Being a stay-at-home mom can be a lonely place - that is, if you are a social person. I went from always being with people, in one way or another: school, working in engineering, working in a library, but always surrounded by people, regardless of whether or not we were in constant communication. In school, you are being intellectually challenged, interchanging ideas, debating, learning. And while staying at home is the place where I have learned the most, it is not intellectually challenging, it is mundanely challenging, we are not interchanging ideas. Mothers are trying to get our ideas to be done, but yes, we are debating, always debating. While in school we least receive grades that tell us how we are doing, passed, failed, passed with flying colors, congratulated, and finally, we graduate knowing that we have done a good job. As mothers, we never get graded, there are no pats on our backs, no one says you screwed up - that is, until your child is a grown up and he/she goes to counseling and they call you to tell you that you have messed them up for life.
Then there is work. Even when I worked in a male dominated cable monitoring company surrounded by 100% male engineers and one other woman, we still communicated, talked, and being a girl, I got to know them fairly well. After all, this is where I met the love of my life and husband. After that I became and worked as a reference librarian in a a very busy public library. My job was to answer questions for my patrons, look up information for them, etc. It was the most social setting I have every experienced. Going from this to 5 months of strict bedrest, you can imagine how I felt.
So I tried to change how I viewed the world and tried to adjust. And while it took me months, I did it because I had to. So when Liam was born I decided to stay home and provide the best environment for him. And while I don't regret this decision for a minute, because being with him is the most marvelous gift my husband has ever given me, I have to say that it's been lonely quite a bit more than I anticipated. I blogged once about not being able to really do the mommy play date thing because of Liam's personality so I won't reiterate that, and when you have kids and your friends don't, or when you work and all those people keep working and now your job is at home, you become isolated. Or you isolate yourself, despite your best efforts to try to meet people.
And so I've tried over this stage in my life to find the beauty in it, like nursing my baby, making his baby food from scratch and feeling proud of that. But for some of us, homemaking is not what is natural and that is okay too. So I have enjoyed it for three years but now it is time to return to doing what I, Adriana, loves to do, being a librarian and helping people on their way to obtaining information, find books they can cherish, learn more about everything to satisfy my voracious appetite for information and knowledge, and still come home to the two loves of my life, feeling fulfilled in a way that is meaningful to me.
Saturday, October 3, 2009
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Roundtable con Mis Abuelas
If I was lucky enough to have a roundtable conversation one more time with mis abuelas, which would be difficult by the sheer fact that they were completely opposite women, but indulge me here, it's my fantasy, it would go something like this:
We would be sitting around mi nona, or abuela Francisca's wrought iron courtyard patio in a house that was claimed long ago by 3 deadly earthquakes until none of her children could help rise again one more time. It would be the three of us with a tetera of hot mate and tortitas de chicharrones that my abuela Francisca made so well, at the center of the chairs. The family would all be gathered but like a picture where the background is fuzzy, they would just enhance the ambiance without interjecting.
I would ask them how they did it. How did they handle it all without going crazy, without allowing depression or anxiety to take over their days. Both women were totally different. They were of different classes, mi abuela Juanita came from a very poor background with divorced parents, both of who gave her away to be raised by different relatives that treated her to in servitude (her and her 3 other sisters), until being reclaimed by their loving, yet alcoholic father. Mi abuela Francisca, married well to my grandfather who provided a house in Mendoza City, and through his traveling salesman positions provided well for the family, until he died young. Both women were very busy - Juanita had 3 children (two girls and a boy) one of whom is my mother, and Francisca had 4 children (3 boys and a girl) one of whom is my father.
Personality wise, Juanita was a melencholic, lamenting woman, always sighing "Ay Dios Mio" under her breath, regardless of what she did and for whatever reason. Francisca on the other hand, was a strong stoic woman, rigid and harsh in discipline with a very stern eye. Both were really hard working and loved their kitchens. Both loved to sweep and keep impecable households. They both loved their children and meddled in their lives, in some more than others. But what I really remember now about them was the manner in which they went about their days, from the eyes of a 9 year old girl. While I remember the happy times of familial joviality during weekend get togethers, I am drawn now to the body language and their facial expressions which are so vividly sketched in my mind.
I remember Juanita always over her kitchen counter what essentially was the smallest, humble kitchen ever- just a stove, sink, and barely any space to cut up vegetables, but she seemed to manage. I remember always sitting at the small two by three-foot kitchen table watching her as we talked with mate or tea, bread and butter and maybe some cheese. She always slaved to make the healthiest and most aeromatic soups I've ever had the pleasure of tasting, day after day. Making every penny, or moneda stretch was her forte. While she was cooking she was also hand washing clothes, always with a large basin on a sink near between the small bathroom and the kitchen, and a wooden washing board. Until of course my parents bought her a new washer when my dad came to the U.S. Although she was short, I remember her always hunched over, as if beaten by life, her head would barely raise from what she was doing, but her eyes were the conveyer of emotions. They were eyes of a little girl in an old, worn by life woman. So much suffering and pain in them with a tiny glimmer of light, that I think my sister and I provided her. We truly were her "mis princesitas," "my little princesses." I just wonder if what made her so sad, now looking back, depressed, was her horrible past that she seemed to never come to terms with or was it something else. But even before her children were grown with their own life disappointments, how did she get through those days. The days of cooking, ironing, cleaning, stretching pennies. What were her thoughts, illusions, dreams? How did she handle the childrearing? I know she ruled them far stricter than us, she was putty with us. Gave us anything that was at her reach, albeit, little, the love and cherishing that made up for that was immeasurable.
What went through her mind as she routinely peeled those potatoes, carrots, cut up squash and onions every day for her soup when her hands moved in the exact same way they had the day before and thousands of times before, surely she must have been thinking? She always murmured under her breath things we couldn't hear. There was the shaking of her head as she murmored as if she was placing her complaints to the universe only to pray to God later, thanking him for his blessings, maybe hoping he hadn't heard her complain.
Then there was mi abuela Francisca - a tall, big boned woman of Italian descent. I remember her in two ways, either with a broom in her hands sweeping the patio a million times a day or laboring over a kitchen table while something was cooking on the stove and something baking in the oven. Her kitchen was a large, standalone kitchen separated from the house by a hall from the open courtyard in the middle of the house, much like an Italian house. Women, her daughter and 3 daughter-in-laws, always congregated in there for meal preparations, the men never entered. It was a woman's domain, that I remember being nice, especially when you could sneak in there to taste one of her pasta sauces with some of her white bread, freshly baked and warm from the oven. This while women were loudly fighting for talking room about whatever afflicted them at the moment, passing the mate around. Always mates around. But sometimes, when she was alone in there as the others were enjoying their time together or when she watched us, I saw a different side to her, the same as when she swept. It was as if she was trying to solve an insurmountable problem along with the quick, harsh strokes of the broom or the steady, strong kneading of the bread, which she did so evenly, without a thought about it, just repetition. The same strong, dark, now age freckled hands with which my father kneads his bread at the bakery. I wonder though, what was she thinking, trying to solve? One of her childrens' afflictions or one of her own's, buried deep inside. She also sighed, but she never seemed to tire or wearied. She carried herself strongly, as 'tomorrow is another day, we will see it, we will live it.' But I wonder how she did the raising of 4 kids practically by herself with a traveling husband and one who also had his own demands, being traditionally raised Lebanese. Did she tire and suffer in silence, did she aspire to anything else or did that never cross her mind?
I wish I knew this for both women, even if I know that they both were destined for the traditional women roles in a very macho Hispanic culture, where keeping home and raising children was their sole expectation. But they must have had their own dreams, no matter how small. I just wish I could sevarles un mate and ask them what they were for each of them. Seeing their kids grow up happy with family, sure, but what else? Had Francisca loved her husband, I know Juanita had, at least in the beginning, clearly evident from their courting letters later given to me by my grandfather as a gift. But I know nothing of my grandfather and just like his office door remained locked ever since his death, so did any speaking of him by everyone in the family.
I admire both these women greatly. They both raised great families in each their own way, successfully. And while each have their faults and strengths, they have given me fortitude. I just wish that I could be the age that I am now with both of these two wonderful women alive, around a table, listening to their stories, learning from their wisdom, feeling their heartbreaks. I can hear them now, laughing, preparing yet for another day.
We would be sitting around mi nona, or abuela Francisca's wrought iron courtyard patio in a house that was claimed long ago by 3 deadly earthquakes until none of her children could help rise again one more time. It would be the three of us with a tetera of hot mate and tortitas de chicharrones that my abuela Francisca made so well, at the center of the chairs. The family would all be gathered but like a picture where the background is fuzzy, they would just enhance the ambiance without interjecting.
I would ask them how they did it. How did they handle it all without going crazy, without allowing depression or anxiety to take over their days. Both women were totally different. They were of different classes, mi abuela Juanita came from a very poor background with divorced parents, both of who gave her away to be raised by different relatives that treated her to in servitude (her and her 3 other sisters), until being reclaimed by their loving, yet alcoholic father. Mi abuela Francisca, married well to my grandfather who provided a house in Mendoza City, and through his traveling salesman positions provided well for the family, until he died young. Both women were very busy - Juanita had 3 children (two girls and a boy) one of whom is my mother, and Francisca had 4 children (3 boys and a girl) one of whom is my father.
Personality wise, Juanita was a melencholic, lamenting woman, always sighing "Ay Dios Mio" under her breath, regardless of what she did and for whatever reason. Francisca on the other hand, was a strong stoic woman, rigid and harsh in discipline with a very stern eye. Both were really hard working and loved their kitchens. Both loved to sweep and keep impecable households. They both loved their children and meddled in their lives, in some more than others. But what I really remember now about them was the manner in which they went about their days, from the eyes of a 9 year old girl. While I remember the happy times of familial joviality during weekend get togethers, I am drawn now to the body language and their facial expressions which are so vividly sketched in my mind.
I remember Juanita always over her kitchen counter what essentially was the smallest, humble kitchen ever- just a stove, sink, and barely any space to cut up vegetables, but she seemed to manage. I remember always sitting at the small two by three-foot kitchen table watching her as we talked with mate or tea, bread and butter and maybe some cheese. She always slaved to make the healthiest and most aeromatic soups I've ever had the pleasure of tasting, day after day. Making every penny, or moneda stretch was her forte. While she was cooking she was also hand washing clothes, always with a large basin on a sink near between the small bathroom and the kitchen, and a wooden washing board. Until of course my parents bought her a new washer when my dad came to the U.S. Although she was short, I remember her always hunched over, as if beaten by life, her head would barely raise from what she was doing, but her eyes were the conveyer of emotions. They were eyes of a little girl in an old, worn by life woman. So much suffering and pain in them with a tiny glimmer of light, that I think my sister and I provided her. We truly were her "mis princesitas," "my little princesses." I just wonder if what made her so sad, now looking back, depressed, was her horrible past that she seemed to never come to terms with or was it something else. But even before her children were grown with their own life disappointments, how did she get through those days. The days of cooking, ironing, cleaning, stretching pennies. What were her thoughts, illusions, dreams? How did she handle the childrearing? I know she ruled them far stricter than us, she was putty with us. Gave us anything that was at her reach, albeit, little, the love and cherishing that made up for that was immeasurable.
What went through her mind as she routinely peeled those potatoes, carrots, cut up squash and onions every day for her soup when her hands moved in the exact same way they had the day before and thousands of times before, surely she must have been thinking? She always murmured under her breath things we couldn't hear. There was the shaking of her head as she murmored as if she was placing her complaints to the universe only to pray to God later, thanking him for his blessings, maybe hoping he hadn't heard her complain.
Then there was mi abuela Francisca - a tall, big boned woman of Italian descent. I remember her in two ways, either with a broom in her hands sweeping the patio a million times a day or laboring over a kitchen table while something was cooking on the stove and something baking in the oven. Her kitchen was a large, standalone kitchen separated from the house by a hall from the open courtyard in the middle of the house, much like an Italian house. Women, her daughter and 3 daughter-in-laws, always congregated in there for meal preparations, the men never entered. It was a woman's domain, that I remember being nice, especially when you could sneak in there to taste one of her pasta sauces with some of her white bread, freshly baked and warm from the oven. This while women were loudly fighting for talking room about whatever afflicted them at the moment, passing the mate around. Always mates around. But sometimes, when she was alone in there as the others were enjoying their time together or when she watched us, I saw a different side to her, the same as when she swept. It was as if she was trying to solve an insurmountable problem along with the quick, harsh strokes of the broom or the steady, strong kneading of the bread, which she did so evenly, without a thought about it, just repetition. The same strong, dark, now age freckled hands with which my father kneads his bread at the bakery. I wonder though, what was she thinking, trying to solve? One of her childrens' afflictions or one of her own's, buried deep inside. She also sighed, but she never seemed to tire or wearied. She carried herself strongly, as 'tomorrow is another day, we will see it, we will live it.' But I wonder how she did the raising of 4 kids practically by herself with a traveling husband and one who also had his own demands, being traditionally raised Lebanese. Did she tire and suffer in silence, did she aspire to anything else or did that never cross her mind?
I wish I knew this for both women, even if I know that they both were destined for the traditional women roles in a very macho Hispanic culture, where keeping home and raising children was their sole expectation. But they must have had their own dreams, no matter how small. I just wish I could sevarles un mate and ask them what they were for each of them. Seeing their kids grow up happy with family, sure, but what else? Had Francisca loved her husband, I know Juanita had, at least in the beginning, clearly evident from their courting letters later given to me by my grandfather as a gift. But I know nothing of my grandfather and just like his office door remained locked ever since his death, so did any speaking of him by everyone in the family.
I admire both these women greatly. They both raised great families in each their own way, successfully. And while each have their faults and strengths, they have given me fortitude. I just wish that I could be the age that I am now with both of these two wonderful women alive, around a table, listening to their stories, learning from their wisdom, feeling their heartbreaks. I can hear them now, laughing, preparing yet for another day.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
My True Companion
In each of the vows Jay and I wrote when we got married, we each, somewhere promised to put the other person first. Then we would always value the needs of the other person. And while this has always been honored, in a relationship there is usually one giver and one taker. One who at least does a little more than the other in one way and the other one compensates in some other way. In our relationship, I'll admit that Jay is the giver of gifts, of romance, of words, of beauty. I, on the other hand, am the giver of undivided attention and quality time. But Jay is the truly generous one. And I value this more than anything else he can give me.
Saturday afternoon Jay and I went to see The Time Traveler's Wife. We had been trying to get to the new Harry Potter movie since it came out last month, without being able to do so because instead we'd had get togethers with friends for birthdays or evenings on the beach with drinks and food. So now we were able to get my mom to babysit in the afternoon to go to a matinee. We usually go to see things in the order that they come out or of importance to one another, taking turns. So being that Jay read all of the HP books within the first couple of nights of coming out and seen the movies as soon as they made it to the theaters, I had been depressed for the past couple of weeks and he knew that I'd read the Time Traveler's Wife and reallly wanted to see it.
