgical suite. The contractions had gotten stronger just since we had been at the hospital and they detected variability on the baby's heart rate monitor (don't they always?), so my doc said, you're ready, let's do it today. I told her those were the best words I had heard throughout the whole pregnancy, but in truth by the time I was getting the spinal, I was feeling terrified. With Henry, I was so ready after 30 hours of mostly natural labor to GET HIM OUT I was too tired to be afraid. But suddenly I fet it was all happening too fast, I was too aware, too nervous. Matthew asked if he had time to get his camera from the car and the nurse said curtly, "NO." So the only pictures of the birth my professional photographer husband was able to take were on my work PDA. At least we had that!

Within 30 minutes, I got to hear my sweet boy's cries, and goodness were they loud. He weighed 6 pounds 3.5 ounces, just a few shy of Henry's birth weight, and was 18.5 inches long, one half-inch shorter than his older brother. And they look so much alike as newborns! He had to be taken to the nursery for free flow oxygen for about half an hour, so except for a few brief joyfully teary moments in the surgery suite, it was another hour or so before I saw him again. We had to complain to the hospital management about the fact that they wouldn't allow Matthew in the nursery with him -- with Henry he got to hold his little hands and talk to him the whole time, but at this hospital they said parents in the nursery was against policy. BAD POLICY. But then he was brought to me in the recovery room, right after I got some newfangled anesthesia procedure called TAP -- medicine injected straight into the incision site to help with the first day's pain (and it did). The lactation consultant came in with him and Matthew and I were both so happy to see it was the same nurse who had helped us with Henry when he was born at Baptist four years before. We felt comfortable with her immediately and Dean took to nursing like a champ. Then I was taken to my hospital room.

The rest of the first day is a bit of a blur, with visitors in and out and him sleeping pretty much all day in the bassinet in our room. Nursing continued to go pretty well, though between the drugs and the oxytocin from breastfeeding I was pretty delirious. Henry was able to be with us for most of the day and he seemed genuinely thrilled with his little brother. I gave him a bag with "presents from Dean" and that kept him occupied in the room, and my Mom took him to a kid's play area whenever he got bored. That night he slept with Mom and Dean slept peacefully all night long in our room, which meant we slept, too. The next day started out just as well, but they told us Dean had lost "a significant amount of weight." Some weight loss is normal in the first week but of course it was terrifying to be told he had lost more than 10%. The lactation consultant came back and we did a refresher course on nursing. I was used to nursing a ten month old, and newborns require a bit more finesse. But I felt once I had figured it out, he would do better. Unfortunately, as the day went on he fussed more and more, and I was feeling like a failure. That night, he would not let us put him down. He would eat and then as soon as we placed him in the bassinet he would wail. We could quiet him by picking him up, and he slept in the bed with me for part of the night, but severing contact was impossible and neither Matthew nor I could sleep. In desperation we permitted him to be taken to the nursery for a couple of hours and we both dozed. (The nurses swore he slept fine in the nursery and didn't cry, but I never know whether to believe them). Matthew and I were very worried that he was going to be like Henry in this regard, whom we once clocked as sleeping 3 hours in a 24 hour span -- and those waking hours were not happy hours for him. (Henry had reflux and once we got this under control he was happy as a clam, but those first six weeks were nightmarish). The next day, Wednesday, his weight had dropped even more and the lactation consultants and nurses were starting to talk about formula supplementation because my milk had not yet come in. Even though it had been just two days since the surgery, Matthew and I decided to push for being discharged. The same doom and gloom scenarios had accompanied Henry's last days in the hospital with us (we were there for five days post-birth), and once we got home, my milk came in and everything was fine. I felt sure it would be the same this time. So we accepted some formula supplements and a plan to give him a little after each nursing, in exchange for being allowed to leave early.

It was so nice to be home! Bob stayed and had dinner with us (Dean dozed in his baby swing the whole meal) and helped us get settled. That night is kind of a blur, but I think Matthew and I took shifts so that we would both get some sleep. I think I slept in the recliner at one point with Dean on my chest, and at one point I think he slept in bed with us. But he went four hours sleeping at one point, and we were so in love with him for that!

Thursday was a good day -- we weighed him on Matthew's postage scale and he was definitely gaining weight. My milk was starting to come in, and that night we discontinued the formula. Matthew's Mom and sister Bee came with Henry's cousin Foster to visit and although I was still in a lot of pain from the surgery, I was able to walk around and really enjoy the visit. Plus, it was great for Henry to have some play time with Foster. Henry went to school the two days after Dean's birth, but then we kept him home the remainder of the week because the school reported an outbreak of lice. As if taking care of a newborn wouldn't be hard enough, we couldn't imagine doing it while fighting an infestation of lice. Overall I think it was good for Henry to be home with us for four days straight, though it did wear us out a little. Mom and MawMaw and PawPaw helped keep him occupied and give him the one-on-one attention that he really needed, and he had a chance to get used to having a tiny baby around the house and learning how to help out (he's really good at inducing reflex smiles, which are almost as much fun as the real thing).

