Cheeseburgers are Delicious

About a week or two after Margot was born we took her to meet her great-grandmother, Warren’s maternal grandmother. I went in front, carrying Margot in her car seat, Warren bringing up the rear with the over-packed baby bag.  Walking through the door I held up the car seat, expecting the usual oohs and ahhs, but was instead met with a pat on my abdomen and, “You’re going to have to lose that belly.”  My husband didn’t hear what his grandmother said; I relayed it after, but he wasn’t surprised. At about two weeks post-partum, I didn’t expect to look like I did pre-baby.  Hell, I never lost any of the Lily weight (about 20 pounds).  My organs hadn’t even returned to their usual places and I’ve never been a skinny lady, so I really wasn’t expecting another woman to body shame me in such an outward manner. I countered with a smile and a nod because, really, she’s in her 90s, she gets a pass.

The pass ended this week when, at 3 months post-baby, having lost all of the weight (that’s right, I’ ve lost 45 pounds, yay me), I was met with, “You’ve still got that stomach.”  This time I pushed back a little, gently reminding her that I’ve lost a lot of weight, that it’s only been 3 months, and she agreed, reminding me that I had a section and that can be hard to recover from. She’s still in her 90s-her pass is restored.*

I really have lost 45 pounds in 3 months.  That’s such a strange thing to admit to.  Maybe I need a Girl Scout’s patch or badge or whatever my mother used to sew onto that horribly brown Brownie sash to remind me and show to everyone who looks at my bloated belly and thinks I do nothing but sit on the couch eating chocolate all day long, guess what world, I lost 45 pounds in 3 months, and it is a fucking effort-full accomplishment.  I work for it.  I eat 1200-1300 calories a day, I go to the gym 5 days a week, I push Margot on long walks (so far 5 miles is our one-day record). I miss cheeseburgers on a near daily basis and pass Bobby’s Burger Palace with lust rays bursting out of my eyes.  I watch all the hard bodies at my gym with the same questioning intensity that they watch me.  We silently judge each other the way all women appraise one another. Maybe one of them is hungry and would like to accompany me for a cheat cheeseburger? No judgements-just deliciousness.

I’m lucky; my self worth has nothing to do with how I look. It’s nice to lose weight and fit into clothes I was wearing a full year after I gave birth to Lily, but, ultimately, I don’t really care. I am I, and I am still overweight, and I’m okay with that. I’m proud of the person I am, I’m thankful for my healthy, brilliant, beautiful children (and family), I’m grateful for the kind of life I lead, and I’m crazy in love with my wondrous husband who couldn’t give two shits about the way I look, because, as he oft reminds me, he likes me for me, blessed union intact, pun intended.

Of course I’m just like everyone else and I have my days where I hate everything and the scale was clearly sent here on a mission to destroy me, but then I look at my stretch marks (like rings on a tree, I swear) and I remember that my body did this incredibly amazing thing.  It created and cared for and birthed two fully-formed human beings! I’m never going to be how I once was and I don’t want to be, because skinnier Allison did not create life.

*Nana and I are cool-I’m not upset about what she said.  It just provided a good entry point into this part of my life. Really, I think she’s pretty awesome.

Our family :)

Parenting Rule Number 1

Parenting Rule Number   1 is that you never, ever, ever insult or criticize another parent’s parenting.  Addendum to the above rule: you never insult or criticize another parent’s parenting to said parent.  Whatever you say to your spouse in the darkness and joy of a child-sleeping household before you drift off into a coma is completely okay.  It’s an unspoken parenting law, because once it’s broken, you can never come back; there is no restitution.

While on the phone with my husband last fall, the person on the other end of the line criticized my parenting.  It was in the general context of a much larger argument, and the person used my parenting as ammunition to strengthen their (I know, plural pronoun, but we have no gender neutral singular in English) argument.  It had the adverse effect, essentially forever ruining whatever was left of our jalopy of a relationship (it was terse long before this incident, but insulting the way I raise my children was a surefire way to lose any goodwill I had left).  My husband and I were both very insulted, not because we believed what the person had said was true (I’m a fucking awesome mom, thank you very much), but because the person had crossed a very important invisible line and neglected to see why it was so damaging.  The person still believes that we are in the wrong (and they still believe that it’s okay to say whatever they want).

One of the hallmarks of adulthood is learning to shut your mouth.  This is a lesson that my husband has really learned the hard way.  From insulting friends, to yelling at me and having to pay for it in very expensive gifts, his foot in mouth disease is legendary (all of his college friends call him “that asshole,” many of whom were shocked when they met me-I was nice and socially appropriate, and he was “Warren, that asshole.” Oddly enough, the moniker was relayed to me at a shiva call, where the person actually sitting shiva, one of Warren’s fraternity brothers, was part of the asshole discussion, laughing and stressing the depths of Warren’s jerkitude. Warren had previously, and while in my presence, seriously insulted the fraternity brother’s wife. I like to think my husband’s former asshole-y-ness helped to comfort the bereaved.  Oh, and we’re all actually very good friends, too).  I have a touch of foot in mouth, not in the asshole capacity, but just a general disregard for meaningless small talk and a penchant for jokes that other people don’t usually get.  It can come off as awkward, when really it’s just me not enjoying being around large groups of people.  I’m much better one-on-one.  The point is, however, that my husband, my wonderful, loving husband who has about as much social grace as a pack of elephants transporting crystal stemware through the streets of New York City, even he knew that it was wrong to criticize another parent’s parenting.

Maybe it’s also part of adulthood to call people out on their crap and defend yourself from wild accusations.  My adulthood includes turning off and simply excusing myself from events and occasions where I’m forced to socialize with people who don’t approve of my parenting, whether family, friend or foe.  Because, and I’ll say it again, I’m a fucking awesome mom.  And you know what?  You are too.

Margot at 12 weeks, loving on her awesome mom!

What Does She Eat?*

Putting it mildly, Lily is an extremely picky eater. We’ve stopped ordering her meals in restaurants and just pick bits from our plates and put them in front of her, usually leaving our own empty plates and her plate still full.  We recently ordered Lily a bowl of pasta, from which she ate two ziti noodles. Combine that with the one french fry from Warren’s meal, and I present you with Lily’s lunch.  (Oh, and a pickle.) Even if it’s a food that she will eat, she often consumes so little of it that it’s almost as if she hasn’t eaten at all. People are always asking us, so what does she eat?

Fruit: cantaloupe (“orange fruit”) and honeydew (“green fruit”).  Sometimes grapes, but never when I buy them at her screaming insistence when we’re in the supermarket.  She used to eat strawberries, but that ended pretty quickly.

Vegetables: cooked only! I’ve tried to get her to eat some raw veggies, even turned into Teacher Harriet, reciting lines from the “Be a VegetableTaster” episode of Daniel Tiger, but all to no avail.  She will eat a lot of cooked veggies, but the way they are prepared really matters.  Take broccoli.  She loves broccoli when it’s roasted or when it comes from a Chinese food container (and then chopsticks, or “sticks,” as she calls them, is the only way she will eat it).  But don’t try to steam it or mix it in with anything.  Same with cauliflower and brussel sprouts and asparagus; must be roasted. She’ll eat carrots and peas and canned string beans by the fist-full, but fresh strings beans are a no-no.  Corn must be grilled.

Starches: more, more, more!  All pasta is fair game, but only if covered in “sprinkle cheese,” and the same goes for pizza. What is a bread sandwich?  It’s a food that Lily invented, called a roll, that I’ve cut in half and put nothing on.  Let’s say I put something on the bread sandwich, like cheese or peanut butter (which she will eat, out of a jar, with a spoon)? Silly mommy, Lily won’t eat that.  Rice and cous cous are daily staples, but no potatoes except for French fries.  And cereal and waffles and pancakes, oh my.

Meat: fat chance! Lily will only eat Tyson Annytizer chickenfries, Purdue Dino-nuggets, chicken teriyaki from Sarku, or a special chicken in hoisin sauce that I make at home.  Notice the lack of red meat, pork or fish.  Nope mommy.