So what did he do? He selflessly put my desires above his in effort to alleviate my sadness and make me happy by taking me to the movie I wanted to see. And yes, we both are romantics and love good love stories. Watching a movie where we could feel the characters' love for one another, irrelevant of time or circumstance, that they will do anything and sacrifice everything for one minute together, with the love of my life is a treasure. It reminds me of all that we went through to be together and how we wouldn't change a thing. We both loved the movie and cried at the end. I love that about us. We and he can do that. It makes me feel as though in those moments the beats of our hearts join one another and find their rhythm to beat as one. That is how our love is. This is when I fall all over again.
Not to mention that he opens the car doors for me still and closes them. He lets me choose the music, although we are so busy talking (not Liam related stuff but things that are about us). In the movies he lifts the arm rest and I reach for his hand, I put my legs up on his. Then we can't wait to discuss the movie on the way home.
On the way home from the movie, right across the street of the library there was a snapping turtle trying to cross the street, ever so slowly. So what does he do? He stops, turns the car around, and at the risk of his hand, he gets out of the car, pushes it and picks it up, placing it on the grass so that it doesn't get run over. Did I say that I love this man to the depths of my being? After all this time we are still dancing to our wedding son by Marc Cohn's, My True Companion.
Saturday afternoon Jay and I went to see The Time Traveler's Wife. We had been trying to get to the new Harry Potter movie since it came out last month, without being able to do so because instead we'd had get togethers with friends for birthdays or evenings on the beach with drinks and food. So now we were able to get my mom to babysit in the afternoon to go to a matinee. We usually go to see things in the order that they come out or of importance to one another, taking turns. So being that Jay read all of the HP books within the first couple of nights of coming out and seen the movies as soon as they made it to the theaters, I had been depressed for the past couple of weeks and he knew that I'd read the Time Traveler's Wife and reallly wanted to see it.
So what did he do? He selflessly put my desires above his in effort to alleviate my sadness and make me happy by taking me to the movie I wanted to see. And yes, we both are romantics and love good love stories. Watching a movie where we could feel the characters' love for one another, irrelevant of time or circumstance, that they will do anything and sacrifice everything for one minute together, with the love of my life is a treasure. It reminds me of all that we went through to be together and how we wouldn't change a thing. We both loved the movie and cried at the end. I love that about us. We and he can do that. It makes me feel as though in those moments the beats of our hearts join one another and find their rhythm to beat as one. That is how our love is. This is when I fall all over again.
Not to mention that he opens the car doors for me still and closes them. He lets me choose the music, although we are so busy talking (not Liam related stuff but things that are about us). In the movies he lifts the arm rest and I reach for his hand, I put my legs up on his. Then we can't wait to discuss the movie on the way home.
On the way home from the movie, right across the street of the library there was a snapping turtle trying to cross the street, ever so slowly. So what does he do? He stops, turns the car around, and at the risk of his hand, he gets out of the car, pushes it and picks it up, placing it on the grass so that it doesn't get run over. Did I say that I love this man to the depths of my being? After all this time we are still dancing to our wedding son by Marc Cohn's, My True Companion.
Friday, August 14, 2009
"You're a great mom"
It was a better afternoon after I picked up Liam today. I feel strange about blogging depressing stuff, this is so not me. If anything, I suffer from anxiety, not depression. But after all my years of counseling I'm smart enough to know that this is situational depression. I just have to change the situations that bring it on. Primarily, being around adults more.
But when I picked up Liam at school and right before I was leaving, his teacher, the fabulous Ms. Wanda said to me in earnest, "You are a wonderful mom." Maybe it's from seeing me with Liam for the past couple of months, our common philosophies, or the way that Liam says positive affirmations to his friends and toys that I say to him in the classroom. But either way, it felt wonderful. It actually allowed me to give myself the pleasure of not doing anything but enjoying Liam and my time without the guilt, like my sister had told me I was entitled to yesterday.
And with Liam being a gem, it was a good afternoon. I now look forward to going to get pizza with my boys and tomorrow seeing "The Time Traveler's Wife" with my love.
But when I picked up Liam at school and right before I was leaving, his teacher, the fabulous Ms. Wanda said to me in earnest, "You are a wonderful mom." Maybe it's from seeing me with Liam for the past couple of months, our common philosophies, or the way that Liam says positive affirmations to his friends and toys that I say to him in the classroom. But either way, it felt wonderful. It actually allowed me to give myself the pleasure of not doing anything but enjoying Liam and my time without the guilt, like my sister had told me I was entitled to yesterday.
And with Liam being a gem, it was a good afternoon. I now look forward to going to get pizza with my boys and tomorrow seeing "The Time Traveler's Wife" with my love.
The silence is deafening
Today the silence is deafening. Although I knew that I was grocery shopping after dropping Liam off at school, I kept hugging him tightly. Not because of anything else other than I knew I'd miss him. It would only be three hours. Then on the way to the store I wished I had a friend that I could go for coffee with. But they have kids, or jobs, or both, and wish for silence.
I don't even feel like writing (my novel) because that is something else that keeps me cooped up. It's bad when after relying on books for 3 years I don't even feel like reading. I feel like I can't relate or care to relate to the characters. I look forward to picking Liam up and going to buy him a new little car and having Jay come home.
I would love to go to Argentina. Sit around with my aunts, tomar tetita they call it. Laugh, tell stories, go downtown and sit at a cafe leisurely for hours, watch the busy people walk by. Go to my favorite pizza place for my favorite mozzarella and beer. Drown in the love and utter joy only they can provide, like they did when I was a little girl.
Tomorrow will be another day, a better day.
I don't even feel like writing (my novel) because that is something else that keeps me cooped up. It's bad when after relying on books for 3 years I don't even feel like reading. I feel like I can't relate or care to relate to the characters. I look forward to picking Liam up and going to buy him a new little car and having Jay come home.
I would love to go to Argentina. Sit around with my aunts, tomar tetita they call it. Laugh, tell stories, go downtown and sit at a cafe leisurely for hours, watch the busy people walk by. Go to my favorite pizza place for my favorite mozzarella and beer. Drown in the love and utter joy only they can provide, like they did when I was a little girl.
Tomorrow will be another day, a better day.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
I no longer spill myself away
"She wants perpetually to spill herself away. All her instinct as a woman-the eternal nourisher of children, of men, of society-demand that she give." Anne Morrow Lindbergh wrote this in Gift from the Sea in 1955 and how wise, she could see how women were starting back then to choose between staying home and having careers. Then she writes a couple of paragraphs later, "Eternally, woman spills herself away in driblets to the thirsty, seldom being allowed the time, the quiet, the peace, to let the pitcher fill up to the brim." This two quotes highly resonated with me in the manner in which I am beginning to feel what she describes, "It is the wilderness in the mind, the desert wastes in the heart through which one wanders lost and a stranger."
What all this amounts to is that I am no longer overwhelmingly needed as I once was. Overwhelmingly is the operative word here. For the past three years of staying home, raising Liam, making dinner, and cleaning house all required so much to keep the scales from tipping. But now, Jay goes to work, Liam goes to preschool where he is well adjusted and happy, and here I sit, knowing I am ready to move on. For the past three years I have felt overwhelmed by Liam's sensitivities and the behavior issues I helped create by not being consistent enough or mindful enough of his needs for recharging, plus the demands of household tasks and the stretching of that copper penny. But I am no longer overwhelmed and back to being me, the person that can either live overwhelmed or bored, having a hard time living in the in between. There goes my Buddhist learnings again.
So I have updated my resume and found a job for which I'm applying and dreading not getting a first call back. How long can I sit here? I watch Jay struggle with a job that brings him no joy, only to come home and work on wood pendants to sell, not only because he loves his craft so much but also because we need the money. And what have I done? I've not contributed financially. I wouldn't work until I knew that Liam was doing well and now that he is, I feel lost and more alone than ever. I guess this is how it feels when fathers work, kids go to school and you are left behind. This is what my father warned me about. "The conversation will die," he once said, referring to the disconnect between husband and wife. I just didn't think this change would happen so quickly and makes me wonder how my mother could have endured living in this country this way for 25 years.
Now I see why I have been pulling myself away from Jay more and more every day. I have felt shameful in taking me time to find my way back. He allowed me to stay home until I was ready, dropping hints and I spent time fighting his arguments because I wasn't ready to deal with it. And now that is what is bothering me so much, that I took far longer than I thought I would in finding my way back. There goes me, the practical, project oriented, deadline driven A type personality whose rigidity her. I am always 37 steps ahead of everyone on completing tasks and now I took my time, without so much as a gant chart to drive me to completion. And while it sounds so zen to just go along every day mindfully, and I have enjoyed it tremendously, I feel like I failed at what I do best, keep on keeping on. And while my sister says that after all of the difficulty I had adjusting to Liam's sensitivities, I deserve time to heal, regroup now that he's at school. But I can't without the guilt. I can only live either in overwhelmed mode or in guilt mode for not being overwhelmed, because if I'm not overwhelmed then clearly I'm not doing enough. Hence why I could quit a career, start a new job, start and finish a Masters program and a new job in two years time, oh yes, and get through a bedridden pregnanacy.
So now I am growing restless and depression is seeking in. This is exactly what happened to my parents and I'll be dammed if it happens to me. So here it goes cosmos, I am putting out my wish to the universe that I need to go back to work and become fulfilled once again in a career I love. Cheers!!
What all this amounts to is that I am no longer overwhelmingly needed as I once was. Overwhelmingly is the operative word here. For the past three years of staying home, raising Liam, making dinner, and cleaning house all required so much to keep the scales from tipping. But now, Jay goes to work, Liam goes to preschool where he is well adjusted and happy, and here I sit, knowing I am ready to move on. For the past three years I have felt overwhelmed by Liam's sensitivities and the behavior issues I helped create by not being consistent enough or mindful enough of his needs for recharging, plus the demands of household tasks and the stretching of that copper penny. But I am no longer overwhelmed and back to being me, the person that can either live overwhelmed or bored, having a hard time living in the in between. There goes my Buddhist learnings again.
So I have updated my resume and found a job for which I'm applying and dreading not getting a first call back. How long can I sit here? I watch Jay struggle with a job that brings him no joy, only to come home and work on wood pendants to sell, not only because he loves his craft so much but also because we need the money. And what have I done? I've not contributed financially. I wouldn't work until I knew that Liam was doing well and now that he is, I feel lost and more alone than ever. I guess this is how it feels when fathers work, kids go to school and you are left behind. This is what my father warned me about. "The conversation will die," he once said, referring to the disconnect between husband and wife. I just didn't think this change would happen so quickly and makes me wonder how my mother could have endured living in this country this way for 25 years.
Now I see why I have been pulling myself away from Jay more and more every day. I have felt shameful in taking me time to find my way back. He allowed me to stay home until I was ready, dropping hints and I spent time fighting his arguments because I wasn't ready to deal with it. And now that is what is bothering me so much, that I took far longer than I thought I would in finding my way back. There goes me, the practical, project oriented, deadline driven A type personality whose rigidity her. I am always 37 steps ahead of everyone on completing tasks and now I took my time, without so much as a gant chart to drive me to completion. And while it sounds so zen to just go along every day mindfully, and I have enjoyed it tremendously, I feel like I failed at what I do best, keep on keeping on. And while my sister says that after all of the difficulty I had adjusting to Liam's sensitivities, I deserve time to heal, regroup now that he's at school. But I can't without the guilt. I can only live either in overwhelmed mode or in guilt mode for not being overwhelmed, because if I'm not overwhelmed then clearly I'm not doing enough. Hence why I could quit a career, start a new job, start and finish a Masters program and a new job in two years time, oh yes, and get through a bedridden pregnanacy.
So now I am growing restless and depression is seeking in. This is exactly what happened to my parents and I'll be dammed if it happens to me. So here it goes cosmos, I am putting out my wish to the universe that I need to go back to work and become fulfilled once again in a career I love. Cheers!!
Monday, August 3, 2009
Teacher's Assistant
My little talking preschooler has been chosen to become his teacher's assistant. When I picked him up this morning his teacher, the fabulous Ms. Wanda informed me that she is going to clone him and keep him around so that he can be her TA.
During lunch Ms. Wanda told a student not to talk with food in her mouth, to finish swallowing before speaking. The little girl happened to be sitting next to him and when she took another bite of her food, she spoke again, forgetting. So Liam looked at her, pointed his finger in her face and said, "Ms. Wanda said not to talk with your mouth full of food. Swallow and then talk. Okay."
Ms. Wanda told me that she can't believe how well he speaks (and how much) for a just recently turned 3 year old boy and cannot believe his memory. "He remembers after I've said something once and then repeats it to the other kids, like he's keeping them in line." Ahhh. My little boy worries me and yet makes me so proud. That is so like me. I am the truth teller and the order keeper. And at his age, I was a tattle teller. He amazes me every single day in so many ways.
During lunch Ms. Wanda told a student not to talk with food in her mouth, to finish swallowing before speaking. The little girl happened to be sitting next to him and when she took another bite of her food, she spoke again, forgetting. So Liam looked at her, pointed his finger in her face and said, "Ms. Wanda said not to talk with your mouth full of food. Swallow and then talk. Okay."
Ms. Wanda told me that she can't believe how well he speaks (and how much) for a just recently turned 3 year old boy and cannot believe his memory. "He remembers after I've said something once and then repeats it to the other kids, like he's keeping them in line." Ahhh. My little boy worries me and yet makes me so proud. That is so like me. I am the truth teller and the order keeper. And at his age, I was a tattle teller. He amazes me every single day in so many ways.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
My Caterpillar Has Become a Butterfly
The symbol of the caterpillar and the butterfly has had a special significance for me since I was about 5 months pregnant with Liam and I didn't know then how this analogy or metaphor would present itself every so often. When I was bedrested and utterly bored I started thinking of children's books to write. I'd always loved them and the lessons they taught me. So while looking outside the sliding doors in my room I noticed butterflies that every so often flew in through the screens that were broken in our lanai. The idea was born: to write a children story about a caterpillar who is afraid of becoming a butterfly and spending all of his time in fear hiding, thinking if he hides no one will remember and he can just continue being a caterpillar safe on the ground instead of preparing for the big day, talking to the other caterpillars who are excited and the butterflies who reveal to him the beauty seen from above and greater distances one can travel with a beautiful set of wings. Then when the day happens and of course, he sees how silly he was, even if it takes him a little longer to make proper use of his wings.
Then when I was hospitalized one late Friday night, the only thing that made me feel safe was that my room had a large framed picture of a bright, orange and black butterfly. I took it to be a sign that everything would be okay. Afterall, I had been in bed now for months afraid of my next step, like the caterpillar, afraid that something would go wrong with an early birth of the baby. Afraid of the next step, wishing to hold on for dear life like the caterpillar did so onto his leaves. Then the birth happened and everything turned out to be better than we expected.