Friday was not so good -- I was frustrated that I was still having so much pain, not just at the incision site but throughout my whole abdomen. Plus I was still swollen everywhere and finding it difficult to get comfortable. I was so proud that when I went home after having Henry I was able to stop the narcotic medicine cold turkey -- no such luck this time. I found out I had to have a scar revision on top of the c-section, so it makes sense that the recovery this time was taking longer. But it turns out the resident who dicharged me didn't even prescribe me enough pain medicine (accoridng to my OB), so while I was feeling like a drug addict for still needing the meds, in fact I was due for another two or three days of them. Nevertheless, I've weaned myself down to advil during the day and only take the narcotic at night, because I simply can't sleep from the distraction of the pain. Friday Matthew also had a wedding, so Mom came to help out with the boys. She's been such a help throughout all of this, especially with Henry. She spent the night with us that night, since Matthew didn't get in until after 1 a.m.

Over the weekend we kind of fell into a nice pattern -- Dean nurses eight or nine times a day, but he's pretty efficient at it, at least when he's not falling asleep. And he sleeps a LOT -- if I hadn't already paid my dues with Henry and been rassured by the pediatrician that Dean's sleep habits are normal, I would actually be concerned. He's remarkably predictable and affable. When he cries, it's always for some easily identifable reason -- belly aches or diaper changes or hunger -- and he can be comforted within seconds. And until last night (which we are hoping was a fluke) he generally goes one 3.5 to 4 hour stretch during the night without waking for a feeding (the rest of the night we set alarms to wake us up to feed him in case he sleeps right through -- amazing).

On Sunday afternoon we became concerned about a knot on his spine. It was something I had felt before but honestly, since we've been keeping him so bundled up due to the cold weather, I had thought it was just a bunching in his clothes. We had him stripped down at one point Sunday and had a chance to really examine his back -- right in the middle there is one vertabra that sticks out much more than the others. We felt Henry's back and he has something similar in the same spot but not nearly as pronounced. So on Monday we took him to the pediatrician, who examined him carefully and said, "Well, I agree with you." "Do you mean you agree with us that we are overreacting?" "No," she said, "I agree with you that it's not completely normal." "Oh."

So off we rushed to Children's Hospital for an x-ray of our one week-old baby. I'm sure the care there is wonderful, but it's a terrifying place. Nothing makes you doubly grateful for the good health of your children than being surrounded by families and kids who know that's one thing they don't have. But within minutes of the x-ray, our pediatrician called and said the radiologist said everything looks normal -- no growth, no internal problems, the spine looks fine. I'll never forget the kiss Matthew and I shared upon hearing that news. We still have to watch him as he develops and both of us still feel nervous that something's just not right -- the vertebra is REALLY pronounced -- but at least we know it's nothing life threatening. And of course, if anything does turn out to be wrong I will always feel it is my fault because of having to take Vicodin during the pregnancy and generally subjecting him to so many stress hormones in utero. Throughout the agony of each migraine, that was my greatest pain, worrying that I would cause him permanent harm, despite all my doctors' reassurances.

But we'll cross that bridge when and if we come to it. For now, he is a happy, healthy little guy, a tiny human inducing feelings of unbelievable depth -- love, of course, but also gratitude and adoration and even a bit of sadness. Right now, eight days out, it is hard to distinguish the genuine feelings from the hormonal roller coaster I am riding post-partum, but I am finding myself startlingly sad that this will likely be my last newborn. I never had the luxury of feeling that way with Henry, even though I spent the first year of his life finding it impossible to imagine being pregnant again. Henry was simply so demanding with his reflux and sleeplessness that required us to carry him on our bodies almost all day and night that I simply never had the opportunity to DESIRE to hold him -- he was already physically attached to my sleep-deprived body most of the time. But Dean sleeps so much and is so peaceful even when awake, I find myself overwhelmed with the desire to hold him and cuddle him and talk to him. Even in the middle of the night, I don't mind the loss of sleep because it is a chance to hold that tiny warm little body and smell the sweet newness of his scalp and touch the tenderness of his cheeks. I know that I am going to have to work out my true feelings about the decision not to become pregnant again (all it takes is remembering the fear and depression brought on by the migraines, see above, to renew my belief that going through that again would not be wise) but for now I am just riding the roller coaster, crying tears of joy and grief as they come.