Dairy: milk works. I sometimes stuff her with milk just to get protein in there.  Because, guess what? No cheese and no yogurt. Ice cream? Yes to ice cream, but only mint chocolate chip. My crazy daughter previously turned down ice cream cake because, shocker, it was chocolate and vanilla and she wanted mint. Then she had a fit.  She didn’t even eat her own birthday cake because it was an ice cream cake.

Snacks: basically what Lily is living off of. She will eat cookies and cupcakes and crackers until the end of time.  If you take her Annie’s purple bunnies, she will cut you. Don’t you dare sneak one of her Entenmann’s mini muffins because she will see what you did you horrible violator of everything holy, and she will demand a fresh pack.  Only one applesauce will work-the Mott’s all natural squeeze pouches.  She shares her Goldfish one by one, placing them in waiting open mouths.  Granolabars are gobbled with the ferocity of candy (which she also likes, but only DumDum pops or chocolate, straight chocolate). Popcorn, both the microwave and Smartfood varieties work, as do Cheez-its and pretzels, potato chips, and her favorite no calorie snack, Kim’s Magic Pop (but only the blueberry, which she calls “purple chips”).

She will also eat anything my friend “S” makes, even if it contains meat, or it’s something she’s refused to eat at home, she will eat it if “S” makes it.  I hate you “S” (please move in with us).

3-year-old Lily chowing down on a cupcake and Cheez-its

*The list of things she doesn’t eat is simply too long and would have to be its own post.  Assume we have given her every food option on the planet, and she’s turned them all down (adult food, kiddie food, ethnic food, etc…if it exists, we’ve tried it).

Making Adjustments

We were given many, many warnings about moving from one child to two children, most of which centered around how difficult it is to have two, how much of an adjustment it is on your (adult) life. And while it’s not the easiest thing we’ve ever done, it’s taken very little adjustment on our part to fit Margot into our family.  Lily, however, was a whole other matter.

I wouldn’t call Lily an “easy” child. Don’t get me wrong, as far as 3-year-olds go, I think she’s pretty evolved: she can eat in a restaurant, she can survive a long car ride, she can even sleep at Grandma’s house (more to follow, later).  But she’s the Energizer Bunny, a constant motion machine who defies the laws of physics, demanding snacks and drinks and her iPad throughout the whirling dervish, Tasmanian devil-like cloud of destruction that she leaves in her wake.  We’re used to it. We know Lily’s triggers, when she’s about to melt down or act out, and we combat her craziness by injecting a lot of scheduling and structure. We keep to a very tight sleep and food schedule, time outs are administered immediately upon infraction, regardless of location (she once had a time out at the pediatrician’s office-Dr. M. was crazy impressed) and we encourage as much independence as possible-most of Lily’s frustration and irritation comes from her desire to do everything for herself.  If we give her the illusion of independence (even though her life is crazy controlled), she’s very happy-it’s like she’s already a teenager. This is how we’ve kept our “not easy” child from becoming “difficult” (since, according to my mother, I hold the “Most Difficult Child on the Planet” award).

So throwing a baby into the mix, we knew that Lily was going to have the hardest time adjusting.  It started the day I gave birth to Margot.  Lily didn’t want to go to sleep because mommy wasn’t home.  She kept asking Warren where Margot and I were.  And yes, there have been multiple occasions when I wasn’t there to put Lily to sleep (girls’ nights, work events, etc…), but I’ve never been gone overnight, so when I wasn’t there in the morning, or the subsequent two mornings after, Lily was not pleased. 

Then, once we came home, there were the usual issues: Margot got more attention, Margot was always lying on me, I couldn’t pick up Lily (damn you c-section).  Lily started having sleep regression, waking up in the middle of the night and demanding extra cuddles before returning to bed.  Her promising potty training stalled then disappeared altogether.  She started spitting, hitting, kicking, screaming, and all directed as us.  Margot was hers, a little doll for her to play with, to help feed and diaper and soothe.  We were the evil ones for what we’d done to her, but Margot was “my little sister,” and Lily took immediate ownership, saying “Baby Margot, don’t cry. Mommy takes care of you,” which quickly turned into “Baby Margot, don’t cry. I will take care of you.”

Hugging is an Olympic sport in Lily’s world.  Her hugs are big and tight, and she saves them all for Margot, smothering her in big sister love. We didn’t get hugs for at least a week after Margot came home, but Margot needed morning kisses and night-night kisses and special pats and hugs and love love love.  One bedtime I was holding Margot to high and Lily screamed, “Mommy I can’t reach. I have to kiss her cheek.” I lowered Margot down to her sister and Lily gave her a big smooch. “Goodnight baby Margot.”  Neither Warren nor I got any love that night.

And the thing is…well…we’re okay with it. We never had to worry that Lily was going to hurt her sister (at least never intentionally), and we’d rather Lily take out her anger on us. We’re grown-ups; we can take it. It took about 6 or 7 weeks for Lily to forgive us, and we’re pretty sure that Lily normalized so quickly because of two reasons. First, we kept Lily’s schedule as tight and as ritualized as humanly possible. A sibling is an enormous change, so Lily needed to hold fast to structure. Second, when it came to Lily’s interactions with Margot, we hardly ever said no.  You want to hold the baby? Okay, we’ll show you how. You want to feed her? Okay, climb up on my lap and help me hold the bottle. You want to kiss her goodnight? Okay, you got it! You want to have a family bath-time? Okay, Margot, get ready for baths on Lily’s bathroom floor. We let Lily take ownership of her sister. After all, Margot and Lily belong to each other just as much as they belong to us, and we’re going to try our best to keep it that way.

Lily, 3 years, and Margot, 8 weeks

A Second Time First Time Mom

Being a new mom is really hard.  You have no idea what you’re doing, there’s this tiny screaming alien you’re in charge of keeping alive, and, initially at least, you feel pretty awful. Either you can’t sit because of tearing, or you can’t move because of stitches-and you are still responsible for breast feeding and washing bottles and doing laundry and pacifying your incompetent husband, not to mention hosting the zillions of people who want to meet the new baby.  Add in sleep deprivation and lack of bathing and you’ve got a recipe for a potential new torture method for terrorists.

Being a new NICU mom is even harder.  You have to manage the newborn, plus all the machines the newborn is hooked up to and the wires that come with them, portable heart rate monitors and oxygenation monitors and an oxygen tank. Every feed, challenging on its own, also comes with multiple medicines.  Then there’s the risk factor-preemies have very low immunity, so even minor colds can prove majorly damaging. So when it came to getting out of the house, we chose not to.  It was just too difficult to schlep Lily AND all her stuff and worry about someone breathing on her.  It wasn’t like I could install a permanent sneeze guard, like at a salad bar.  We didn’t take her out, we didn’t allow people in (except for select family members), and I hated my life.

But as a second time mom, without all the preemie accoutrement, it’s a whole different ball game.  Holy crap I can do this.  It’s just a baby: a baby in her car seat, a baby in her stroller, a baby playing on her activity mat smiling up at a rattling frog. Why didn’t I know about all this? And this is where our parenting story changed.  We aren’t first time parents, but we ARE, in so many ways that it’s crazy. Such as…

Belly buttons are gross.  We never had to deal with Lily’s cord falling off because she was already 3 months old when she came home, with an umbilical hernia, so it looked like a little tail was protruding from her abdomen.  But a bloody stump that crusted over and repeatedly fell off only to scab over again? I didn’t sign up for that.  It fell off in a blanket and I thought it was a raisin, until I picked it up and started to gag.   Even Lily told me, “There’s poop in Margot’s belly.”  Yes, dear observant child, it does look like poop.

How much does she eat? We don’t have to do forced feeds? We don’t have to feed her overnight? What do you mean she eats until she finishes on her own and I don’t have to shove an entire feed down her throat?  There can still be formula left in the bottle? She doesn’t need thickened feeds or specialized bottles? None of this was familiar.  We were used to timed, forced feeds, waking up a sleeping baby to keep her on schedule, to keep her gaining weight, to make sure they didn’t want to revert back to an NG tube.  Lily’s weight gain was slow and painful.  Margot eats. And eats and eats and eats. She put herself on a feeding schedule when she was 1-day-old. She finishes bottles, burps, and goes back to sleep. The hubby and I keep saying how strange it is, the way she eats, the way she’s growing and gaining weight, and our friends and family keep reminding us that it’s actually normal. This is the way it’s supposed to be. We’re still not sure that we believe them.  She’s gained over 3 pounds since being born! One pound in Lily land was a cause for celebration. But 3 pounds! That’s gotta be a Guinness record or something (it’s not-Margot is strictly 50^th percentile).