Three years later, I am still reminded of it through different stages of Liam's growth - particularly every time there is something that may be challenging for him to accomplish to when he masters the task. I dreaded him attending his new school with a new teacher, albeit I knew she'd be wonderful, new kids, new routine, etc. And after three weeks of hard work, consistent disciplining him, taking him five mornings per week and a strict routine at home where we had to deal with a heavy backlash from him over this huge change in his life, my little caterpillar has become a beautiful butterfly. He has finally spread his wings and taken flight, no longer being held back by fear of change, other children, or a different routine. I couldn't be more proud of this monumental achievement of his and I do not take it for granted any morning when he tells me he's ready to go to school, when I drop him off with him not bothered by my leaving, when I pick him up and see the joy in him showing me his artwork and on the ride home when he tells me how he had fun.
I thought it would take him so much longer but with the amazing structure, patience, and love of his teacher he has just blossomed so beautifully so quickly. I am ever so thankful to her, the tight ship she runs, the many hugs and kisses she gives him on a daily basis and all of the wonderful things she shows him. His tantrums have disappeared (I know this won't last forever), his moody behavior and whining are gone and with our consistent follow through on everything he is a different child than he was a month ago. I am the happy and proud mother I've always wanted to be. I love my baby.
Then when I was hospitalized one late Friday night, the only thing that made me feel safe was that my room had a large framed picture of a bright, orange and black butterfly. I took it to be a sign that everything would be okay. Afterall, I had been in bed now for months afraid of my next step, like the caterpillar, afraid that something would go wrong with an early birth of the baby. Afraid of the next step, wishing to hold on for dear life like the caterpillar did so onto his leaves. Then the birth happened and everything turned out to be better than we expected.
Three years later, I am still reminded of it through different stages of Liam's growth - particularly every time there is something that may be challenging for him to accomplish to when he masters the task. I dreaded him attending his new school with a new teacher, albeit I knew she'd be wonderful, new kids, new routine, etc. And after three weeks of hard work, consistent disciplining him, taking him five mornings per week and a strict routine at home where we had to deal with a heavy backlash from him over this huge change in his life, my little caterpillar has become a beautiful butterfly. He has finally spread his wings and taken flight, no longer being held back by fear of change, other children, or a different routine. I couldn't be more proud of this monumental achievement of his and I do not take it for granted any morning when he tells me he's ready to go to school, when I drop him off with him not bothered by my leaving, when I pick him up and see the joy in him showing me his artwork and on the ride home when he tells me how he had fun.
I thought it would take him so much longer but with the amazing structure, patience, and love of his teacher he has just blossomed so beautifully so quickly. I am ever so thankful to her, the tight ship she runs, the many hugs and kisses she gives him on a daily basis and all of the wonderful things she shows him. His tantrums have disappeared (I know this won't last forever), his moody behavior and whining are gone and with our consistent follow through on everything he is a different child than he was a month ago. I am the happy and proud mother I've always wanted to be. I love my baby.
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Interrupted by Windy Gusts
As I sat reading the first few pages of my new book, "Breakable You" by Brian Morton, I was interrupted by a fiercely, gusting winds draping the white pages with the shadows of the dark, gray clouds that collided much too quickly, erasing the sun from the sky. The shushing of the wind amongst the differently sized and shaped trees told one to seek protection. I watched as a tiny, bright gold leaf swarmed around the tree from which it'd fallen with such vigor that it was unable to land.
The water from the lake that had, all afternoon, sat perfectly still and translucent now seemed to be spread at the top in all directions by the unforgiving wind, creating the dull gray color of an endless winter. It was as though a boulder had been thrown into the center of a large mirror and the million little shards had flown in every direction. The rain drops started falling steadily into a downpour, breaking the opaqueness of lake with little bubbles, allowing me to restore my breath.
Now as the wind has stilled once again and the rain falls evenly all our us, I am compelled to resume my reading, unable to do so, lured by the renewal from above.
The water from the lake that had, all afternoon, sat perfectly still and translucent now seemed to be spread at the top in all directions by the unforgiving wind, creating the dull gray color of an endless winter. It was as though a boulder had been thrown into the center of a large mirror and the million little shards had flown in every direction. The rain drops started falling steadily into a downpour, breaking the opaqueness of lake with little bubbles, allowing me to restore my breath.
Now as the wind has stilled once again and the rain falls evenly all our us, I am compelled to resume my reading, unable to do so, lured by the renewal from above.
Timer
Last night when I set the timer for 15 minutes for his night show he waited until I walked away. After looking at the clock on the TV I realized that it had been 17 minutes I went to see the timer. He had hidden it and he told me, "No mommy. No timer. Mommy no get the timer back." Jay and I found it in another room and he had stopped it with 3:52 minutes left. That is how smart he is just at 3 years old. Ugh.....
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Separation Anxiety
Today I am so frustrated by Liam's separation anxiety from me. I don't know if and when this will lessen for him and I continuously ask myself if this is part of his sensitivity or if it's something I did - not seeking to guilt myself, only to try to fix the situation. He does well after I've left and he's gotten in the groove with his teacher and his activities but dropping him off is like peeling a leech off me, and then I am left to feel the sliminess for the rest of the morning thinking that he is hurting and missing his mean mommy who dared to leave him in a horrible school where he is so loved and nurtured.
Since the two weeks he's been at this school he's done fantastically and I love his teacher. She is so loving and nurturing I know I've chosen correctly. However, I keep wondering if this would be less traumatic for him if I waited another year. My intuition and motherly instincts from three years with my little miracle child I know he would be worse if I waited. But it breaks my heart for him to see his fear of the children, the social anxiety, the extreme separation from me he feels so deeply. I keep reading books to make sure that I am doing the right thing, to find something I've missed that I can try for him to cope better. And while I learn new things all the time, they don't seem to be getting easier.
Now he has started retaliating against me for leaving him. I am bad mommy and daddy is good daddy, fun daddy. He has started to ask for him all the time when he's upset with me. And every time that daddy isn't home and it's just Liam and me he is angry and pushing my buttons. I have started disciplining him harsher by really being consistent with timeouts, not allowing him to boss me around, not accepting rudeness and demanding nice manners, even locking myself in my room for a couple of minutes when he's out of control.
Last night when I set the timer for 15 minutes for his night show he waited until I walked away. After looking at the clock on the TV I realized that it had been 17 minutes I went to see the timer. He had hidden it and he told me, "No mommy. No timer. Mommy no get the timer back." Jay and I found it in another room and he had stopped it with 3:52 minutes left. That is how smart he is just at 3 years old. Ugh.....
Since the two weeks he's been at this school he's done fantastically and I love his teacher. She is so loving and nurturing I know I've chosen correctly. However, I keep wondering if this would be less traumatic for him if I waited another year. My intuition and motherly instincts from three years with my little miracle child I know he would be worse if I waited. But it breaks my heart for him to see his fear of the children, the social anxiety, the extreme separation from me he feels so deeply. I keep reading books to make sure that I am doing the right thing, to find something I've missed that I can try for him to cope better. And while I learn new things all the time, they don't seem to be getting easier.
Now he has started retaliating against me for leaving him. I am bad mommy and daddy is good daddy, fun daddy. He has started to ask for him all the time when he's upset with me. And every time that daddy isn't home and it's just Liam and me he is angry and pushing my buttons. I have started disciplining him harsher by really being consistent with timeouts, not allowing him to boss me around, not accepting rudeness and demanding nice manners, even locking myself in my room for a couple of minutes when he's out of control.
Last night when I set the timer for 15 minutes for his night show he waited until I walked away. After looking at the clock on the TV I realized that it had been 17 minutes I went to see the timer. He had hidden it and he told me, "No mommy. No timer. Mommy no get the timer back." Jay and I found it in another room and he had stopped it with 3:52 minutes left. That is how smart he is just at 3 years old. Ugh.....
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
The Golden Nugget
What would happen if we all visualized every human being upon contact as a golden nugget at their body's core instead of looking at them judgmentally on the outside? Let me explain.
My Buddhist teacher, Kelsang Dornyi, provided instruction this week on how to transcend through the outer shell of each person and innately see them as a wonderful potential for love and greatness. The simplest example he gave was in the form of an annalogy of a golden nugget. He said, more or less, If I take a shinny, beautiful golden nugget and bury it with dirt, soil, or anything, it still remains a golden nugget. It doesn't change. It's just covered by dirt, soil or anything else.
This thought has stayed with me mindfully all week. What a beautiful illustration of love. He then further elaborated on this topic by discussing that we are all like this golden nugget. Every single human being. We are all wonderful potential and love at the center of our being. And as humans we all have and suffer from delusions that cloud that potential, but we remain that potential none-the-less. We have delusions of anger, fear, low self-esteem, loneliness, greed, jealousy. But all these poisons or delusions are just that, delusions, they are not who WE are. They are the same as that dirt or soil, they may cover our potential or our wonderful nature but underneath, we are still love.
So when we go around saying that person is crazy, mean, an SOB, because they have hurt someone or committed a nonvirtuous deed, it just means that they are suffering from a delusion that is causing them to act that way, their person does not embody that trait and claim it completely.
What a wonderful thought to keep at the forefront of one's heart and mind every single day. As we drive our car, spend time with loved ones, spend hours with co-workers, etc. He further challenged us to start practicing this, starting with those closest to us. Instead of judging someone close to us who is suffering from a delusion and claiming that the delusion encapsulates the being, simply look at the person as loving potential and separate the delusion from which they are following and call forth, or instantly develop bodhichitta, or immediate compassion for the person who is suffering.
I have kept this close to me all week, very mindfully and it really has helped make me happier, calmer, and more loving towards those around me. It is through these meditations and mindful practices that I am learning to be more accepting of those I meet or more patient with those around me. By not labeling them, cut through those delusions with a sharp knife and separate those far off to the side and only see that shiny, golden nugget at the core of each person's heart, blinding me with love for them. How wonderful is that. I think this is a practice that everyone should try, regardless of religion or spiritual belief or practice.
My Buddhist teacher, Kelsang Dornyi, provided instruction this week on how to transcend through the outer shell of each person and innately see them as a wonderful potential for love and greatness. The simplest example he gave was in the form of an annalogy of a golden nugget. He said, more or less, If I take a shinny, beautiful golden nugget and bury it with dirt, soil, or anything, it still remains a golden nugget. It doesn't change. It's just covered by dirt, soil or anything else.
This thought has stayed with me mindfully all week. What a beautiful illustration of love. He then further elaborated on this topic by discussing that we are all like this golden nugget. Every single human being. We are all wonderful potential and love at the center of our being. And as humans we all have and suffer from delusions that cloud that potential, but we remain that potential none-the-less. We have delusions of anger, fear, low self-esteem, loneliness, greed, jealousy. But all these poisons or delusions are just that, delusions, they are not who WE are. They are the same as that dirt or soil, they may cover our potential or our wonderful nature but underneath, we are still love.
So when we go around saying that person is crazy, mean, an SOB, because they have hurt someone or committed a nonvirtuous deed, it just means that they are suffering from a delusion that is causing them to act that way, their person does not embody that trait and claim it completely.
What a wonderful thought to keep at the forefront of one's heart and mind every single day. As we drive our car, spend time with loved ones, spend hours with co-workers, etc. He further challenged us to start practicing this, starting with those closest to us. Instead of judging someone close to us who is suffering from a delusion and claiming that the delusion encapsulates the being, simply look at the person as loving potential and separate the delusion from which they are following and call forth, or instantly develop bodhichitta, or immediate compassion for the person who is suffering.
I have kept this close to me all week, very mindfully and it really has helped make me happier, calmer, and more loving towards those around me. It is through these meditations and mindful practices that I am learning to be more accepting of those I meet or more patient with those around me. By not labeling them, cut through those delusions with a sharp knife and separate those far off to the side and only see that shiny, golden nugget at the core of each person's heart, blinding me with love for them. How wonderful is that. I think this is a practice that everyone should try, regardless of religion or spiritual belief or practice.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
My Pregnancy with Liam (in Hospital) - Part 2.
At the hospital, 10 p.m. on a Friday night, they put the baby and me on monitors, which displayed I was having up to 13 contractions an hour. They gave me a shot of turbutaline and then another. The contractions slowed enough for me to be wheeled into a room overnight, which turned into a weekend and then into 10 weeks. Yes, 10 weeks in the same 8 x 10 foot room laying in the same bed without leaving except for 3 times - 2 times Jay wheeled me around the corridor and once we went to visit the NICU, knowing that probably our baby would end up there for a little if he chose to come out early.
Jay was wonderful and brought comfort items from home to redecorate my room - my bedside lamp, which provided a warm golden glow in the room (no more florescent lights), cherished photos of us and our travels, books, magazines, our Powerbook with movies for us to watch together at night, etc. He came to stay with me every evening right after work until bedtime except on the nights he had school. I don't know how he managed because I never saw him study, but then again, he is a brainiac, one of the many reasons why I married him.
Graciously, my mom was with me every day, sitting next to my bedside knitting, talking until I needed to her to be silent so I could rest. She said it was her turn now, since she'd been in the hospital with me (for completely different reasons), and her mother had waited patiently by her side, now the cycle of giving strength and love to the next generation was complete. She put up with my bad moods and all of the ways the drugs were affecting me. They gave me turbutaline and Procardia every four hours to stop the contractions, and also monitored the baby's movement and heartbeat then for 20 minutes. And God forbid if he wasn't up doing somersaults, they would make me drink something sweet to wake him up, when then made him kick me into contractions. It was an endless cycle. My mood fluctuated between wanting to run out of there saying, "No more, please" and wanting to be left alone. So half the time I put a "Do not disturb" sign on the door and turned people away to the Nurses Station who asked them kindly to leave. I turned completely internal for the ten weeks, thinking more than necessary, disecting every thought, physical feeling, hope, and fear for what the future would bring to us and our baby, if he survived. I held on to hope immediately by the fact that in my room, the framed picture on the wall was that of a bright butterfly. And as silly as that would seem, while I'd been bedrested at home I had started writing a children's story about a worm and his fear of the unknown in the process of becoming a butterfly. So Hispanic as I am, I took this as a sign.