One moment stands out: yesterday as I was sitting on the sofa having finished nursing Dean, Henry came and sat with us. I asked him if he wanted to hold Dean. No, he said, I just want to watch you hold him. I think he had felt nervous all week about how fragile the baby looks. A few moments later, as Dean was snoozing soundly on my chest, I told Henry that since he was sitting right next to me and Dean was all curled up and sleeping, it would be a perfect time to hold him on his belly. "Okay," he said. So I put him on Henry's chest and belly, and there they were, my two boys, one astounding me with his maturity and adaptability during this major transition, the other captivating me with his delicate newness, and the two of them together a force so strong as to suck my breath away for a brief, beuatiful moment.

Waiting

2009-01-24T16:55:00.000-07:00

I am so ready for this baby to be born. I am trying to recognize how fortunate I am to have a set delivery date -- only ten days to go, if not sooner. But now that sleep is a long lost memory, I walk like an eighty-year old (and not one of those hip ones that power walks in the senior olympics), I have constant heartburn, and am starting to believe I will never not be pregnant, I AM READY.

At least I stopped going in to the office last week. This past week I worked some from home, but I've wrapped up my outstanding projects and there's not much I have energy for right now except lying on my side and watching TV. Even blogging requires a mental energy I can't seem to muster, hence the absence from the blog. Most days I feel pretty calm and prepared, but I still have moments of panic and despair, usually brought on my a sleepless night, when I think I will never be able to handle the coming sleeplessness, breastfeeding fatigue, and guilt from trying to be a good mother to a newborn and a four year old. I recognize the irrationality of these fears, but that doesn't necessarily mean I can always shake them. It's like being possessed sometimes. I am so looking forward to feeling like myself again. Even with the exhaustion and baby blues after Henry was born, I never once wished to be pregnant again, and I am assuming I will feel the same way this time.

Still, it is hard to gear up for being under seige again. That's what having an newborn felt like -- as much as I loved him and cooed over him and was in thrall to his every blink and breath, after we brought Henry home from the hospital it felt like our home had been invaded and we were holding up under an intense battle with tiredness and irritability and the struggle to figure out how to keep him from crying (his acid reflux played a huge role, as did my trouble nursing at first). Then, after about a month as we become more accustomed to each other and developed a rudimentary predictability to our days and nights, it felt like the battle was over and we were under occupation by a benevolent but utterly irrational dictator. Only after three months, when his smiles were constant, his sleeping was predictable and longer, and I had the energy to soak in the sheer joy of him, did I feel like we had emerged from the war a family intact. I can only hope this little guy won't have reflux and that some of the tricks we learned with Henry to get him sleeping through the night and nursing well will serve us this time around.

Another reason I was so glad to be home this past week was that Matthew and I got to watch the inauguration together. We pretty much camped out on the couch all day, taking it all in. When Bush boarded the helicopter and waved goodbye, we poured ourselves some contraband champagne and clinked glasses. Woo-hoo, we got our country back. I shed some tears during the day, but it wasn't until the first dance at the first ball that night that we both really lost it. I realize the dangers of projecting onto this man and his family all our unrealistic hopes and expectations...but for just a few moments, it felt like time was suspended and we could allow ourselves to simply feel love and pride and affection for these two beautiful people who obviously love each other and who I firmly believe love this country and will do great things for it.

Henry came home from school that day with a fever, so he and I snuggled under a blanket to watch the parade on TV. He had been able to watch the swearing in at school -- I didn't realize they even HAD a TV at his school -- and he told me, "When Barack Obama became President, I told the girl sitting next to me [whispering] 'That's my guy!'" It was a real Angela Lansbury-Manchurian Candidate moment for us. He also explained to us that, "George Bush flew away and he's never coming back." I was perhaps most touched when he told me, "Mommy, I will always remember watching Barack Obama today." I sincerely hope that's true.

Henry just got moved from his "pre-primary" class to the primary level (Montessori groups them by skill level rather than age alone). I was a little worried at first, just because he has so many changes coming and has already seemed a little emotionally fragile lately, I'm sure picking up on my own melancholia. But after some initial hesitation about leaving his friends and not knowing the "big kids", he has made the transition beautifully. The new class is only a doorway removed from the old class, and he still sees all his old friends at recess and rides to and from school with his favorite chum, so I think that helps. He's very proud of all the new things he gets to do -- fix his own snack at snacktime, use "lots of different paint pots" at art time, and he no longer has to take naps, which, as he told us and his teacher multiple times lately, "is not my best thing." Tomorrow I plan to take him to a sibling prep class at the hospital -- he seems as ready as a kid can be to become a big brother, and hopefully visiting the hospital will help alleviate the few fears I know he has about my being okay. We're all just taking deep breaths these days, waiting and hoping for a healthy little baby to come...any old time now would be fine with me.