Margot purrs and coos. She makes this funny little noise that sounds like “hi” and then she smiles, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Her hands found each other weeks ago, she batts at her toys, she tracked while still in the hospital, she realized that she has feet the other day (although, I think it was a fluke), and she rolls up onto her side in a cute little rocking motion. Completely normal baby behavior, apparently, because I had no idea!  We had physical therapy for Lily to bring her hands together, and it took her months to batt at toys.  Lily never vocalized, never made little baby cooing sounds, and language was her biggest area of delay (even though she said “mama” at 8 months, the rest of her language took much longer). There was no echolalia with Lily.

The baby can leave the house!  She’s portable-we take her anywhere and everywhere. She’s a lady who lunches. Whether it’s to the playground with her sister, to the mall with my mom, or simply to the supermarket, Margot comes with me.  And, as it turns out, I have freedom. I’m not tethered to my house, afraid that a single cough will result in a lengthy hospital stay. I don’t resent my husband for being able to leave, because I can leave, too. I can see my friends and get errands done and take day trips and be with Lily-I can be a mom like all the other moms who got to bring their babies home.

Spitting up is not a cause for alarm!  This one was a shocker for me. Our pediatrician uses the term “happy spitter” to describe a baby who spits up and it isn’t bothered by it.  Whenever Lily was spitting up, and then screaming, and then spitting up more, it meant that she needed a higher dosage of previcid-she was not a happy spitter. The acid reflux controlled her, and, therefore, us.  But Margot is a happy spitter. She is unfazed when she spits up. Hell, she barely even notices it (she also doesn’t notice when I shove my nose in her mouth to smell for potential acid).

But because we aren’t, technically, new parents, we have been able to handle baby issues a lot quicker and with less emotional meltdown than if Margot was our first.  Like when…

Margot needed to be under bilirubin lights while she was still in the hospital. The nurses were worried about me, that I would react negatively, that I wouldn’t understand.  And I explained to ever shift change, this was nothing! I was a NICU mom; I’d handled much worse than bilirubin lights.

About a week after being born, Margot developed a large, egg shape bruise on the back of her head.  Our pediatrician was mystified, so she sent us to the E.R.  It was 4 pm on a Friday and there was nowhere else to have tests done so expediently.  A first time mom would’ve panicked, but I’d been to the Valley Pediatric E.R. before, and I knew that Margot was fine.  And Margot was fine and I was calm and my husband was calm and we made it home before Lily’s bedtime.

A few days after Margot came home I noticed that she was having problems with her formula.  So I changed it. No hesitation.

With Lily I pumped for 3 months. I was scared to stop.  I belabored the decision, crying about my insufficiencies, berating myself for my lack of supply.  This time-3 weeks.  Supply never increased, I had a toddler to chase around, and I wasn’t going to beat myself up again. My body isn’t milky.  Even my gung-ho breast is best pediatrician thought I should stop.

So I’m a second time first time mom. We’re getting to experience all those great new baby moments and memories without all the new parent anxiety and I have to admit, it’s pretty damn nice.

Margot on her activity mat-6 weeks old.

Welcome Margot (Being a NICU Mom is Something That Never Goes Away)

On June 11, 2015, we welcomed our second little princess, Margot.  Margot was born full term, weighing a healthy 7 pounds and measuring a whopping 20 inches. It was a “normal” pregnancy with no complications, full of the usual pregnancy side-effects, resulting in a newborn girl who smiled within hours of being delivered, revealing enormous dimples in both cheeks, and shining blue eyes. And the only thought running through my head was, “Do I get to keep you? Can I take you home?” Every shift change required the same explanation: no, she’s not my first, but we were in the NICU for 11 weeks with the first one so this is new to us, I don’t know what to do with a newborn, yes I know I do an excellent swaddle-the NICU nurses taught me well.

But before she arrived, I had to make it through the pregnancy.

Being a NICU mom is something that never goes away.  The horrifying emergency c-section, the memory of wires and medications and potential surgeries, seeing your child intubated, unable to move, trapped in a plastic cage where your touch is irritating to her paper-thin skin; both you and she are helpless.  You’re not really a mom and she’s not really your child. Because being a NICU mom is something that never goes away. The trauma does not disappear and it only resurges once you are presented with similar circumstances: pregnancy and the potential for going through it all again. Even making the decision to get pregnant brought tearful conversations and gut-wrenching self-doubt. Because being a NICU mom is something that never goes away. And only other NICU moms can understand. If you’re not a fellow NICU mom you can try to empathize and relate and comfort, but you will never truly understand, and that’s okay. We don’t want you to go through what we went through (we don’t wish that on anyone), but you can’t walk a mile in my shoes because you weren’t sitting there for 11 weeks, unable to bring your baby home from the hospital.  Because being a NICU mom is something that never goes away.

Because of all the (no medical explanation available) complications with Lily, we were being followed very closely, by my OBGYN, by my endocrinologist, and by my new perinatologist, the amazing Dr. Z. Slight flashback is necessary.  Because we knew by week 20 that something wasn’t quite right with Lily, we were frequent fliers at MFM (our hospital affiliated sonography center), and our perinatologist left much to be desired-unkempt, wearing a too tight top and a too short skirt, she never received my vote of confidence. She would postulate and suggest and hum and haw in circles, completely uninformative blather, and I never felt like I was getting adequate care. So this time around, I complained, and not in that passive aggressive way that women are famous for. I made it very clear that I would not see Dr. Awful again, and that if they sent her in my room, I would simply leave.  I out-rightly refused to see her.  Why does making yourself seem like the most difficult patient in the world often result in getting the best care?  Enter Dr. Z, a brilliant, neurotic angel sent from heaven to resolve all my insecurities. She ran every test, twice, explained all possible outcomes, what the numbers meant, what the growth scan estimates really estimated. She actually understood that we were simply waiting for the other shoe to drop and she agreed that our anxieties were completely valid-she even once called me, on my cell, 5 minutes after we left the center, just so she could go over another blood test with us.  When routine bloodwork showed something off by 1 one hundredth of a gram, she re-ran a whole battery of tests to allay both my and her fears.  She was Woody Allen and Jonas Salk combined, but with Gene Simmons’ hair and a complete lack of affect-imagine Lorne Michaels’ voice, slightly more feminine, and there you have it. 

Do you like the word normal?  I’m not a big fan, but when it comes to your doctor telling you that your baby’s growth is normal and that your pregnancy is normal and that all your test results are normal, you learn to love it.  We’d never heard the word normal before in relation to a pregnancy or a baby.  Dr. Z used it every time we saw her.  And we cried tears of relief. She was my spirit animal.

Dr. Z’s confidence was amazing, and it certainly helped to curtail my NICU mom brain, but it couldn’t stop the fears and worries in their entirety (I needed to stop having NICU nightmares were I gave birth and the doctors wouldn’t give her back to me-I was having those on a nightly basis). And it certainly didn’t help misguided friends and relatives who could not understand why my husband and I were still anxious.  “But the doctor said it’s normal, so stop worrying.” I can’t say it enough: because being a NICU mom is something that never goes away. You are so unbelievably misguided in your attempts at relating to me if you think that repeatedly hearing the word “normal” suddenly makes the horror and pain of everything we went through, and the fear that it could happen again, dissolve like early morning fog.

39 weeks later, there she was, perfect (minus some slight jaundice), no wires, no medications, no barriers…just mine-I got to keep her.

Margot-10 days old!