So I got in the groove of the daily routines the nurses and sonographers performed - the pills, the belly monitors, the vaginal and belly ultrasounds every other day, the measuring of my amniotic fluid, the draining with medication of it so it was me and baby, so as to relieve cervical pressure. Which only made me feel each and every one of the baby's movements far more and see them too. I got to actually see his feet while they kicked me like the ones of the pictures they have on the internet. So I kept going further inside myself. Jay was worried that I no longer wanted any visitors but him and my mom, but I was practicing my Buddhism more now than I'd ever had to. I was learning about myself, my limitations, physical and mental. I was learning for the first time in my life learning to really learn about myself, discover my potential, seeing my flaws and and digging deeper to change them into the woman I wanted to be for the mother that I was about to become. While most people would think this position, this hospital stay as dreadful, I was actually living it up. Who gets the chance to experience pregnancy in this beautiful preparatory way. And yes, there is no way to prepare to be a mother for the first time, because while you may know some things it may take, you never actually know, it was beautiful to feel it so thoroughly without anything else competing for its attention. This was my job at the time, 100% of the time and nothing else. So I truly learned for the first time how to be mindful and practice mindfulness, doing only what was required the 24 hours in the day, and nothing else. There were no distractions, there was no one else to do something for, just for my baby. The selflessless brought me so much internal peace that having to be in bed every minute of every day for 10 weeks became second nature.
This mindfulness served greatly to help me see parenting in a different way, that it wasn't about me, and that children live in the moment, there is no later or yesterday, there is the here and now. It taught me to practice the selflessness required to be a stay at home mom as I had chosen to be. Because the schedule after the baby would come would be set and followed and life would no longer be just about me. We would be adapting together to a new way of life, one where I had no other boss to give me a review and a passing or failing grade. This was more important. I was about to shape the life of another person who was a blank slate. And the colors I painted would make a vast difference onto his genes and how he would embrace the world.....but more on that later.
When I needed time to get out of myself I just did two very simple things: Sudoku puzzles and colored in a coloring book. The third thing that was not as easy was taking up origamy. I did several pieces that I'd intended to use for Liam's crib mobile. This was enough. For the first time I'd left behind the obsessive reading about everything fiction and non fiction and the constant researching about what could be the outcome of having a preemie. I had already learned about the possibilities of blindness, deafness, cerebral palsy, etc. So I just chose to do my physical part and relinquish the delusion of control that I've always clutched to my heart - ever so erroneously.
One of my daily pleasures came at 5 p.m., my mid-day shower. While other people did this - I was told- early in the morning, I thought "Why, I've got nowhere to go." So it was my delay gratification, which aside from spending time with Jay, were my guilty pleasures. So every day, as my day nurse changed my bed before she left for the day, I sat in my shower, in that hospital chair they leave for all of us afflicted physically. And since I still had to be careful because sitting perfectly erect still put pressure onto my cervix, I had to hurry. The one thing I had to figure out was how to shave my legs - yes, there is something worse than having to shave, it's not being able to do it regularly so having to find a way of doing it, sitting on a chair, while not hurting the baby. And yes, while the baby was the most important thing in my world, I am a very hairy woman who was seen every day by tons of medical people, yes, in private areas so I had to stay as hygienic as possible, even under the circumstances. So I learned to use the bathroom garbage can, upside down and place that in front of the chair so I could prop my legs for the time it took me to shave quickly and enjoy the rest of my 15 minutes in the shower. Only to go back to bed and lie down almost with upper body lower than my lower body to release the pressure.
Because the hospital stay is long and I don't want to forget any part of it, I will have to continue this onto My Pregnancy with Liam (in Hospital) - Part 3.
Jay was wonderful and brought comfort items from home to redecorate my room - my bedside lamp, which provided a warm golden glow in the room (no more florescent lights), cherished photos of us and our travels, books, magazines, our Powerbook with movies for us to watch together at night, etc. He came to stay with me every evening right after work until bedtime except on the nights he had school. I don't know how he managed because I never saw him study, but then again, he is a brainiac, one of the many reasons why I married him.
Graciously, my mom was with me every day, sitting next to my bedside knitting, talking until I needed to her to be silent so I could rest. She said it was her turn now, since she'd been in the hospital with me (for completely different reasons), and her mother had waited patiently by her side, now the cycle of giving strength and love to the next generation was complete. She put up with my bad moods and all of the ways the drugs were affecting me. They gave me turbutaline and Procardia every four hours to stop the contractions, and also monitored the baby's movement and heartbeat then for 20 minutes. And God forbid if he wasn't up doing somersaults, they would make me drink something sweet to wake him up, when then made him kick me into contractions. It was an endless cycle. My mood fluctuated between wanting to run out of there saying, "No more, please" and wanting to be left alone. So half the time I put a "Do not disturb" sign on the door and turned people away to the Nurses Station who asked them kindly to leave. I turned completely internal for the ten weeks, thinking more than necessary, disecting every thought, physical feeling, hope, and fear for what the future would bring to us and our baby, if he survived. I held on to hope immediately by the fact that in my room, the framed picture on the wall was that of a bright butterfly. And as silly as that would seem, while I'd been bedrested at home I had started writing a children's story about a worm and his fear of the unknown in the process of becoming a butterfly. So Hispanic as I am, I took this as a sign.
So I got in the groove of the daily routines the nurses and sonographers performed - the pills, the belly monitors, the vaginal and belly ultrasounds every other day, the measuring of my amniotic fluid, the draining with medication of it so it was me and baby, so as to relieve cervical pressure. Which only made me feel each and every one of the baby's movements far more and see them too. I got to actually see his feet while they kicked me like the ones of the pictures they have on the internet. So I kept going further inside myself. Jay was worried that I no longer wanted any visitors but him and my mom, but I was practicing my Buddhism more now than I'd ever had to. I was learning about myself, my limitations, physical and mental. I was learning for the first time in my life learning to really learn about myself, discover my potential, seeing my flaws and and digging deeper to change them into the woman I wanted to be for the mother that I was about to become. While most people would think this position, this hospital stay as dreadful, I was actually living it up. Who gets the chance to experience pregnancy in this beautiful preparatory way. And yes, there is no way to prepare to be a mother for the first time, because while you may know some things it may take, you never actually know, it was beautiful to feel it so thoroughly without anything else competing for its attention. This was my job at the time, 100% of the time and nothing else. So I truly learned for the first time how to be mindful and practice mindfulness, doing only what was required the 24 hours in the day, and nothing else. There were no distractions, there was no one else to do something for, just for my baby. The selflessless brought me so much internal peace that having to be in bed every minute of every day for 10 weeks became second nature.
This mindfulness served greatly to help me see parenting in a different way, that it wasn't about me, and that children live in the moment, there is no later or yesterday, there is the here and now. It taught me to practice the selflessness required to be a stay at home mom as I had chosen to be. Because the schedule after the baby would come would be set and followed and life would no longer be just about me. We would be adapting together to a new way of life, one where I had no other boss to give me a review and a passing or failing grade. This was more important. I was about to shape the life of another person who was a blank slate. And the colors I painted would make a vast difference onto his genes and how he would embrace the world.....but more on that later.
When I needed time to get out of myself I just did two very simple things: Sudoku puzzles and colored in a coloring book. The third thing that was not as easy was taking up origamy. I did several pieces that I'd intended to use for Liam's crib mobile. This was enough. For the first time I'd left behind the obsessive reading about everything fiction and non fiction and the constant researching about what could be the outcome of having a preemie. I had already learned about the possibilities of blindness, deafness, cerebral palsy, etc. So I just chose to do my physical part and relinquish the delusion of control that I've always clutched to my heart - ever so erroneously.
One of my daily pleasures came at 5 p.m., my mid-day shower. While other people did this - I was told- early in the morning, I thought "Why, I've got nowhere to go." So it was my delay gratification, which aside from spending time with Jay, were my guilty pleasures. So every day, as my day nurse changed my bed before she left for the day, I sat in my shower, in that hospital chair they leave for all of us afflicted physically. And since I still had to be careful because sitting perfectly erect still put pressure onto my cervix, I had to hurry. The one thing I had to figure out was how to shave my legs - yes, there is something worse than having to shave, it's not being able to do it regularly so having to find a way of doing it, sitting on a chair, while not hurting the baby. And yes, while the baby was the most important thing in my world, I am a very hairy woman who was seen every day by tons of medical people, yes, in private areas so I had to stay as hygienic as possible, even under the circumstances. So I learned to use the bathroom garbage can, upside down and place that in front of the chair so I could prop my legs for the time it took me to shave quickly and enjoy the rest of my 15 minutes in the shower. Only to go back to bed and lie down almost with upper body lower than my lower body to release the pressure.
Because the hospital stay is long and I don't want to forget any part of it, I will have to continue this onto My Pregnancy with Liam (in Hospital) - Part 3.
Monday, July 6, 2009
Liam's 1st Day at Preschool
I am thrilled beyond my wild optimisms that Liam's first day in preschool at Bright Beginnings went "fantastic" as his teacher, Ms. Wanda said. After a lot of research for the perfect place and teacher for Liam, to foster his independence and help come around with his shyness, I was certain this was the place. Close to home and yes, at a much higher cost financially, I can say it is well worth it - so far.
Indeed, we did prepare. With Liam, one thing we've learned from the past three years, is that we must always prepare him and only then can we succeed. Him and I went to visit the school several times, and the bunny Butterscotch that lives there, we hung out in the classroom with Ms. Wanda, in the playground and we talked a lot at home for the month and a half that he was out of school. And it worked.
His first day he shed some tears but he was great. He helped with snack time, as there are many chores to do there like help be line leader, line holder, watering the tree they planted together, etc. He told her that he was coming back tomorrow and he told me that he had fun when he got in the car. All the car ride home he told me what he did there and what he played with. It was so cute. I think this is the best place for Liam. When we were leaving there he ran up to her and embraced her in a way that he does for me, like a leach and she spun him around and tickled and kissed him all over and he loved it. His response to her tells me a lot.
I have finally learned to prepare and then "do" whatever the task is with Liam, and then throw a prayer to my Buddhas and the universe, then let go. What will be will be. And thus, it is. And I am thankful.
Indeed, we did prepare. With Liam, one thing we've learned from the past three years, is that we must always prepare him and only then can we succeed. Him and I went to visit the school several times, and the bunny Butterscotch that lives there, we hung out in the classroom with Ms. Wanda, in the playground and we talked a lot at home for the month and a half that he was out of school. And it worked.
His first day he shed some tears but he was great. He helped with snack time, as there are many chores to do there like help be line leader, line holder, watering the tree they planted together, etc. He told her that he was coming back tomorrow and he told me that he had fun when he got in the car. All the car ride home he told me what he did there and what he played with. It was so cute. I think this is the best place for Liam. When we were leaving there he ran up to her and embraced her in a way that he does for me, like a leach and she spun him around and tickled and kissed him all over and he loved it. His response to her tells me a lot.
I have finally learned to prepare and then "do" whatever the task is with Liam, and then throw a prayer to my Buddhas and the universe, then let go. What will be will be. And thus, it is. And I am thankful.
Sunday, July 5, 2009
The 4th of July with Family
My Facebook post today said, "When my sister leaves my heart aches." It had been six months since I'd seen my sister, not for voluntary reasons but for financial ones and of course, circumstance. And one weekend is not enough after six months. Yes, we talk on the phone about 3 times a day, every day. We are our own honest truthful sister to sister, mother to mother, know all your shit and love you support group to each other. I love her more than I could ever express and while most people are used to living away from family and visiting over holidays, I will never get used to it.
I rely on her for support every time my son does something that sends me over the edge or so weird that I only want to share it with someone who won't judge me in a way that I mind. I rely on her when I think I will lose my mind because hearing her two 19 month apart sons gives me perspective. When something wonderful happens or when I'm having a good time, innately like ducklings follow their mother I wish she was sitting next to me. When my anxiety sends me into spin mode I call her because she knows how to calm me down. And every afternoon, around 2 when the boys are napping, I know my phone will ring and we will have a cup of tea or coffee while briefing each other before one of us says we are going to lie down for a few minutes before the craziness we signed up for resumes. That is how close we are.
This feeling is akin to the one when I was 7 years old and old enough to understand why my father had moved from Argentina to the U.S (since those of us who live in third world countries are forced to grow up a little quicker and understand financial difficulty at a deeper level far earlier in life) but still cried all the time. One afternoon while my mother was up hanging laundry at the roof of the condos we lived in Argentina I threw myself on my parents' bed and hysterically cried for a long time until I fell asleep, cursing the "opportunities" in the U.S. that had lured my father on our behalf and the "lack of opportunities and the inflation" that plagued Argentina that had made my father run for cover. It was the first time that I cursed, really cursed and so I remember it vividly. Then I remember my mother coming in to wake me up. But that feeling.....that feeling will always stay with me. I grew up that day a lot more than any little girl should have to grow up in one day. And now, I miss my sister the same way. And while I as an adult, with responsibilities, a family, and a child of my own, instead of cursing aloud, my soul caves a little for the stabbing my heart feels at its core.
I curse the American ways for the opportunities (yes, I do understand that we are in a depression) that make us travel around the country chasing our next big dream job with all the lucrative hopes and aspirations, but I wish I had no knowledge of the provincial way of life. My family who still remains in Argentina does not move from place to place. They die where they are born, sometimes in the same house, and while they don't have the luxury of knowing or not being tempted by money, opportunities that can be just over in the next province or state, they get to be with their family. Albeit, I know this may be too much love and closeness sometimes, but I still miss that now.
I think I have come full circle now. My mother moved here when she was 34, she got on the plane for the first time and left her whole family behind to follow her husband, my father. I am now 34 and I have no trouble imagining doing that now because I love my husband and soulmate, and my son. But yes it would hurt. And then I remember about 10 years ago something my grandfather who was visiting said to me. He said, "Sometimes when there are too many plants planted together in one great big pot and they are all trying to grow and compete for the light and heat of the sun, the refreshing of water, it's better to take some out and replant them into another smaller pot. If you time it just right, when they are young and have not grown too wild or have too many weeds around them, they have a chance to most likely grow closer together, not fighting for the sun and the rain. Supporting one another if the other one tends to lean one way or another. Then they will drop seedlings around themselves and their base will be healthier to support the young plants as they grow under them and they will stand strong when they start leaning. And then when you look at the big pot with all those plantings, you will see all the weeds that have cramped them and you'll have wished they were all replanted at the right time." With this he slanted his head downwards and raised his right brow, as if asking me if I understood. And I immediatly saw my family and knew.
We had been very fortunate to have been transplanted young. But while I love the pot I replanted myself in and my sister does the same, I wish that our pots were planted closer together so our seedlings could grow together and we could enjoy the same sun and rain. I love you Sole.
I rely on her for support every time my son does something that sends me over the edge or so weird that I only want to share it with someone who won't judge me in a way that I mind. I rely on her when I think I will lose my mind because hearing her two 19 month apart sons gives me perspective. When something wonderful happens or when I'm having a good time, innately like ducklings follow their mother I wish she was sitting next to me. When my anxiety sends me into spin mode I call her because she knows how to calm me down. And every afternoon, around 2 when the boys are napping, I know my phone will ring and we will have a cup of tea or coffee while briefing each other before one of us says we are going to lie down for a few minutes before the craziness we signed up for resumes. That is how close we are.
This feeling is akin to the one when I was 7 years old and old enough to understand why my father had moved from Argentina to the U.S (since those of us who live in third world countries are forced to grow up a little quicker and understand financial difficulty at a deeper level far earlier in life) but still cried all the time. One afternoon while my mother was up hanging laundry at the roof of the condos we lived in Argentina I threw myself on my parents' bed and hysterically cried for a long time until I fell asleep, cursing the "opportunities" in the U.S. that had lured my father on our behalf and the "lack of opportunities and the inflation" that plagued Argentina that had made my father run for cover. It was the first time that I cursed, really cursed and so I remember it vividly. Then I remember my mother coming in to wake me up. But that feeling.....that feeling will always stay with me. I grew up that day a lot more than any little girl should have to grow up in one day. And now, I miss my sister the same way. And while I as an adult, with responsibilities, a family, and a child of my own, instead of cursing aloud, my soul caves a little for the stabbing my heart feels at its core.
I curse the American ways for the opportunities (yes, I do understand that we are in a depression) that make us travel around the country chasing our next big dream job with all the lucrative hopes and aspirations, but I wish I had no knowledge of the provincial way of life. My family who still remains in Argentina does not move from place to place. They die where they are born, sometimes in the same house, and while they don't have the luxury of knowing or not being tempted by money, opportunities that can be just over in the next province or state, they get to be with their family. Albeit, I know this may be too much love and closeness sometimes, but I still miss that now.
I think I have come full circle now. My mother moved here when she was 34, she got on the plane for the first time and left her whole family behind to follow her husband, my father. I am now 34 and I have no trouble imagining doing that now because I love my husband and soulmate, and my son. But yes it would hurt. And then I remember about 10 years ago something my grandfather who was visiting said to me. He said, "Sometimes when there are too many plants planted together in one great big pot and they are all trying to grow and compete for the light and heat of the sun, the refreshing of water, it's better to take some out and replant them into another smaller pot. If you time it just right, when they are young and have not grown too wild or have too many weeds around them, they have a chance to most likely grow closer together, not fighting for the sun and the rain. Supporting one another if the other one tends to lean one way or another. Then they will drop seedlings around themselves and their base will be healthier to support the young plants as they grow under them and they will stand strong when they start leaning. And then when you look at the big pot with all those plantings, you will see all the weeds that have cramped them and you'll have wished they were all replanted at the right time." With this he slanted his head downwards and raised his right brow, as if asking me if I understood. And I immediatly saw my family and knew.
We had been very fortunate to have been transplanted young. But while I love the pot I replanted myself in and my sister does the same, I wish that our pots were planted closer together so our seedlings could grow together and we could enjoy the same sun and rain. I love you Sole.
Monday, May 18, 2009
My Pregnancy with Liam (At home) - Part 1
My pregnancy with Liam started really still feeling the loss and sadness from the miscarriage I'd had five months earlier. I took a pregnancy test thinking that I probably was since I had the same symptoms as the last time - painful breasts, missed period, and really exhausted. I brought the positive test out to Jay, who was washing his car. Trepidatiously I told Jay, who I could see felt as scared about it as I did, bu for altogether different reasons - he was scared to watch me go through the pain of it all over again. Last time, we had gone to Argentina on a family vacation so that I could introduce my family to him right after the miscarriage that had happened the week of finals in one of our graduate school semesters. This time, we didn't have anything to snap us out of it, should it happen again.
I convinced my doctor to do an ultrasound at 6 weeks to make sure everything was fine. But then at 8 weeks, I started spotting again. So immediately the doc examined me and it seemed everything was fine. I would just have to get used to it and see if it would stop. It didn't. We went on a family trip to Ohio to see my husband's family when I was 10 weeks and bleeding a lot. I was so scared. Every time I went to the bathroom I would make Jay come in with me in case this was the time when I found it in the toilet. Not to say how I didn't want to participate in anything.
Then at 14 weeks I went to NY City to visit my sister, who was in her second trimester of a great pregnancy. While I spotted off and on, we walked from the upper west side to the lower east, up one hill and down the other. Yes, I was still really frightened. Two weeks later I went back to help throw her baby shower and still bleeding, still very much scared.
At 18weeks, two weeks later, I went in for the ultrasound at a special clinic where the problem finally showed up. The baby was perfect. I just had almost no cervix, an "Incompetent Cervix" they call it. While I was not comprehending what was being communicated to me I was trying to tell the doctor that I had to go back to work. It was Friday, I'd take the weekend easy. It was so surreal, like if someone was speaking a different language in slow motion while their head was wrapped in a water bubble and all I heard was Blah, blah, blah blah, blah blah. Luckily Jay was there once again to be my rock when I couldn't be.
So I went home and straight to bed, until the next morning Dr. Jamison met me in the operating room and performed my cerclage. The whole time I had been telling him that woen usually have nine months to prepare for a needle going up their back, while he responded, "Well my dear, you have less than 24 hours, sorry." He was really wonderful with me. The cerclage went really well and we spoke the whole time. Although being a librarian, I'd gone home and laid in bed with the computer wildly researching cerclages - when are they performed, exactly the type of stitching with the best odds, the likelihood of going into labor from it, etc. The most incredible thing happened immediately following the surgery. While in the recovery room, the baby started to kick for the first time. The butterflies were real kicks now, small, but so sweet. That was all the impetus I needed to make sure this baby was born safely into the world. My world had just changed. I was no longer just me, he was no longer just my fetus. I allowed myself to love him, openly every second of every minute of every day.
The first two days of bedrest were hell. At the end of the third I made Jay take me for a drive until I felt guilty and afraid to lose the baby before insisiting he brought me home. For the next three weeks I waited. The doctor then said that my cervix had not fully stretched yet so I had another three weeks. Then another. Then another. The Fruitville Library was amazing. They found work that I could do from home on my laptop in bed - ordering all of the Audio Visual materials for two library, paper work that they didn't have time, extra research, etc.
The end result was that I ended up in bed the remainder of the pregnancy, full of contractions that came much too often. On the way to the bathroom, on the way back, while showering in a plastic chair in the bathroom before Jay came home, both being the highlight of my day. My mom was an angel, heaven sent. I learned then the love of a mother and why teh meditation of the love of a mother in the Buddhist tradition is my favorite, next to the one on death, both very important in my life during this time. She made my lunches, did our laundry, cleaned my house, kept me company while knitting next to my bed. Made our dinner sometimes so Jay wouldn't be so overwhelmed. An amazing woman with a lot of love. My dad would actually take lunch breaks a few times a week and come over, or on his days off and make me lunch and sit with me in bed watching traveling shows he didn't get at home. Jay did everything else, including, worry about me, the baby, go to school three times per week after working all day and studying for those crazy MBA classes.
But we pulled through, until the day that we had new carpets installed in the bedroom. That night, the contractions kept comig one right after another, they wouldn't stop. So as a precaution I asked Jay to take me to the hospital......Continue to My Pregnancy with Liam (in Hospital) - Part 2.
I convinced my doctor to do an ultrasound at 6 weeks to make sure everything was fine. But then at 8 weeks, I started spotting again. So immediately the doc examined me and it seemed everything was fine. I would just have to get used to it and see if it would stop. It didn't. We went on a family trip to Ohio to see my husband's family when I was 10 weeks and bleeding a lot. I was so scared. Every time I went to the bathroom I would make Jay come in with me in case this was the time when I found it in the toilet. Not to say how I didn't want to participate in anything.
Then at 14 weeks I went to NY City to visit my sister, who was in her second trimester of a great pregnancy. While I spotted off and on, we walked from the upper west side to the lower east, up one hill and down the other. Yes, I was still really frightened. Two weeks later I went back to help throw her baby shower and still bleeding, still very much scared.
At 18weeks, two weeks later, I went in for the ultrasound at a special clinic where the problem finally showed up. The baby was perfect. I just had almost no cervix, an "Incompetent Cervix" they call it. While I was not comprehending what was being communicated to me I was trying to tell the doctor that I had to go back to work. It was Friday, I'd take the weekend easy. It was so surreal, like if someone was speaking a different language in slow motion while their head was wrapped in a water bubble and all I heard was Blah, blah, blah blah, blah blah. Luckily Jay was there once again to be my rock when I couldn't be.
So I went home and straight to bed, until the next morning Dr. Jamison met me in the operating room and performed my cerclage. The whole time I had been telling him that woen usually have nine months to prepare for a needle going up their back, while he responded, "Well my dear, you have less than 24 hours, sorry." He was really wonderful with me. The cerclage went really well and we spoke the whole time. Although being a librarian, I'd gone home and laid in bed with the computer wildly researching cerclages - when are they performed, exactly the type of stitching with the best odds, the likelihood of going into labor from it, etc. The most incredible thing happened immediately following the surgery. While in the recovery room, the baby started to kick for the first time. The butterflies were real kicks now, small, but so sweet. That was all the impetus I needed to make sure this baby was born safely into the world. My world had just changed. I was no longer just me, he was no longer just my fetus. I allowed myself to love him, openly every second of every minute of every day.
The first two days of bedrest were hell. At the end of the third I made Jay take me for a drive until I felt guilty and afraid to lose the baby before insisiting he brought me home. For the next three weeks I waited. The doctor then said that my cervix had not fully stretched yet so I had another three weeks. Then another. Then another. The Fruitville Library was amazing. They found work that I could do from home on my laptop in bed - ordering all of the Audio Visual materials for two library, paper work that they didn't have time, extra research, etc.
The end result was that I ended up in bed the remainder of the pregnancy, full of contractions that came much too often. On the way to the bathroom, on the way back, while showering in a plastic chair in the bathroom before Jay came home, both being the highlight of my day. My mom was an angel, heaven sent. I learned then the love of a mother and why teh meditation of the love of a mother in the Buddhist tradition is my favorite, next to the one on death, both very important in my life during this time. She made my lunches, did our laundry, cleaned my house, kept me company while knitting next to my bed. Made our dinner sometimes so Jay wouldn't be so overwhelmed. An amazing woman with a lot of love. My dad would actually take lunch breaks a few times a week and come over, or on his days off and make me lunch and sit with me in bed watching traveling shows he didn't get at home. Jay did everything else, including, worry about me, the baby, go to school three times per week after working all day and studying for those crazy MBA classes.
But we pulled through, until the day that we had new carpets installed in the bedroom. That night, the contractions kept comig one right after another, they wouldn't stop. So as a precaution I asked Jay to take me to the hospital......Continue to My Pregnancy with Liam (in Hospital) - Part 2.
The Importance of Girlie Fun
When is the last time you had girlie fun? Do you even know what that is - or what it is to you? I grew up with a sister two years and ten months younger than me. And while we are very different in some respects, we are intimately close in others that count far more. She was and still is the more chic, girlie girl than me, I was the tomboy climbed on top of the tallest branch of the tree with my long fingernails painted red. But she was the one that from the age of 3, color coordinated her outfits, pony tails, shoes, and purses. In high school she would spend one hour every night picking out the next day's school outfit, only to change it three times the next morning. Still, we had so much fun together. We could just make a party out of getting ready to go have a night on the town.
My most memorable girlie fun night happened 17 years ago (God I'm getting old, especially because I remember it like it was yesterday). I was 19 and she was 17, we had just arrived in Buenos Aires earlier that day without our parents, we were supposed to meet them a week later in our native Mendoza. That night, our cousin flew in from Ushuaia, Tierra del Fuego, Argentina. Carolina was (and is) 16 days younger than me. She had lived with us in Florida for a year the previous year. We spent all night drinking champagne and getting ready like only girls can, walking around with hair in towels, taking turns at the bathroom mirror, sharing hair dryers, picking out and modeling the best evening outfit for a hot night club in the city of B.A. Since it was July, freezing, and raining, and this was B.A., leather was it. Black leather pants, leather jackets, long straight hair and great makeup that we'd all worked onto each others' faces. All the while, dancing around to Madonna's Immaculate Collection, replaying over and over our theme song, "Holiday." It was the most perfect girlie fun night ever.
But now being older and a mom, girlie fun has taken a different meaning. Going out with your best girl friends to have some wine and sushi on a weekend night to an outside restaurant that with luck, will place some cool jazz, dressing up in our sexy clothes for no one but ourselves is my idea of a girlie night.
Equally, staying in on a Saturday night with your best girl gal in pj's with some wine watching The Bridges of Madison County, after a night of chatting, exchanging ideas, painting each other's toes, and having a bitch session about whatever is not going well in your life is equally appealing. One afternoon I had a great time putting blond streaks on my friend, Vanessa's hair, which ended up needing professional touch up. But the value in that was that she trusted me to do that when I'd never done it before. But after a couple of glasses of wine we thought it was okay for a first try. The fun is what counted.
So do yourself a favor, for just one night, quit reading to your kids, quit giving your best to those you love and give your best to yourself and your girl friends, whom are also flowers in your garden that need tending to, so that when your garden is old and beautiful, you will still have those beautiful flowers holding steadfast on those strong roots for you to cherish. Much love goes out to my best friends who support my craziness despite my rigid ideas.
My most memorable girlie fun night happened 17 years ago (God I'm getting old, especially because I remember it like it was yesterday). I was 19 and she was 17, we had just arrived in Buenos Aires earlier that day without our parents, we were supposed to meet them a week later in our native Mendoza. That night, our cousin flew in from Ushuaia, Tierra del Fuego, Argentina. Carolina was (and is) 16 days younger than me. She had lived with us in Florida for a year the previous year. We spent all night drinking champagne and getting ready like only girls can, walking around with hair in towels, taking turns at the bathroom mirror, sharing hair dryers, picking out and modeling the best evening outfit for a hot night club in the city of B.A. Since it was July, freezing, and raining, and this was B.A., leather was it. Black leather pants, leather jackets, long straight hair and great makeup that we'd all worked onto each others' faces. All the while, dancing around to Madonna's Immaculate Collection, replaying over and over our theme song, "Holiday." It was the most perfect girlie fun night ever.
But now being older and a mom, girlie fun has taken a different meaning. Going out with your best girl friends to have some wine and sushi on a weekend night to an outside restaurant that with luck, will place some cool jazz, dressing up in our sexy clothes for no one but ourselves is my idea of a girlie night.
Equally, staying in on a Saturday night with your best girl gal in pj's with some wine watching The Bridges of Madison County, after a night of chatting, exchanging ideas, painting each other's toes, and having a bitch session about whatever is not going well in your life is equally appealing. One afternoon I had a great time putting blond streaks on my friend, Vanessa's hair, which ended up needing professional touch up. But the value in that was that she trusted me to do that when I'd never done it before. But after a couple of glasses of wine we thought it was okay for a first try. The fun is what counted.