A Weighty Issue

It was impossible not to notice her-she wasn’t tall or remarkably good looking, but her knees jutted out at an odd angle and her thighs were thinner than her calves.  She walked across the room to pick up a magazine and balanced on one leg, more a flamingo than a teenage girl, and I wondered if she didn’t weigh enough to even topple over.  What was she, 12, 13, maybe 14 and she couldn’t weigh more than 65 pounds, a concentration camp survivor instead of a blossoming young woman.  She sat back down and crossed her legs, where they melded together and still didn’t look like one leg.  Her mother sat motionless, expressionless, unaware that I was staring while Lily slept on my shoulder, waiting for the nurse to call us in so her doctor could examine her, prescribe a higher dosage of Prevacid.  I’d seen teenagers in our pediatrician’s office before, mostly sulking, low shouldered boys and girls reminiscent of my students, rolling their eyes at their parents and laughing embarrassingly when asked to give urine samples.  But this girl, this poor girl who was being counseled to drink extra milk at dinner, she was a shell of a sullen teenager, barely subsisting on air and disinterest. 

This isn’t my first encounter with eating disorders-I work with teenagers after all, and I’ve had quite a few students taken out to rehab or special facilities.  We know them easily by their lightness, by their walk, by their uniquely controlled fascinations and concentration.  You’d be surprised by how many students I’ve had who were dealing with anorexia while also maintaining a near perfect GPA.  But I’m a mother now.  I see everything in a different light.

I can remember having a weight “issue” since high school-I think every girl does.  We’re so busy comparing and measuring up, wishing we could be someone else, look like someone else.  I look back on pictures of myself at 15 and 16 and I feel like shooting myself-why was I so blind?  There was absolutely nothing wrong with me.  Now I’m the heaviest I’ve ever been; well, the heaviest I’ve ever been while  not also pregnant, and even though I’m not thrilled about the way I look and I’m actively trying to change my weight and my shape, I’m also the most confident I’ve ever been.  I think it comes from a general contentment with my existence-a beautiful, healthy child, a loving husband, a wonderful life.  I don’t have the time or the desire to reprimand myself for not going to the gym because I’d rather spend the time with Lily.

Lily stays asleep on my shoulder the entire time I focus on this poor girl and her mother.  How do I prevent this future for my own child?  Instill a confidence in her that enables her to tell the world to fuck off, to allow her body to be her own? Maybe she’ll just get my husband’s metabolism and I won’t have to worry about any of this.

Creating a Jewish Identity

My husband and I are both Jewish, but neither of us is terribly religious.  I was raised Reform, went to Hebrew school until I was bat mitzvah’d, went to Jewish sleep away camp (long live Eisner) and lived in a home with separate dairy/meat plates and flatware (although it wasn’t really a strict rule).  We didn’t have separate dishes for Passover and my parents never blinked an eye at my cheeseburgers.  Until she became allergic later in life, my mother loved shellfish, and Chinese food just tastes better with roast pork friend rice and boneless spare ribs.  My mom only bought kosher meat, but not because of religious doctrine-she thought it tasted better (and it kills me to admit it, but she was right about kosher poultry-hi mom-see, the fact that you're right about something is now in print).  We went to synagogue on the high holidays, fasted on Yom Kippur, avoided leavened products on Passover and devoured latkes on Hanukkah.  And this all seemed normal-it was the same Jewish life that most of my friends were living with only small variations here and there.  But as an adult, and now a mom, I’m realizing just how important it is to create and strengthen my own Jewish identity so that I can help my daughter form one of her own.

The truth is, I’m an atheist.  I don’t think it’s that shocking if you know me, or even that shocking in this day and age.  But how do I consider myself a Jew if I don’t believe in God?  I see Judaism as my culture-if my ancestors had been from Ireland I’d consider myself Irish-but as we come from everywhere (Germany, Poland, Austria, etc...), the only unifying factor is religion.  While my version of Jewish culture doesn’t rely on faith, it does rely on tradition.  I love making a Passover Seder and spending hours on the perfect matzo ball soup (although, my matzo balls need some work).  I make a killer brisket and I can perfectly replicate my mother’s latkes.  I love going to the kosher butcher to buy turkey necks and chopped liver and Tam Tams and those egg rolls that they have at Wesley Kosher which I haven’t bought in years but are really, really good if you’re in the area.  The first Friday in our home I lit Shabbos candles.  I didn’t pray, because for me it has no meaning, but the act of doing it meant a lot.  The only thing that broke in our move was my menorah, and I’m still upset about it.  I plan on doing Tashlikh this year with Lily because I think it’s beautiful and I think she’ll get a real kick out of throwing bread (although she’ll probably just eat it).

I think that, at least in part, I’m working so hard at maintaining my Jewish identify because my daughter won’t see and experience the more traditional aspects of Judaism that I grew up with.  Both sets of grandparents were Conservadox (that’s a combination of Conservative and Orthodox)-they existed on a sliding spectrum at different points in their life.  Most of my memory lives with my mom’s parents-Lou and Lily (my Lily’s namesake).  My grandfather walked to synagogue and when we came to visit we used to wait for him to get home before we started our dairy lunch.  Their house was completely kosher, they observed Shabbos and they had separate plates for Passover-beautiful, green, Depression glass plates that I’ve inherited (there aren’t many left, I’m afraid). I hated dairy lunch and I hated how their services were all in Hebrew and I hated that I could never figure out the timers on the lights at their house.  And my daughter will never experience this.  She will never have the frustration of wanting a turkey sandwich and being turned down or having to wait for her grandfather to walk home when a car would just zip zip him home in 2 seconds.  I want my daughter to know all of these things, to know what a more traditional sense of her religion is like-I wish she could sit at my grandmother’s dining room table and feel that same frustration.    When I was older (and when she was older) I was having breakfast at my grandmother’s kitchen table.  I asked her which were the dairy bowls so that I didn’t accidentally take the wrong thing.  She smiled and told me I could use whatever I wanted-any bowl, any spoon-so long as my grandfather didn’t see.  At that moment my love for her increased tenfold.  When my grandmother let me break the rule, it somehow made the rule even more powerful, like we were co-conspirators in a fancy Jewish version of espionage against my grandfather.  I wish I could say that my grandmother winked at me and slid out the swinging kitchen door all Charlie’s Angels, but that wasn’t her style.  She sat down and sorted through her pills.

I remember lighting Shabbos candles with my father’s mother in front of this enormous mirror in their entryway.  The table was lacquered to a high gloss shine and the candles reflected from the table to the mirror and back again, bathing her in a sumptuous light as she bowed her covered head.  This is perhaps both the best and most beautiful memory that I have of my father’s mother, and it is a memory completely entwined with Jewish identity. 

My secular Judaism is filled with Woody Allen and Mel Brooks, fun with Yiddish, tremendous amounts of Eastern European delights, East Coast intellectualism, Gershwin (George and Ira), bagels and knishes and pickles (oh my), Arthur Miller, Joan Rivers, Hester Street, Fairway-the list goes on and on.  Perhaps this makes me a New Yorker more than it makes me a Jew.  But to me, the two are inextricably linked.

So here’s my plan. I’m already temple shopping-not actively, but I’ve already ruled out 2 places and am leaning towards option 3.  I only want to join a Reform synagogue because the Conservative ones that I’ve been to are way too restrictive.  We will go to services as a family, at least on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur.  Maybe when she’s older we can have a sukkah in our backyard, too.  Lily will go to Hebrew School (maybe even Hebrew Pre-K) and be bat-mitzvah’d.  We purposely moved to a Jewish heavy town so that Lily won’t be the only one (my husband was one of two Jewish kids growing up).  I want to institute family dinners on Fridays-there will be candles but not a full out traditional Shabbos meal.  I’ll never have separate dishes and we’ve already cooked both lobster and bacon, but I do love my kosher chicken.  And I think I just need to be honest with her-when she asks what I believe, I’m not going to lie, but I am going to explain how important it is to me to be Jewish, to continue our ancestry and the values inherent in it; to see Judaism as not just a faith, but to see Judaism as a culture with its own identity.

Lily's first Shabbos-fast asleep in her carriage.

If Ever Two Were One, Then Surely We

I have an amazing husband.  (And no, he didn’t bribe me or put me up to this.)  I feel lucky every day, lucky that we found each other and we realized just how well we fit together.  Often, I find myself saying that my husband is one of the most enlightened men that I know-he gets up with Lily during the week if she wakes up before 6 a.m., he always lets me sleep in on the weekends so he can have private time with his little girl, he remembers anniversaries and birthdays and special relationship dates better than I do, he never gets mad about the money I spend or the things that I buy (granted, I’m not a big shopper so I think he gets off pretty easy on that account),  he admits that he has awful taste so he agrees to let me decorate the house and dress him however I want, he adopts my friends as his own friends and he gets mad when they get hurt, and he likes to catch me off guard with surprise gifts that show how well he listens. 

And the thing is…well…I’ve dated.  I was good at dating, too.  But even in retrospect, no one was ever this wonderful.  I’ll explain:

The hubby and I first met on J-Date, the online Jewish dating service.  Previous to meeting him, I went on many J-Dates, but they weren’t the most pleasant experiences.  I was meeting a lot of guys who I had nothing in common with, or who had terrible manners, or who were just plain weird.  I went on so many first dates I could write an entire book with each chapter being a different guy.   I was actually at a point where I wanted to give up on the whole online dating thing and go back to traditional dating: bars, begging friends to set me up, etc…  So, in a last ditch dating frenzy, I expanded what I was looking for and saw my husband’s picture.  He was pretty cute, and his profile said he was new to the city, so I figured a New York outsider might be a good idea (especially since I wasn’t hitting it off with any of New York’s current residents).  I sent him a message and we started chatting-we had a lot in common like football and music and The Simpsons.  He arranged for us to meet.

I am notoriously on time.  And by on time, I mean early.  I operate under the assumption that 10 minutes early means on time, and on time means late.  The hubby is the same way (another commonality).  However, on our first date, I was late.  Very late-almost 30 minutes due to a subway delay.  I left more than enough time for the unpredictability of New York mass transit, but apparently the 1 line did not want me to be on time.  By the time I got down to Christopher Street in the West Village, I was panicking.  I didn’t have his phone number, we hadn’t exchanged them yet, and I didn’t want him to think that I’d stood up him.  Luckily, he was waiting at our agreed upon location, Café Dante, and the lateness provided a good conversation starter.  That’s when I learned that he was also always on time and also, like me, did not drink coffee.  Meeting at a café seemed convenient but neither of us actually partook in the café’s goodies.  He had a Bailey’s and I played with a saucer of ice cream-I don’t really like ice cream.  We just talked.  We had a lot to talk about: I have the same name as his sister, he has the same birthday as my sister, he’s originally from the same town as my mother, we’re obsessed with the same TV shows…we were instant friends.

When I was careening down the street like a mad woman, attempting to make it to the date on time, I was trying to calm myself down.  “Don’t worry, you’re not even going to like this guy.”  I did this before every date so as not to get my hopes up when he turned out to be a tremendous loser.  But my first appraisal of my husband was, “not too bad.”  He was cute and he was dressed appropriately.  I was immediately relieved that I wouldn’t have to teach him to dress.  I was wrong-this was his one nice going out outfit, and I did eventually overhaul his entire wardrobe.  My husband loves this-he hates to shop so he’s very happy to have me do it for him, and once I started coordinating his outfits, he started to get compliments.  Now he can do it all on his own.

We walked around for hours.  My husband’s experiences in New York were sorta limited, so he relied on me as a guide.  We walked up through the village and through Union Square.  We watched the rats and the squirrels chase one another until a security guard kicked us out.  He was just a nice guy who kissed me on one of the benches, spat out a cheesy line, and then laughed at the sheer corniness of what he said.  Honestly, I didn’t know if I liked him, but I had so much fun on the date, I figured that I’d give him a second date to sort out my feelings-to see if I had any.  I was leaving on a school trip to London for a week and I said that I’d call him when I got back.  Actually, he called me, before I left, to tell me he had a great time, but I didn’t know that it was him.  See, my husband has awful handwriting.  I grew up with a left handed doctor for a father, so I know bad handwriting.  My husband’s is so awful that when I entered his number in my phone, I entered the wrong number. I literally could not read what he wrote down.

My mother has this theory.  Well, it’s not really my mother’s theory-it’s the theory of her next door neighbor’s mother (when she was growing up in East Meadow).  When the neighbor’s mom was young, she had a particular philosophy on dating-she had three dates every weekend: a Friday night date, a Saturday night date and a Sunday afternoon date.  She figured that she would continue to date all three gentlemen until one proposed.  Saturday night proposed first and so she married him.  This dating strategy begat a theory: have a Friday night guy for fun, a Sunday afternoon guy for brunch and a Saturday night guy for seriousness.  So, after I met my husband I wasn’t sure about him.  I thought maybe he could be a good Friday night guy.

The hubby is 100% not my type-we’ve talked about this a lot!  I’m not his type either, which is why we were sorta confused about each other at first.  I normally like short, nebbishy guys who are really literary and pretentious, somehow interested in the arts.  My husband is tall and sporty and doesn’t understand three quarters of the references I make.  But, the cool thing….early on in our dating life, when I asked him what he liked about me, he said that “I can learn from you.”  He was really open to new experiences and learning about what I loved.  I, of course, reciprocated: we joined a co-ed recreational soccer league.  I even went to a Jets game with him, and as a die-hard Giants fan, that’s really going the extra mile.  He occasionally takes me to theater and museums-I even negotiated a Woody Allen film.

I called him when I got back from London and we made plans.  He was shocked that I didn’t have jet-lag.  We met for a movie and when I saw him in front of the theater he had a present for me.  Most guys bring flowers or chocolates or something else totally generic and devoid of actual thought, but he brought a c.d.  Okay, I know that’s strange, but on our first date two and  half weeks prior, I mentioned that while I was in London, a band I really liked was putting out a new c.d.  Well, he bought it!  He actually listened to what I was saying, remembered and bought it for me.  I was completely flabbergasted.  I’m pretty sure that prior to my husband, no man actually made a mental note like that.  He still does it to this day-he’ll surprise me with theater tickets because I mentioned a show I wanted to see.  He’s unbelievably thoughtful.  Because he didn’t know New York he asked his New York friends about good restaurants and activities for us to do-he researched and made everything special, instead of just winging it.

While watching the Tonys earlier this year, I mentioned that I didn’t want to go to sleep until I’d seen the segment from Roger and Hammerstein’s Cinderella-that it had been one of my favorite musicals as a child.  I still remember going with my father to Erroll’s and being allowed to pick out one video rental.  I always wondered why the Beta section was so large with a much better selection, and I couldn’t understand why Beta wouldn’t work in our VHS player.  I’m sure my parents must have explained it to me, I do remember a friend who had a Beta player, but I think my 7-year-old brain had trouble wrapping itself around the difference.  Sometimes I rented the Beatles’ Yellow Submarine.  And sometimes, I rented Cinderella.  So at 31 it didn’t seem strange at all to be singing along to “In my own little corner, in my own little chair, I can be whatever I want to be,” while my hubby looked at me somewhat askance.  He’d heard me sing the song before, I sing it to Lily all the time, but this was different.  He made a mental note.

Less than a month later, after Lily went through a horrible bout of separation anxiety (from which I wanted to abandon my life), the hubby came home with a surprise: he had, behind my back, booked my mom as babysitter and purchased tickets to go see Cinderella.  He could see how tired I was, how worn out and down I had been getting, and he thought I deserved a treat.  What man does this?  No one I’d ever dated before my husband was this thoughtful or compassionate or loving. 

When my friends complain about their husbands or boyfriends or ex-husbands, I normally just sit there with my hands quietly folded in my lap.  Sure, things aren’t perfect, and my hubby and I have our issues (in general, men are idiots, and he certainly has his moments), but I don’t want to complain. 

I hope that Lily has the luxury of one day meeting a man like her dad, so that she knows what it’s like to be loved and respected like this.  I hope that, as the first man in her little life, Lily realizes what men can be like, that men like her dad do exist, and that they are totally worth waiting for!