So do yourself a favor, for just one night, quit reading to your kids, quit giving your best to those you love and give your best to yourself and your girl friends, whom are also flowers in your garden that need tending to, so that when your garden is old and beautiful, you will still have those beautiful flowers holding steadfast on those strong roots for you to cherish. Much love goes out to my best friends who support my craziness despite my rigid ideas.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Pan Seared Tuna with Soy & Ginger
Ingredients:
- 1 lb. tuna steaks
- 3 tblsp. soy sauce
- 5 tblsp. olive oil
- 1 -2 tsp. fresh grated ginger (preference)
- 1 tsp. minced garlic
- 1 tsp. sugar
- Mix soy sauce, ginger, garlic, 2 tbsp. olive oil, and sugar in a small bowl and pour over the tuna. Marinade in refrigerator for half an hour.
- Heat the 3 tbsp. oil and on medium-high heat place tuna steaks in oil. Depending on preference, cook one to 4 minutes per side. For well done cook for 4 minutes, for raw for only one minute. Delicious!!! Serve on fresh spinach and pour left over dressing on top.
3 Wonders of a 3 Year Old
True to the wonders of a precarious 3 year old boy, I am constantly marveling at the rapidly changing obsessions of my son. I really think there is a difference between the inner wirings of boys and girls. One month before his 3rd birthday, most of our conversations or observations revolve around 3 things:
Bugs - There is not a bug that goes undetected in our outside our home. There is really no need for pest control treatments, my son will spot them all and won't stop until we either take them outside or stomp on them. Ants, spiders, roaches, you name it, they cannot live unnoticed. Ants are "bad, bad, bad;" bees are "it stung me," followed by a pinch, spiders make Liam get his fingers in climbing position and he starts singing, "The Itsy Bitsy Spider," as to where roaches are, well, something worth investigating. When Liam finds a roach, alive or dead, they are usually with their legs up, still moving. He will run to get me and on our way to see it, he stops at the bathroom and retrieves toilet paper. Then we go and look at, discuss whether it's dead or alive and proceed to picking it up. Yuk is right!! I cringe, but I don't let him know it. Why kill my son's sense of wonder? I have to admit he is a little cruel with it. He will pick it up, then drop it, then pick it up again a few more times. Then he will take it and throw it in the toilet, flush it, and say, "bye, bye, see you later." The most disgusting thing occurred the other day: he walked up to me with open, sweaty hands and there, stuck was the evidence of the last few minutes - roach legs pasted onto his palms. Trying not to freak out, remembering how horrified my parents were with my love of snakes, I just took him to the bathroom and cleaned him off.
Boo Boos - All of a sudden last week Liam became obsessed with anything that will hurt, him or anyone else, by stating "it's a boo boo, it hurts" with the most pitiful look on his face. I think he may even try to hurt himself so he can show us, although he refuses to wear a bandaid or screams bloody murder if we spray anything on it. His knees and legs are more evidence of his boyish nature and I dread his third year checkup with all his bumps, bruises and scrapings.
Poop - Thanks be to poop for it got Liam potty trained very quickly. While he was in the process already of peeing in the toilet, not a potty, he refused to sit on the toilet out of fear. But once while he was standing up peeing in toilet he started holding his butt cheeks together, saying he had to poop. The minute I saw it coming, I immediately sat him on the toilet and when he looked, he got so excited. That was early one Saturday morning and he spent the whole day trying to poop. I told him he had no more in him but he persisted. In no time, potty training was a success. Yippy!! Now, the funny thing is that he makes us go in there with him to see it because he is so proud to inform us that, "Look mommy, it looks like snakes!!"
Now why can't we enjoy every small, insignificant thing in life? Wouldn't it be great if we could!!
- Bugs,
- Boo Boos, and
- Poop.
Bugs - There is not a bug that goes undetected in our outside our home. There is really no need for pest control treatments, my son will spot them all and won't stop until we either take them outside or stomp on them. Ants, spiders, roaches, you name it, they cannot live unnoticed. Ants are "bad, bad, bad;" bees are "it stung me," followed by a pinch, spiders make Liam get his fingers in climbing position and he starts singing, "The Itsy Bitsy Spider," as to where roaches are, well, something worth investigating. When Liam finds a roach, alive or dead, they are usually with their legs up, still moving. He will run to get me and on our way to see it, he stops at the bathroom and retrieves toilet paper. Then we go and look at, discuss whether it's dead or alive and proceed to picking it up. Yuk is right!! I cringe, but I don't let him know it. Why kill my son's sense of wonder? I have to admit he is a little cruel with it. He will pick it up, then drop it, then pick it up again a few more times. Then he will take it and throw it in the toilet, flush it, and say, "bye, bye, see you later." The most disgusting thing occurred the other day: he walked up to me with open, sweaty hands and there, stuck was the evidence of the last few minutes - roach legs pasted onto his palms. Trying not to freak out, remembering how horrified my parents were with my love of snakes, I just took him to the bathroom and cleaned him off.
Boo Boos - All of a sudden last week Liam became obsessed with anything that will hurt, him or anyone else, by stating "it's a boo boo, it hurts" with the most pitiful look on his face. I think he may even try to hurt himself so he can show us, although he refuses to wear a bandaid or screams bloody murder if we spray anything on it. His knees and legs are more evidence of his boyish nature and I dread his third year checkup with all his bumps, bruises and scrapings.
Poop - Thanks be to poop for it got Liam potty trained very quickly. While he was in the process already of peeing in the toilet, not a potty, he refused to sit on the toilet out of fear. But once while he was standing up peeing in toilet he started holding his butt cheeks together, saying he had to poop. The minute I saw it coming, I immediately sat him on the toilet and when he looked, he got so excited. That was early one Saturday morning and he spent the whole day trying to poop. I told him he had no more in him but he persisted. In no time, potty training was a success. Yippy!! Now, the funny thing is that he makes us go in there with him to see it because he is so proud to inform us that, "Look mommy, it looks like snakes!!"
Now why can't we enjoy every small, insignificant thing in life? Wouldn't it be great if we could!!
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Parenting Your Parent - Part 1
I will start this blog entry by stating that I am a very lucky woman because I have two wonderful, living, loving parents, who are still together and who must have raised me well. Now that I'm a mother do I finally realize all of the selfless sacrifice parents do for the unconditional love of their children (most of them). If we are lucky, they raise us with good values and an open mind, not to mention with open hearts. Mine certainly did that.
When I was ten years old, my father decided that we would be leaving our home in Argentina to live in the United States, regardless of whether my mom or us really wanted to. Not that my dad was a selfish man, but he knew a good opportunity when he saw one. I will not go through all of the acculturation challenges of moving to a land where you may only know one person, cannot speak the language, have no job, and know nothing about the culture, just some vague idea that your value system completely clashes with the new one and that while you embrace it, you only do so very reluctantly, fighting it all the way. Constantly comparing everything, finding that nothing measures up. It's a pretty lonely place. That is where my parents found themselves, but mostly my mother was the one who suffered. My father went to work immediately, and while busy learning a new trade as a baker and excellent cake decorator who arose every morning at 2 a.m. and went to bed at 9 p.m., did not leave him any time for feeling emotions of any type, other than exhaustion. Thank you daddy for working so hard.
Back to my mother. My mother gave up a passionate, prominent career as a neo-natal surgical nurse at a hospital, where saving babies and assisting in deliveries was the only place she wanted to be. Being very happy there and very close to her family, she didn't want to come here, but did so at the insistence of my father. So what do you do when you can't stay home, need money, and don't know the language in a foreign land? You go clean houses, nice fancy ones that you know you will never live in. In short, this was the first contributing factor to killing her spirit. We moved from NJ to Florida a year later in hopes of warmer weather and friendlier people than those in the north east. Not to say that they are unfriendly, but to a Hispanic culture, at the risk of sounding offensive, they are as cold as the snow they live in. But going back home was not an option, so we plugged on.
Between preparing meals, keeping our home clean, dealing with the loss of her family, and working, my mother never took the time to learn English. She got comfortable in her pain and the only source of happiness came in the form of letters from back home, or tape recordings her family recorded once a month, sent by mail. In not learning English, my mom made no American friends, hardly any Hispanic ones. She was sad, lonely, and very tired. Within a couple of years, my sister and I were fluent in both languages, and often used it against my parents like all bilingual children do.
So here is where my parenting my parents started. I remember the first time. I was 10. I had already been translating everything for my parents, especially my mom. Every time we went to a store or anywhere she needed a question answered, I asked it. Then my parents were fortunate and bought our first home here. I translated all of the bank paperwork, both for them and for the bank, who had no translators. Did I state that I was 10? Very quickly, I was translating and explaining the concept of credit cards to my parents, who didn't have those options back home, soon I was translating and talking to bill collectors, I guess I hadn't explained the concept of credit to my parents very well. I was translating when my teachers told my parents I wasn't doing well enough in class, all the mail that came to the house, all the things my mother had to write, translating at the purchase of a new car, etc.
Fast forward 25 years....September, 2000. My mother was diagnosed with Multiple Myeloma. A cancer of the plasma cell within the bone marrow, rare. After seeing different doctors who offered multiple protocol options and very little hope, being the controlling person I am, and loving my mommy, mami as I call her, I had to take matters into my own hands. I called around, I learned to do research on my own with the wonderful help of the Internet, and trained myself at medical research by reading medical journals and interpreting the medical language, especially in the form of oncology. I had to save my mami, no one else was going to love her like I did. That is when parenting my mom went to a different level. I loved researching so much I changed careers, went back to school and got my masters in Library & Information Science, and kept researching. Clinical trials, medications, alternative medicine, you name it. I translated everything at every appointment she had. I went in with my legal pad with 2 pages of questions, doctors hated me, I treated them like they worked for me, imagine that, they being resentful to that, my saving my mami. I made all the calls to the insurance companies to pay for all of these expensive ($7,000 a month medications), pharmaceutical companies to see if they would sponsor the medications. I learned to interpret all of the blood levels in all of the tests and questioned when I thought the treatments weren't working. I researched what the top doctors treating Myeloma were doing. I even asked the doctors to switch medications when I knew others had come to market recently, before they gave us the option. Did I say that they hated me?
Unfortunately, this taught my mom that someone was responsible for her, that someone would always fight for her and take care of her. She no longer had to do it herself. Unfortunately, I was also her daughter, and I needed my mami. So we traded. She became my child who had this life depending project, and I became her savior, in exchange for keeping her alive to love me. Being Hispanic, this would not be anything strange. In fact, it's common. We don't put our parents in a home when they are old and can't care for themselves. We simply move them in with us. But being partly of this culture, I know there are other options to the way I was raised. Even if these ways go against what I believe it, yet I can't ignore them. But did I say that my mom is only 59? She is not old, she has just grown helpless and I've enabled her to lean on me far too much far too long.
So now I'm a mom to my sweet little 3 year old son, Liam. I have my own family, my own problems, my own dreams, my own responsibilities. And I still have my mom depending on me. And I am so conflicted on so many levels I can't write them down fast enough without thinking there must be some I forgot.....See Parenting Your Parent - Part 2.
When I was ten years old, my father decided that we would be leaving our home in Argentina to live in the United States, regardless of whether my mom or us really wanted to. Not that my dad was a selfish man, but he knew a good opportunity when he saw one. I will not go through all of the acculturation challenges of moving to a land where you may only know one person, cannot speak the language, have no job, and know nothing about the culture, just some vague idea that your value system completely clashes with the new one and that while you embrace it, you only do so very reluctantly, fighting it all the way. Constantly comparing everything, finding that nothing measures up. It's a pretty lonely place. That is where my parents found themselves, but mostly my mother was the one who suffered. My father went to work immediately, and while busy learning a new trade as a baker and excellent cake decorator who arose every morning at 2 a.m. and went to bed at 9 p.m., did not leave him any time for feeling emotions of any type, other than exhaustion. Thank you daddy for working so hard.
Back to my mother. My mother gave up a passionate, prominent career as a neo-natal surgical nurse at a hospital, where saving babies and assisting in deliveries was the only place she wanted to be. Being very happy there and very close to her family, she didn't want to come here, but did so at the insistence of my father. So what do you do when you can't stay home, need money, and don't know the language in a foreign land? You go clean houses, nice fancy ones that you know you will never live in. In short, this was the first contributing factor to killing her spirit. We moved from NJ to Florida a year later in hopes of warmer weather and friendlier people than those in the north east. Not to say that they are unfriendly, but to a Hispanic culture, at the risk of sounding offensive, they are as cold as the snow they live in. But going back home was not an option, so we plugged on.
Between preparing meals, keeping our home clean, dealing with the loss of her family, and working, my mother never took the time to learn English. She got comfortable in her pain and the only source of happiness came in the form of letters from back home, or tape recordings her family recorded once a month, sent by mail. In not learning English, my mom made no American friends, hardly any Hispanic ones. She was sad, lonely, and very tired. Within a couple of years, my sister and I were fluent in both languages, and often used it against my parents like all bilingual children do.
So here is where my parenting my parents started. I remember the first time. I was 10. I had already been translating everything for my parents, especially my mom. Every time we went to a store or anywhere she needed a question answered, I asked it. Then my parents were fortunate and bought our first home here. I translated all of the bank paperwork, both for them and for the bank, who had no translators. Did I state that I was 10? Very quickly, I was translating and explaining the concept of credit cards to my parents, who didn't have those options back home, soon I was translating and talking to bill collectors, I guess I hadn't explained the concept of credit to my parents very well. I was translating when my teachers told my parents I wasn't doing well enough in class, all the mail that came to the house, all the things my mother had to write, translating at the purchase of a new car, etc.
Fast forward 25 years....September, 2000. My mother was diagnosed with Multiple Myeloma. A cancer of the plasma cell within the bone marrow, rare. After seeing different doctors who offered multiple protocol options and very little hope, being the controlling person I am, and loving my mommy, mami as I call her, I had to take matters into my own hands. I called around, I learned to do research on my own with the wonderful help of the Internet, and trained myself at medical research by reading medical journals and interpreting the medical language, especially in the form of oncology. I had to save my mami, no one else was going to love her like I did. That is when parenting my mom went to a different level. I loved researching so much I changed careers, went back to school and got my masters in Library & Information Science, and kept researching. Clinical trials, medications, alternative medicine, you name it. I translated everything at every appointment she had. I went in with my legal pad with 2 pages of questions, doctors hated me, I treated them like they worked for me, imagine that, they being resentful to that, my saving my mami. I made all the calls to the insurance companies to pay for all of these expensive ($7,000 a month medications), pharmaceutical companies to see if they would sponsor the medications. I learned to interpret all of the blood levels in all of the tests and questioned when I thought the treatments weren't working. I researched what the top doctors treating Myeloma were doing. I even asked the doctors to switch medications when I knew others had come to market recently, before they gave us the option. Did I say that they hated me?