If I’m a Chicken You’re a Turkey

This is something I’ve been dealing with a lot lately, so I figured I would just say it: no, I am not cool enough for you, and I really don’t give a crap.  Mostly because I’ve never been cool, never wanted to sit at the cool kid’s table, or belong to the cool kid’s club, never wanted the recognition or judgment that comes with being cool.  I’m very happy just being dorky ‘lil ole me, obsessed with British period pieces and literature and art and crossword puzzles and Simpsons references.  I actually have repeated dreams where I can read with my eyes closed! I wish it was true.  I’ve always been “artsy,” as my mother would say (although lately her descriptor has been: “bohemian”), and pretty unconcerned about what was trendy.  I don’t like trends-they’re flippant, and not in that good way when I brush off your dumb-ass remark with a twist of my wrist and a sarcastic comeback.  Classic, I prefer classic-give me Katherine Hepburn and you can keep your Kardashians.

I might teach in a high school, but I’m not in high school.  I don’t need people to like me-honestly, I don’t want too many people to like me.  I have enough friends as it is, and I don’t know how many more friends I want.  I prefer real, true friends to casual acquaintances-it’s hard enough to keep up with my besties with our busy schedules, work, children, husbands, families, etc...I barely see my best friend once a month and I miss her like mad, but I know if I needed her that she would move heaven and earth to be with me (and I know this because it’s happened before).

Your innuendoes aren’t so clever, and I’m a lot smarter and a lot more perceptive than you realize.  You’re really not fooling me-hell, you’re really not fooling anyone for that matter.

I don’t like drama.  Really.  Ask my husband, because he will attest to the fact that I’m pretty drama free, mostly because I’m a mature adult, but also because when I have an issue with someone, I confront that person.  I don’t pussyfoot around in passive aggressive bullshit mode (although, this post is beginning to feel that way).  When I complain about something it’s because I’m upset, not because I like to complain.  And like any woman all I want is for you to listen…not necessarily fix the problem.  Trust me, I will fix it on my own.   I think I got all my complaining out in my adolescence.

Aside from my husband, my daughter is my favorite person in the whole world.  And I won’t want her to have to deal with “coolness.”  I see bullying pretty first hand so I know the toll that it takes on teenage girls (and anyone who thinks, “Well I was bullied and I was okay,” doesn’t know what bullying is really like nowadays-it’s become inescapable with no retreat to the fortress of solitude).  My friend “N” thinks that I have a very healthy sense of self (that I have great self-confidence), but I have no idea about how to instill this in my child.

Traveling with a One Year Old

The plane was the best part-no crying on take off or landing in either direction.  Containment was an issue as all Lily wants to do is roam, so we spent a lot of time walking up and down the aisle to the delighted oohs and ahhs of the passengers.  Who knew that a non-fussy baby would be beloved on an airplane flight?  As a childless single I cringed at the mere sight of a child on a plane.  The fact that Lily spit up all over herself just prior to the flight didn’t seem to deter anyone, either.

We did everything we could to make the trip successful.  Lily had her own seat on the plane and she traveled in her car seat.  She was buckled in for take off and landing and turbulence-the internet told me so.  I called the FAA multiple times to verify that we could bring Lily’s medication, over 3 ounces, on board, and that we could bring frozen freezer packs to keep the medication cold, a medical requirement.  I’m sure that my name is on a watchdog list now and the NSA is tapping my phone lines, but that’s okay. What are they going to hear? Me talking to my mother.

When I was young-I don’t know exactly how young but somewhere between 6 months and 2 years-my parents and I flew to California so I could meet my great grandfather.  I’ve seen the photos so I know my parents aren’t making this up.  On the flight my mother pre-loaded a bunch of Easter eggs with little surprises for me, so after I’d been good for a set amount of time, I was given an egg, and then another egg, etc...etc…and the bribery worked.  We tried the technique with Lily and it failed miserably; she didn’t care about the eggs, but she knew that the eggs contained yummy, snackable goodness, so she just whined until I gave her the container of snacks.  Sometimes she’s a little too smart for her own good.  The hubby was worried about the plane ride, about disturbing the other passengers.  I just rolled my eyes and repeated, “We are flying from Newark to Ft. Lauderdale; this is the ‘going to grandma’s house’ flight.  The plane will be filled with kids.”  It was!  And aside from a conference goer or a random vacationer, everyone was going to grandma’s.

Prior to traveling the hubby and I had a long conversation about the hotel-I explained and explained how it was necessary to have more than one room, to have a kitchen, to do whatever we could to make our lives a little bit easier.  He didn’t believe me at first.  Being the youngest and not traveling too much as a child, my hubby was a bit naïve when it came to the realities of traveling with a child.  He was very glad that I talked him into everything-so when she napped, which is still twice a day, we could shut the door, so when she cried herself to sleep at night, which she is still doing and it drives me insane, we could shut the door, so when she needed a play room and one of us needed a nap…so when she needed a quick meal I could just whip one up in the kitchen…the list is extensive.  The hotel staff and long stay guests fell in love with her as we walked up and down the halls or when we fed her Belgian waffles at the breakfast buffet.  Lily was having the time of her life.

On the way home we were delayed…so Lily spent all her good napping time in the airport, waiting to board the flight.  Once we finally boarded she woke up, but I didn’t blame her (she was already asleep for an hour at that point).  Lily loves turbulence and flight attendants and little bags of chocolate chip cookies Jet Blue gives you as a snack.  She also loves the video monitors in the headrests.  Her cuteness got me expedited through security and the TSA was crazy nice to us!  I may never travel without my daughter ever again.

The reason we went to Florida was so that Lily could meet her great-grandmother Doris, Warren's paternal grandmother.  And, so that Doris could meet Lily, too.  They enjoyed each other's company very much.

Congratulations, You’re Completely Healthy

The doctor called yesterday-my bloodwork came back normal. We are now completely answerless-no one knows what happened, and we will basically never have an answer. There is nothing to treat and there is no certainty that it won’t happen again.

My husband is a bit of a gambler.  Not like, going to A.C. and blowing his paycheck type of gambler (although, he did that once in Vegas about 5 years ago and it scared the crap out of him, so he hasn’t been back since).  He places bets and plays cards, pretty well too, and he likes chance and risk and odds-it’s his mathematical brain.  My literary brain likes comfort and stability and books from the 19^th century, words like ephemeral and wainscoting, PBS/BBC hybrids and the Bravo network.  I like my evening soap operas soapy and foreseeable, just like my romantic comedies.  I am rarely surprised by thrillers or guess who’s and I like it that way (I’m one of those people who thought Bruce Willis was dead at the beginning of the movie-I study words for a living-it’s very rare that I find any movie, tv show or novel anything but predictable, and I like it that way).  I don’t do well with uncertainty.

Without a diagnosis, without a reason and solution for what went wrong, having another child is a gamble.  What if something really is wrong with me, something undiagnosible, and it happens all over again?  Only, what if it’s worse and we lose the baby?

I cried so hard last night that all the fluids in my body rushed to my nose and I couldn’t clear it.  I woke up with puffy eyes and a nagging headache from crying dehydration-you know, when you’ve cried so much that there is no more water in your body and you’re both thirsty and swollen.  My heart literally hurt.  It’s strange-the difference between those who understand by misery and those who think it’s better that there’s nothing wrong.  My husband understands, but he still wants more children.  I don’t know.  I asked him if it was okay, if we could just have Lily and be done, and he said yes, but that he thinks he’d resent it.  I understand that.  I’d probably resent him too if, after all our discussions about how many kids we wanted to have-maybe 3, he suddenly decided to get a vasectomy.  A wonderful study in expectation versus reality in my bedroom.

I feel a little trapped-I really, really want to have another child, but I’m so scared that I’m having trouble holding it together.  I had nightmares last night about ants crawling over my body and itching the crap out of me-I kept waking up and scratching and swatting at my limbs, convinced that they were there.  Aside from the neurotic fear that I’m developing formication and should be checked into a mental health facility, there’s the fact that I am so completely freaked out by ants that of course they would enter my nightmares, torment me in my desperation; my subconscious, yet another place where I have no control.

As promised, a recent picture of Lily!

Why Did This Happen?

As I meet more and more people, I am constantly confronted with the same questions: How old is she? She’s so small-is she catching up?  Why did that happen? And I have the same responses that I’ve reiterated for almost a year now, but answering how it happened, why it happened, that’s a little harder.

There are two possibilities: 1. I had a virus that was undiagnosible and was a total fluke thing or 2. I have some kind of blood disorder that is normally dormant and only exhibits symptoms when pregnant.  In the case of #2, all they do is give me injections while I am pregnant which guarantees that it won’t happen again-it also explains the miscarriages.  So next week I have an appointment with a hematologist to draw a serious amount of blood and test the blood for every thrombosis under the sun.  I am hoping, praying that I have a blood disorder; a real, treatable, diagnosable disorder that answers all of the questions, the how and the why.  Because if I don’t have a disorder, if this was all just a fluke thing and the doctors can’t determine if it will happen again, I don’t know if I could do it all over again, sit in a NICU for 11 weeks, lose all sense of myself, not take my baby home with me…no, I take that back, I know that I can’t do it all again.  Please please please universe, please say that I have a blood disorder, because I really want to have another baby, I want to experience my water breaking and driving to the hospital in painful anticipation and giving birth and putting my baby to my breast and having visitors come to visit and hold the baby and say “how beautiful,” instead of the tears of fear and bated questions that followed initial trips to the NICU.  I want hand-me-downs and sibling rivalry and family vacations, like the time when my sister and I spit partially chewed potato chips at each other across a minivan to the utter chagrin of our mother.

I won’t know the results for a little while, but the answers will determine a large chunk of our future as a family.  And my husband didn’t understand my reticence in making the appointment.

What is She, 4 Months Old?

At a recent physical therapy appointment, another mom in the waiting room remarked, “Aww, she’s so cute.  What is she, 4 months old?”  Lily was busy playing on my lap, planting her legs, standing up, smiling, laughing, trying to crawl over the armrest of the chair and kissing me.  “No, she’s 10 months old, but she was early so she’s a little thing.”  She’s not so little anymore, either.  She’s in either 6/9 or 6/12 clothes, depending on the brand. 

I’m pretty used to these kinds of questions from non-NICU adults, but this was a little unexpected in the physical therapist’s waiting room.  If you’re in this room, then your child is getting help for something.  It could be a small something; it could be a large something; it could be a devastating something-but that’s not the point.  There’s something, some reason that you’re here, so I would think (hope?) that you would be more sensitive with the other moms. I would certainly never turn to a stranger and comment on her child’s age and/or ability level.  We often run into other NICU moms at PT, and of course we catch up and ask questions, but we are kindred.  We’ve been in the trenches together, dug down deep into the thick mud and made it through the Somme to dry land and shelter.  We survived.  Most of us had terrible shell shock, but we made it and only we can understand each other.

Waiting room lady followed up with, “I was wondering, because she can do a lot of things.”  I guess she thought I had a very advanced 4 month old?  And then her daughter came out of the office.  Her daughter has a devastating something.  My heart dropped and I wanted to hug waiting room woman so hard-I could forgive her presumption and her, well, I guess it’s not callousness, but something akin to callousness…I could forgive it.  I am lucky. We are lucky.  Lily is crawling, actually crawling, and she can go from a crawl back into a sitting position all on her own, every time, and we are lucky, so, so lucky.

Around The World

According to the “Audience” option on this website, I have readership in Poland, Brazil, Russia, Pakistan, Indonesia, Romania, Turkey and Israel.  I have never been to any of these places.  My travels have been limited-various locations in the U.S., Canada, England, France and Italy.  When I was pregnant I went on a cruise to Mexico, where I got off the boat but only walked around the port, and there was a second location but I never got off the boat so I don’t think that it counts (Belize, the hubby says it was Belize...like in the Carmen Sandiego song).  I am completely humbled that people actually read what I write-and people in cultures and countries so vast and different from my own…I don’t even know what to say. Thank you.  I hope that what I write means something to you-you could even hate it (that’s fine with me).  But, I’d love to hear what you think.  Please feel free to comment, especially if I don’t know you.

In Defense of Friendship

Part of being a good mom is having a life outside of your child.  I am completely convinced that the other women in my life, my best girlfriends, other mommy friends, my own mother, are who keep me sane and happy-they make me a better mom and they keep my brain active, and on most days I’m convinced that my brain is melting into some kind of oatmeal like consistency-without the cinnamon sugar goodness.  So when something bad happens to one of my besties, I get angry. More and more I also find myself going into mom mode and getting very protective, and I assume that it will only get worse over time.

I have this friend.  Let’s call her Emily (I don’t know why I chose Emily-I think I’m just upset that Revenge is on hiatus). Emily and I have been friends for a long time, through break ups and make ups and immaturity and now, as adults, through very grown up-type problems.  She was one of the first people to visit me in the hospital when I had Lily, and even though Emily is a girlie girl through and through, she understood my no tutu and no hair fluff proclamation and she brought presents that she knew that I would love.  Emily is kind and thoughtful and dedicated to her job-which, without giving details, is a pretty damn selfless career-Emily is friends with everyone, regardless of race, religion, socio-economic status, fashion sense, etc, etc…(honestly, I don’t know if she even sees those things).  She’s just not a judgmental person and she always sees the best in everyone; even after people repeatedly let her down, she still gives chances and encouragement (sometimes I want to kick people out of her life for her because people can be mean, but Emily cannot).

Here’s the hitch-Emily is gorgeous.  Very very very gorgeous.  So gorgeous that my father who could never remember any of my friends growing up (we used to play this game where he had to name 5 friends-he always failed), he always remembered Emily.  She’s also crazy talented and outgoing and friendly and chatty and loud and consummately energetic.  She’s the kind of girl that other girls like to hate on-and right now another girl is hating on her, pretty bad. And that girl is her boyfriend’s sister.

I’ve had my fair share of problems with boyfriends’ families.  For some reason their parents never like me, even though the parents of my best guy friends would beg their sons to date me and marry me and make little babies with me (and trust me, my kid is capital ‘c’ cute, so they would’ve been pretty happy).  I’m sure I’m to blame for a lot of it-I’m pretty bad at making new friends and I get very awkward in social situations-sitting back and playing observant mute is my go-to move.  There was one holiday dinner with an ex where I spent the entire time talking to his mother’s best friend about a little-known novel about Jewish immigration in turn of the century New York.  I even faked not knowing how to do my hair in order to have a bonding moment with a different ex’s sister.  I’m pretty sure that one ex’s entire family hated me because of the guy I dated in high school-by that logic I would’ve hated me too-my high school boyfriend was a nutjob and I must’ve seemed very dramatic as a result.  But Emily’s situation is worse.

My exes had the common decency (or just common sense) to NOT tell me about their familial issues-I mean, I could tell, and they could tell, but the issue was more of a no fly zone-just leave it alone and don’t talk about it, and if anyone interrupts the peaceful continuum, there will be hell to pay.  Emily’s ‘mean girl’ is nasty-she grumbles about Emily every chance that she gets…to the boyfriend, to the family…and her complaints: “Emily only talks about herself, Emily is conceited, Emily is self-involved.”  To be fair, yes, Emily does talk about herself, but it’s not braggy or showy at all-Emily does a lot of things and she’s involved in many organizations and clubs-the best stories are when Emily tells you about her day, about what happened at work and then what she did afterwards.  She’s not doing this to pat herself on the back or make sure that you know just how great she is…honestly, Emily doesn’t think that she is great.  She’s ridiculously modest.  And when she’s done telling you her story, Emily wants to hear every detail of your day, even the most basic minutiae are interesting to her.  But this mean girl doesn’t care-she seems to be hell bent on driving a wedge between Emily and her boyfriend, and I think it comes from a variety of reasons. 