Unfortunately, this taught my mom that someone was responsible for her, that someone would always fight for her and take care of her. She no longer had to do it herself. Unfortunately, I was also her daughter, and I needed my mami. So we traded. She became my child who had this life depending project, and I became her savior, in exchange for keeping her alive to love me. Being Hispanic, this would not be anything strange. In fact, it's common. We don't put our parents in a home when they are old and can't care for themselves. We simply move them in with us. But being partly of this culture, I know there are other options to the way I was raised. Even if these ways go against what I believe it, yet I can't ignore them. But did I say that my mom is only 59? She is not old, she has just grown helpless and I've enabled her to lean on me far too much far too long.
So now I'm a mom to my sweet little 3 year old son, Liam. I have my own family, my own problems, my own dreams, my own responsibilities. And I still have my mom depending on me. And I am so conflicted on so many levels I can't write them down fast enough without thinking there must be some I forgot.....See Parenting Your Parent - Part 2.
Saturday, May 9, 2009
Preschool
All preschools are not created equal, I'll start by saying that. After placing Liam in a Kids Day Out program last September, I've watched Liam grow socially in ways I never thought he would. I know, I need to give my smart little boy some credit. He has learned everything I had set out as essential in this first schooling endeavor: sharing, playing nicely with others, following directions, sitting in a circle, and one of the most important, being away from me from time to time - for his own good.
His teacher Amber has a heart of gold and the patience of a saint. She put up and helped ease him out of headbanging, horrible tantrums thrown by Liam in his separation anxiety from me, which at the beginning lasted the whole 3 hours, 3 days per week. Since September, he now hardly struggles to separate, with the occasional tactic of delaying my leaving with "Big hugs, mommy," over and over. But now, I've also seen Liam grow out of this environment and in need of more structure. His behavior has changed to some of the older children that his class gets to spend too much time with because of financial reasons of the school, and because some teachers who have children there (older) allow their children into the classroom, disrupting the smaller ones. So witnessing this, I have been once again sent off, much sooner than I wish and not ready to face another difficult task, into research something long term for my son- finding another preschool.
I went on the hunt once again with my friend, Thelma, who was the one that suggested I try the KDO program, her daughter was already enrolled and I trust her judgment. This time, we learned terms like "Looking for the Stars," a system that rates schools based on a 5 star rating that has five elements they strive for in excellence, "VPK," Voluntary Pre-Kindergarten that they can go to free of charge at the age of 4, being that some preschools offer this and some do not. There's the issue of trying to not switch them around, meaning, the pressure is on you to find a great school that has all of these and that you choose well the first time so you don't have to disrupt them and switch them again later. Ay, ay, ay, ay, ay. Too much pressure. And if that's not all, Liam is still missing the MMR, which I still don't want to give him yet, and the chicken pox vaccine and I have to make sure that the school we choose is okay with us opting out. This is all before calculating the cost of these places. Hugely expensive.
Then let's look at the environment, is it nurturing, loving enough? Do they have a great playground? Yes, that is important both to Liam and to me. I want him to want to go there. Not like now where he wakes up saying, "I not go to school today mommy." Then, does creativity flow freely there, do they have structure, will they learn what they need to learn, will they be kept busy and not bored, are the activities varying, are the classrooms center based, etc. Is the teacher friendly and will my perceptive, highly intuitive 3 year old bond with her, he doesn't with everyone. Will the teacher work with me and my goals for my son, will she be accepting of his sensitivities and know how to handle them like his previous teacher did? All these and a million things I can't think about but will stress about anyway?
I have known for some time that this is the hardest job a person can ever have, being a mom, particularly, because all of these diffffffffffficult decisions rest on our shoulders. But now I see how we will be held accountable for our choices. And while this is not a job that we can get fired from, reasonably speaking, we will reep the rewards or the havoc that we have created and instilled in these tiny creatures. They will be there for us to see and hear for the rest of our lives, and these, seemingly not yet so trivial decisions really do mark our children from very early on.
For every time I have thought, what's the harm in this about anything, I have seen it very quickly. Children need positive stimulation, creative play, loving nurturance from those around them, discipline and unwavering limits for them to navigate around the appropriate perimeters, along with choices they can make that will instill self-esteem and confidence. This is all I have to find and provide for my son. Does this not sound like the hardest job ever?
I mean, unlike another job where if I don't perform I will get fired yes, but I can always find another one and forget about the last one. At this job, the consequences of my work will be self-evident reminders of correct or incorrect choices I made for my son for the rest of my life and more importantly, he will be a person out of those choices, influencing everyone he encounters and has relationships with. So with love, courage, and most of all, with faith, I go forward asking the universe and my Buddhas to guide me in this endeavor, for as silly as the term preschool seems, it will be invaluable in shaping this little tiny person whom I love most in the world.
His teacher Amber has a heart of gold and the patience of a saint. She put up and helped ease him out of headbanging, horrible tantrums thrown by Liam in his separation anxiety from me, which at the beginning lasted the whole 3 hours, 3 days per week. Since September, he now hardly struggles to separate, with the occasional tactic of delaying my leaving with "Big hugs, mommy," over and over. But now, I've also seen Liam grow out of this environment and in need of more structure. His behavior has changed to some of the older children that his class gets to spend too much time with because of financial reasons of the school, and because some teachers who have children there (older) allow their children into the classroom, disrupting the smaller ones. So witnessing this, I have been once again sent off, much sooner than I wish and not ready to face another difficult task, into research something long term for my son- finding another preschool.
I went on the hunt once again with my friend, Thelma, who was the one that suggested I try the KDO program, her daughter was already enrolled and I trust her judgment. This time, we learned terms like "Looking for the Stars," a system that rates schools based on a 5 star rating that has five elements they strive for in excellence, "VPK," Voluntary Pre-Kindergarten that they can go to free of charge at the age of 4, being that some preschools offer this and some do not. There's the issue of trying to not switch them around, meaning, the pressure is on you to find a great school that has all of these and that you choose well the first time so you don't have to disrupt them and switch them again later. Ay, ay, ay, ay, ay. Too much pressure. And if that's not all, Liam is still missing the MMR, which I still don't want to give him yet, and the chicken pox vaccine and I have to make sure that the school we choose is okay with us opting out. This is all before calculating the cost of these places. Hugely expensive.
Then let's look at the environment, is it nurturing, loving enough? Do they have a great playground? Yes, that is important both to Liam and to me. I want him to want to go there. Not like now where he wakes up saying, "I not go to school today mommy." Then, does creativity flow freely there, do they have structure, will they learn what they need to learn, will they be kept busy and not bored, are the activities varying, are the classrooms center based, etc. Is the teacher friendly and will my perceptive, highly intuitive 3 year old bond with her, he doesn't with everyone. Will the teacher work with me and my goals for my son, will she be accepting of his sensitivities and know how to handle them like his previous teacher did? All these and a million things I can't think about but will stress about anyway?
I have known for some time that this is the hardest job a person can ever have, being a mom, particularly, because all of these diffffffffffficult decisions rest on our shoulders. But now I see how we will be held accountable for our choices. And while this is not a job that we can get fired from, reasonably speaking, we will reep the rewards or the havoc that we have created and instilled in these tiny creatures. They will be there for us to see and hear for the rest of our lives, and these, seemingly not yet so trivial decisions really do mark our children from very early on.
For every time I have thought, what's the harm in this about anything, I have seen it very quickly. Children need positive stimulation, creative play, loving nurturance from those around them, discipline and unwavering limits for them to navigate around the appropriate perimeters, along with choices they can make that will instill self-esteem and confidence. This is all I have to find and provide for my son. Does this not sound like the hardest job ever?
I mean, unlike another job where if I don't perform I will get fired yes, but I can always find another one and forget about the last one. At this job, the consequences of my work will be self-evident reminders of correct or incorrect choices I made for my son for the rest of my life and more importantly, he will be a person out of those choices, influencing everyone he encounters and has relationships with. So with love, courage, and most of all, with faith, I go forward asking the universe and my Buddhas to guide me in this endeavor, for as silly as the term preschool seems, it will be invaluable in shaping this little tiny person whom I love most in the world.
Monday, May 4, 2009
Egg/veggie Dough Wrap Recipe
My sister gave me this recipe she created between one she'd found in "Deceptively Delicious" and modified it a bit. It's healthy, filling, and a good meal for a picky eater.
Ingredients:
Ingredients:
- little bit of flour
- 7 eggs
- 1/2 zucchini or another veggie on hand
- 1 Pillsbury Doughboy Croissant roll tube
- Separate and beat the eggs (I only use 3 yolks and all the whites - I have high cholesterol)
- Separate the croissant rolls and use some flour (so they don't stick) and a rolling pin to roll them out a little more to give more space for the eggs.
- Slice the zucchini (or whatever veggie) into very small pieces.
- Saute the eggs and the zucchini, making a frittata.
- Scoop two tablespoons of frittata into the croissant.
- Fold the croissant like a little diaper and put into the oven for 11 minutes at the temperature stipulated by the croissant directions.
Sunday, May 3, 2009
Play Therapy
While his tantrums have most gone, he still was suffering anxiety every time we went to a park or somewhere where small children were present. Because he has a big personal space area, if a child came too close to him, or God forbid, touched him, he would lie down on the floor, head into the dirt. He would stay in this position until we rescued him, and when we did, he would be covered in tears that had soaked up the dirt into his face. It was horrible to see our little boy suffering. So after researching books, internet, you name it, I called my old therapist, to see if she could help. She is the only certified Play Therapist in southwest Florida and is amazing. She already knew me from a year of intense counseling so it was an amazing fit to bring him to her. We have been meeting with her on a weekly basis now for a couple of months and while we do play therapy with him, she also coaches us on techniques to build Liam's self esteem so these anxieties will lessen. That, combined with him going to preschool three mornings per week where he gets a chance to practice what he's learning (without knowing it) has completely changed our lives. There is a real science to Play Therapy and it really works. I would have never believed it. We are so proud of Liam because every single day we see the strides he is taking to be more confident in his ability to make choices and integrate himself without fear into a setting that would have paralyzed him before.
Saturday, May 2, 2009
Headbanging & Tantrums - Part 2
According to Baby Center:
"Head banging is surprisingly common. Up to 20 percent of babies and toddlers bang their head on purpose, although boys are three times more likely to do it than girls. Head banging often starts in the second half of the first year and peaks between 18 and 24 months of age. Your baby's head-banging habit may last for several months, or even years, though most children outgrow it by age 3."
We took Liam to a child psychiatrist, after he'd been evaluated for his overall development and he scored the highest in all areas, speech, cognitively, gross and fine motor skills, etc. Through the psychiatrist we were recommended a child behavior specialist. We hired a great specialist who came to our house on a weekly basis. First, she evaluated him through us and then in his own environment. She learned what my sister had already told me, we were not being consistent with him and he was ruling our home. He was also so stubborn and persistent and us so laid back and easy going that the combination was toxic. We were negatively feeding from each other and Jay and I were exhausted with him, so we gave in......way too much. The behaviorist said we had a child centered home, where he and his wishes came first and then we did. We needed to turn that around. So she armed us with tools of "calm down" times and limit settings and told us to prepare for the next two weeks of hell he'd put us through.
Because the headbanging was bad at this point, putting him in calm down time didn't work, we knew it wouldn't. With her, we watched him bang over and over. Until she said that he needed to learn to calm down on his own in a safe place. So I went to the fabric store and bought $100 worth of upholstering foam, the stuff is really expensive. I came home and completely covered his entire crib full of foam, wrapped around with tape and quilts in a way that he couldn't pull it off. The bed also became too difficult to jump out of, like he used to when he was really upset. Every time he made the most minor infraction we had to put him in there until he realized it was wrong and until he calmed down. The reasons he headbanged, which I haven't yet mentioned until now were: he wanted something we wouldn't give him or took something away,
or a child took something from him or he didn't want to share, etc.
Although the next two weeks were no fun days at the park, the improvements came quicker than we had anticipated. Liam went from calming down in one hour to 30 minutes, to 15 minutes, to 2 minutes in just one week. One of the ways that we started to prevent his tantrums was by using his bike helmet, like his psychiatrist had suggested. So we kept it inside the house and when he started to headbang we would restrain him and put it on him. He hated it. So soon he learned that the minute he started to headbang we'd show it to him and he would stop, even though he'd still have the tantrum by crying. This was such a nice change.
Another method, this one suggested by the behaviorist was to allow him to headbang, thus taking the control from him and using it against him. Although we were doubtful, it worked. It enraged him that he couldn't use his favorite control method against us. When he'd bang his head, I'd take him to the carpet and put a pillow down and say, "You're mad mad mad, bang your head, bang your head, make it hurt." He would look at me like "wow, why are you letting me do this." Then he'd get upset and slap something but would stop banging. Even though he still persisted pushing our buttons, he knew now what would come of it. During this time, he had just started school (last Sept.) and he also headbanged there when I left him because he had severe separation anxiety. But with the loving structure that his teachers provided him he started to have really good days there. These two methods worked for us and soon he stopped for the most part. Now he has learned to hit, or slap us when he gets upset, instead of headbanging. Even though he still will do it once, for attention, every once in a while, and we just ignore it or tell him it won't work and he doesn't do it again. He has come such a long way and we are so proud of the daily progress he makes through the hard work he does and we do together, as a family, being consistent, loving, and nurturing. We will never cease to try anything that will help him be the happiest, self-secure and loving person he can be. This was and is our only goal for him.
The thing that I've learned is that sensitive children is that their emotions range strongly in either direction and keeping them in the middle is hard for them, especially at this age. It is important to teach them about our feelings, labeling them when they are angry, sad, scared, happy, etc. And the more their communication improves and they learn to recognize and integrate these feelings to tell us what they're feeling, the less these tantrums will occur. After we stopped seeing the behaviorist we knew of another resource that would probably work better long term in identifying and helping us cope with some of this social anxiety, especially with children his age or slightly younger. Play Therapy. I will discuss these in another blog entry since it is quite extensive.
"Head banging is surprisingly common. Up to 20 percent of babies and toddlers bang their head on purpose, although boys are three times more likely to do it than girls. Head banging often starts in the second half of the first year and peaks between 18 and 24 months of age. Your baby's head-banging habit may last for several months, or even years, though most children outgrow it by age 3."
We took Liam to a child psychiatrist, after he'd been evaluated for his overall development and he scored the highest in all areas, speech, cognitively, gross and fine motor skills, etc. Through the psychiatrist we were recommended a child behavior specialist. We hired a great specialist who came to our house on a weekly basis. First, she evaluated him through us and then in his own environment. She learned what my sister had already told me, we were not being consistent with him and he was ruling our home. He was also so stubborn and persistent and us so laid back and easy going that the combination was toxic. We were negatively feeding from each other and Jay and I were exhausted with him, so we gave in......way too much. The behaviorist said we had a child centered home, where he and his wishes came first and then we did. We needed to turn that around. So she armed us with tools of "calm down" times and limit settings and told us to prepare for the next two weeks of hell he'd put us through.