Firstly, I don’t think that the mean girl understands that Emily is completely without guile-Emily doesn’t have a single malicious bone in her skinny, toned body.  She isn’t conceited at all, and chances are that you only think that she is because you haven’t gotten to know her.  Which is sad…for you…not for her-trust me when I tell you, your life will be darker without Emily in it.  Secondly, and it’s even more pathetic because it’s true about women in general which makes me want to vomit, but I think the sister is jealous.  Emily is gorgeous and fit and did I mention GORGEOUS.  In high school we used to have the “Emily Test,” when we’d introduce our new boyfriends to Emily and if all they did was stare and start hitting on her, we’d dump them.  She never knew that we did this.  But women get like this-they get super jealous of the pretty girl and then they treat her like crap.  Girl on girl crime…it’s pretty serious.  Thirdly, and I know I’ve been there before (I’m Jewish, and Jewish moms aren’t always too happy to get rid of their precious, princely sons-I swear, being Italian and being Jewish are the same freaking thing), but the mean girl doesn’t seem to want her brother to grow up, get serious with a woman, detach slightly from his family and have his own life.  It’s one thing to not like the person your brother or sister is seeing, but it’s quite another to outwardly and repeatedly bad-mouth that person to your siblings, parents, anyone who will listen, etc...etc...Mean girl has an agenda, and that makes me angry.  Granted, if my sibling was marrying a kid toucher or a sociopath I’d have a lot to say about it, but that’s neither here nor there (my brother-in-law is awesome, by the way).

I’m supposed to stay out of it, but it’s hard.  All I want to do is to defend my friend, who has done nothing wrong-it hurts me that she’s hurt.  I want to have a serious sit down with the mean girl and explain just how judgmental and idiotic she’s being (because, in the long run, she’s only going to damage her relationship with her brother), but I’m supposed to stay out of it.  I sense a similar situation with Lily when she’s a teenager and she gripes to me about a mean girl at school, and of course I’ll know the mother because I’ve already met a lot of the mothers in our town, and Lily will be hurt and crying and then part of me deep down inside will break and my mother rage will kick in.  I’ll be midway through dialing the mother’s number when Lily will tell me to “stay out of it” because I’ll “only make it worse.”  She’ll be right of course-whoever heard of parent involvement actually fixing these kinds of things-but that broken part inside of me won’t heal until Lily heals.  I don’t think I actually healed from adolescence until my mid-20s, so I guess I have a long time to wait until I feel whole again.

Doctor, Doctor, Doctor, Doctor…

Lily had many doctors and many other specialists in the medical field-it actually feels narrow to use the word many-maybe multitudes or plethora or tremendous amount- something really big would be more accurate.  Growing up around hospitals, with my dad, our multitude of medical professionals was normal to me…not normal to the hubby or anyone outside of the medical field, though, so I was always explaining.  There was the head of the neonatology department, the entire neonatology staff, at one point an ENT, an army corps full of nurses, the feeding specialist, once we left, we had our follow-up neonatologist, the physical therapist, eventually a pediatrician, the sleep specialist, and many others who I’m sure I’m forgetting but who crossed our path at some point.  Once we were finally discharged, we had neonatology appointments, pediatric appointments, physical therapy appointments, and sleep specialist appointments.

I think that before I launch into what will, most likely, be termed a tirade, I should state that I really loved all of the neonatologists.  Follow up appointments with Dr. Pane, running into Dr. Manginello and the rest of the staff…it was a joy.  They were always positive and progressive and, honestly, familiar.  They praised Lily and they praised my care of her.  They saw Lily as a resilient little miracle, and seeing my child through their eyes was a delight.  I also love Lily’s pediatrician, Dr. Muntaneu, who is very close to my age and currently pregnant with her first child.  She is always impressed by Lily’s progress-she’s positive and delightful and human.  She treats me like I’m the expert and she never talks down to me, even when my question is a bit on the stupid side.  I am in love with Lily’s physical therapist, Lisa.  To this day, I look forward to Lily’s physical therapy appointments because I know that the half-hour will be filled with encouragement and glee.  But this post isn’t about all the people I love…this post is about my extreme dislike for one of Lily’s doctors, one who will remain nameless because I don’t think it’s right to eviscerate someone on the internet without her having the ability to defend herself.  She was Lily’s sleep specialist-she was also the first person who I ever wanted to have a big dick contest with because I would have slapped her into oblivion.

Dr. Pane, Lily’s neonatologist, gave us "permission" to have Lily sleep on her belly because of her awful acid reflux...her exact wording went something like "there is a higher risk of her dying from aspirating while on her back than the risk of dying from SIDS," which wasn't reassuring either, but at least Lily could sleep comfortably. Plus, she was on a monitor that freaked out if she stopped breathing! The pediatrician agreed with Dr. Pane (with warnings to be extra cautious and to still encourage “back to sleep”), the physical therapist wasn’t happy about it either, but the sleep study doctor who controlled the apnea monitor nearly had a heart attack when I explained this to her and she went on a half-hour-diatribe about why what I was doing was wrong. AND she tried to teach me about child rearing and SIDS.  This was the first time I met the sleep study doctor-she hadn’t been with us at the hospital the past 3 months. She had a written record, Lily’s chart, to refer to, but she knew nothing about me or my child or our circumstances. I wanted to be like, “Fuck you lady, I've been through hell,” but I held my tongue and nodded.  Maybe she should’ve come to my house and listen to my tiny baby scream and vomit while lying on her back.

Visits with the sleep doctor were sporadic…she would waltz in at the end of the appointment to tell me what a bad job I was doing, or how many “episodes” Lily had according to the equipment.  And it didn’t seem to matter how often I told her that the machines were going off falsely, or that we weren’t using them as frequently…no, the machines were right and I was wrong. The sleep doctor’s nurse was really nice, though.  I liked her a lot.

After weeks of weaning without incident, Lily was officially off of oxygen on November 12-I remember the specific date because it was the day after my birthday and we said it was the best present ever.  Plus, who the hell forgets when their 11-week NICU bound child goes off of oxygen! Our last neonatologist appointment was November 26-it was our goodbye visit and it was bittersweet.  We loved Dr. Pane and all the doctors in the NICU, but we were so happy to see how far Lily had progressed-we had made it over a huge hurdle. We had an appointment with the sleep doctor on December 7 to do a download and to schedule the sleep study...according to the sleep doctor, Lily would need to be hooked up a ph probe and about a million wires to be monitored for a 5-6 hour period in order to get rid of all her equipment.  The doctor didn’t schedule the study-instead, she scheduled a follow up appointment and said that her office would call our insurance company to get permission for the sleep study.  I was confused, but I didn’t question it.

We finally received permission from our insurance company 2 weeks later, and they said a copy of the approval was sent to the sleep doctor’s office-I should wait to hear from them shortly about scheduling a date. A week went by and I didn't hear from them, so I called their office and left a message with the nurse (who I love) that we got permission. When I spoke with her, I asked if the sleep study was mandatory, and she said “No, you don't HAVE to do it,” and that we could return the equipment AMA (against medical advice), but she'd have the sleep doctor get back to me. What followed was three days of back and forth because the FUCKING IDIOTS at the doctor’s office-although I think it was just the doctor because the nurse was unbelievably sympathetic and even sorry whenever she called-wanted Lily to do the study, which was now 8-10 hours-not the previously mentioned 5-6 hours, or to be monitored for 14 days without oxygen at home...When I explained we hadn't used the monitor since our December 7 visit and that Lily hadn't been on oxygen since November 12 (so the download at the December 7 visit would've covered the 14 days) I was told that I was incorrect. That according to their records, the oxygen didn't stop until November 26. We had a little back and forth, I used some strong words and strong language, and a few phone calls later, they apologized for the confusion.  In all this back and forth, I never once spoke with the doctor.  She never got on the phone, never called me, never asked how my baby was doing…she just sat in her office making her nurse do all the dirty work, letting her nurse deal with my rage.

At the time, I was infuriated-how dare you toy with me and my child, making me feel incompetent and idiotic when it was your poor record keeping and inability to get to know your patients which really caused the confusion.  How is it possible that your office never contacted me when they got the approval?  The machines were in my house for nearly a month longer than they needed to be, creating more bills that we didn’t want to deal with.  Where did you go to medical school?  Why didn’t the alien overlords implant a sensitivity chip when they placed you on Earth?  Could you even pick me out of a line-up?  I know you couldn’t place my child, because you’ve never looked at her-not when she was rolling around your exam table, or sitting on my lap having a bottle.  This was the first time in my life I ever considered doing anything AMA (against medical advice), and it’s because my gut kept telling me that something was not right.  This doctor was not right.