Because the headbanging was bad at this point, putting him in calm down time didn't work, we knew it wouldn't. With her, we watched him bang over and over. Until she said that he needed to learn to calm down on his own in a safe place. So I went to the fabric store and bought $100 worth of upholstering foam, the stuff is really expensive. I came home and completely covered his entire crib full of foam, wrapped around with tape and quilts in a way that he couldn't pull it off. The bed also became too difficult to jump out of, like he used to when he was really upset. Every time he made the most minor infraction we had to put him in there until he realized it was wrong and until he calmed down. The reasons he headbanged, which I haven't yet mentioned until now were: he wanted something we wouldn't give him or took something away,
or a child took something from him or he didn't want to share, etc.
Although the next two weeks were no fun days at the park, the improvements came quicker than we had anticipated. Liam went from calming down in one hour to 30 minutes, to 15 minutes, to 2 minutes in just one week. One of the ways that we started to prevent his tantrums was by using his bike helmet, like his psychiatrist had suggested. So we kept it inside the house and when he started to headbang we would restrain him and put it on him. He hated it. So soon he learned that the minute he started to headbang we'd show it to him and he would stop, even though he'd still have the tantrum by crying. This was such a nice change.
Another method, this one suggested by the behaviorist was to allow him to headbang, thus taking the control from him and using it against him. Although we were doubtful, it worked. It enraged him that he couldn't use his favorite control method against us. When he'd bang his head, I'd take him to the carpet and put a pillow down and say, "You're mad mad mad, bang your head, bang your head, make it hurt." He would look at me like "wow, why are you letting me do this." Then he'd get upset and slap something but would stop banging. Even though he still persisted pushing our buttons, he knew now what would come of it. During this time, he had just started school (last Sept.) and he also headbanged there when I left him because he had severe separation anxiety. But with the loving structure that his teachers provided him he started to have really good days there. These two methods worked for us and soon he stopped for the most part. Now he has learned to hit, or slap us when he gets upset, instead of headbanging. Even though he still will do it once, for attention, every once in a while, and we just ignore it or tell him it won't work and he doesn't do it again. He has come such a long way and we are so proud of the daily progress he makes through the hard work he does and we do together, as a family, being consistent, loving, and nurturing. We will never cease to try anything that will help him be the happiest, self-secure and loving person he can be. This was and is our only goal for him.
The thing that I've learned is that sensitive children is that their emotions range strongly in either direction and keeping them in the middle is hard for them, especially at this age. It is important to teach them about our feelings, labeling them when they are angry, sad, scared, happy, etc. And the more their communication improves and they learn to recognize and integrate these feelings to tell us what they're feeling, the less these tantrums will occur. After we stopped seeing the behaviorist we knew of another resource that would probably work better long term in identifying and helping us cope with some of this social anxiety, especially with children his age or slightly younger. Play Therapy. I will discuss these in another blog entry since it is quite extensive.
Friday, May 1, 2009
Ditched Bank of America
Yea!!! I finally ditched Bank of America once and for all. I'm so excited to have broken a financial relationship that had become so toxic. Foremost, I am grateful to my friend, Sue, who pointed me in the way of the local credit union. Like most politically charged liberals, I am pissed at all the bailouts for companies whose primary goal is executive pay and bonuses. I got tired of hearing all of them come in and ask for money and then turn around and shit on it. We work hard. They just go to meetings to find ways of ripping off the working folk. Through it all I watched the car companies be held accountable but not the banks. They needed and got special treatment. They got to fail at their job, keep their job, and with their heads held high (morally corrupt bastards), as if it wasn't their doing, ask us for money to fail again.
For us, it all started with a letter. Bank of America sent my parents and me a letter about raising the interest rates, because like states in the tiniest fine print at the very last paragraph of the back page of your statement, "they can exercise their right to do that at any time." Not only were they raising the rates on the credit card but they were instituting new fees,
Not to mention that they had been charging me erroneous fees for the past few months that I had to keep calling them to take off. So after banking with them for 18 years, I cancelled all of our accounts with them. And I am proud that I will not be bullied by a big banker anymore. They can get their moneys from other idiots but they won't get it from me.
So good bye Bank of America. I only wish you bankruptcy. Unless you fully become nationalized.
For us, it all started with a letter. Bank of America sent my parents and me a letter about raising the interest rates, because like states in the tiniest fine print at the very last paragraph of the back page of your statement, "they can exercise their right to do that at any time." Not only were they raising the rates on the credit card but they were instituting new fees,
- a transaction fee per credit card usage, both for cash advances and purchases,
- a transaction fee if you overdrew from your checking to savings account,
- a fee just for having a checking account,
- a fee just for having a savings account.
Not to mention that they had been charging me erroneous fees for the past few months that I had to keep calling them to take off. So after banking with them for 18 years, I cancelled all of our accounts with them. And I am proud that I will not be bullied by a big banker anymore. They can get their moneys from other idiots but they won't get it from me.
So good bye Bank of America. I only wish you bankruptcy. Unless you fully become nationalized.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Boys Love Dirt
Liam standing King of the Hill on the 16 cubic yards of dirt we had dropped on our driveway to fill one of our ponds. He had the time of his life....for hours. If only we could lose ourselves in something so dirty mindfully.Assertive Communication Tool
I got this very useful Assertive Communication wallet-sized card from my counselor over a year ago, yes I have one. I have kept it posted on my refrigerator since then and now have it internalized. When I'm angry or my needs are not being met with anyone, I use it and it works. It is a fantastic little tool. It helps me not feel horrible for the words that are about to come out of my mouth and not have them be the wrong ones that will be hurtful.
I feel ........................
(angry, scared, worried, sad, confused, lonely, concerned, etc.)
when you...................
(yell, drink, avoid, criticize, worry, leave, sleep, ignore, etc.)
I would appreciate it....like it....enjoy it....
It would mean a lot to me......
It would really help......
if you would....................
(talk, wait, listen, care, call, write, consider, help, etc.)
B. Heneberger, LMHC
I feel ........................
(angry, scared, worried, sad, confused, lonely, concerned, etc.)
when you...................
(yell, drink, avoid, criticize, worry, leave, sleep, ignore, etc.)
I would appreciate it....like it....enjoy it....
It would mean a lot to me......
It would really help......
if you would....................
(talk, wait, listen, care, call, write, consider, help, etc.)
B. Heneberger, LMHC
Essence of Life Quote - Buddhist
The essence of life is that it is challenging.
To be fully alive, fully human,
and completely awake is
to be continually
thrown out of the nest.
Quote by: Pema Chodron, Buddhist Nun
To be fully alive, fully human,
and completely awake is
to be continually
thrown out of the nest.
Quote by: Pema Chodron, Buddhist Nun
Headbanging & Tantrums - Part 1
Headbanging? Huh.....That's what I would have said had we not experienced this horrific sight and sound coming from our toddler's head repetitively hitting our tile floor 42 times several times a day for a year and a half. So why are there not enough authoritative articles or parental anecdotes on the subject? I pride myself in having a Masters in Library & Information Science and being a good librarian, so I armed myself with resources and went on the hunt for information that must be out there. But there's nothing worse to a librarian than when something hasn't been written, therefore, cannot be found. If you are lucky to find it in an index of a book on child behavior, then you'll read one paragraph or less, with no information. If you go online, you'll find people who are asking the same question with no follow up answer. If you ask your doctor, they'll you to ignore it, that it will go away on it's own because it's an attention getting tactic - although children who suffer from Autism often display this behavior.
My son, Liam, had been a sensitive baby, but after year we knew what it took to calm him down, in most cases. When he was about 15 months old he started getting his molars and he is really sensitive to pain. He started slapping his cheeks a lot. As the quick learner that he is, he soon figured out that this got our attention very quickly. Well, when this stopped working, he moved on to headbanging - this in a matter of one week. Then he started doing it every time he was frustrated or upset. This came along with rolling around on the floor, screaming at the top of his lungs, kicking, turning purple, hitting, and biting for one hour and fifteen minutes. It was the most horrific thing we've ever witnessed as parents. No one would believe it unless they saw it. Naturally, we thought it was still because he was teething and often said, "Wow, it looks like it really hurts." So we waited for those molars and checked many times per day. But no sign of those pearly white sheers of pain. So what did we do? We gave him Tylenol and took him for a long car ride, as that had often called him down in the past.
That worked after a few minutes, but we thought, "Was it the Tylenol or the car ride, because if it's the car ride, then it can't really be pain." So what do good parents do when something is wrong with your child and it's persistent? We took him to the doctor. What did she say? "Welcome to the terrible 2s," followed by "Ignore it, and he will stop when he knows it doesn't work to get what he wants. He will not hurt himself." Well, she doesn't know my persistent, head strong, stubborn as hell child. When we ignored him head banging 10 times on the carpet in our bedroom, he moved on to headbanging on our living room floor, and when that didn't work, he'd bang on the glass sliding doors, and when that didn't work, he literally walked over to the tile floor in the kitchen and did it there until I couldn't bear it anymore. Surely, if the doctor had seen her child do this she couldn't have either.
Of course, my son, smart as he is, learned the threshold very quickly and it became his method for getting what he wanted. And because he lived with a permanent black and blue Klingon (Star Wars reference) bump coming out of his forehead, we had to protect him physically before he gave himself a concussion the doctor was sure wouldn't happen. We had to hold him down on the floor and keep him from hitting us, kicking us, biting us, or himself, while holding on to his head so that he couldn't bang it forward or backwards. All the while he was strongly rolling to the sides, screaming at the top of his lungs for over an hour. This would happen anywhere from 2 to 8 times per day. And yes, I'm a stay at home mom, by choice. Yes, I wanted someone to shoot me most of these days. We read the book "The Happiest Toddler on The Block," by Dr. Karp, since we'd read the baby one and it had worked. And we instituted the techniques but it still was not that effectual for us. I went back to the doctor and she told me to read a couple of other books... or if I was at the end of my rope, to go see a child psychiatrist. Scary. For a two year old with angst, really? And I thought, "Well, I have angst, and I've seen a psychologist, she's helped, I've got nothing to lose but my sanity to gain here." So we went.
My son, Liam, had been a sensitive baby, but after year we knew what it took to calm him down, in most cases. When he was about 15 months old he started getting his molars and he is really sensitive to pain. He started slapping his cheeks a lot. As the quick learner that he is, he soon figured out that this got our attention very quickly. Well, when this stopped working, he moved on to headbanging - this in a matter of one week. Then he started doing it every time he was frustrated or upset. This came along with rolling around on the floor, screaming at the top of his lungs, kicking, turning purple, hitting, and biting for one hour and fifteen minutes. It was the most horrific thing we've ever witnessed as parents. No one would believe it unless they saw it. Naturally, we thought it was still because he was teething and often said, "Wow, it looks like it really hurts." So we waited for those molars and checked many times per day. But no sign of those pearly white sheers of pain. So what did we do? We gave him Tylenol and took him for a long car ride, as that had often called him down in the past.
That worked after a few minutes, but we thought, "Was it the Tylenol or the car ride, because if it's the car ride, then it can't really be pain." So what do good parents do when something is wrong with your child and it's persistent? We took him to the doctor. What did she say? "Welcome to the terrible 2s," followed by "Ignore it, and he will stop when he knows it doesn't work to get what he wants. He will not hurt himself." Well, she doesn't know my persistent, head strong, stubborn as hell child. When we ignored him head banging 10 times on the carpet in our bedroom, he moved on to headbanging on our living room floor, and when that didn't work, he'd bang on the glass sliding doors, and when that didn't work, he literally walked over to the tile floor in the kitchen and did it there until I couldn't bear it anymore. Surely, if the doctor had seen her child do this she couldn't have either.
Of course, my son, smart as he is, learned the threshold very quickly and it became his method for getting what he wanted. And because he lived with a permanent black and blue Klingon (Star Wars reference) bump coming out of his forehead, we had to protect him physically before he gave himself a concussion the doctor was sure wouldn't happen. We had to hold him down on the floor and keep him from hitting us, kicking us, biting us, or himself, while holding on to his head so that he couldn't bang it forward or backwards. All the while he was strongly rolling to the sides, screaming at the top of his lungs for over an hour. This would happen anywhere from 2 to 8 times per day. And yes, I'm a stay at home mom, by choice. Yes, I wanted someone to shoot me most of these days. We read the book "The Happiest Toddler on The Block," by Dr. Karp, since we'd read the baby one and it had worked. And we instituted the techniques but it still was not that effectual for us. I went back to the doctor and she told me to read a couple of other books... or if I was at the end of my rope, to go see a child psychiatrist. Scary. For a two year old with angst, really? And I thought, "Well, I have angst, and I've seen a psychologist, she's helped, I've got nothing to lose but my sanity to gain here." So we went.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Mommy Dog Days - Part 2
I have been waking up early this whole week (yes I know we are only on Wednesday, but give me the benefit of the doubt here), and taking a shower and having coffee while blogging or something that will inspire me before Liam wakes up - I have not showered before Liam awakening since he was born in June 2006. Instead, I choose to delay that gratification as a decompressing exercise before every night with my glass of wine, yes, I do bring it into the shower with me.
So I got dressed and poured myself and my hubby a cup of tea this morning knowing that I would be writing at Panera with a large cup of coffee and a nice sandwich. Stomach turning from hunger would have to wait a while longer. I woke up Liam, and of course, immediately came his plea, "I not go to school today mommy." I got him dressed and fed and out the door 15 minutes early (I never thought I'd leave that early) and this only gets us to school 5 minutes early (his school is 10 miles and 25 minutes away. I peel him from me like a leech and hoping his crying and tears would subside soon, I am off to write.
I get my coffee and sandwich and sit down. I spend a few minutes rereading the last page I wrote and putting on the cloak of my protagonist and close my eyes to imagine the setting in Mendoza where my story is based. I write for 2 hours, freezing myself to death, changing the music on my ipod to better inspire my writing process. When I'm too cold I go outside to warm up under the sun, listening to Joni Mitchell's "Both Sides Now" and find a new inspiration bit for my story. I loved that one. Breaks are always good, they provide perception. I go back and finish another half hour and go to rummage the fun housing racks at Marshalls, something I haven't done in a year or more. I catch a mom I don't know perusing and we started a conversation, I wanted to get her contact info but didn't. I should have. I should do a personal card like my friend Harmany to hand out.
So far so good. I pick up Liam from school and wehead to the Post Office to do his passport card for the cruis. We stand in line for 30 minutes, while Liam is trying to pull the line marker down but mostly being very well behaved until the asshole attendant very annoying tells me that I have to have an appt. UUUGGGHHHH!!! Did I tell you I have a toddler and that we had waited for a half an hour?
So we headed to the downtown office, completely 10 miles the opposite direction towards downtown, with my little boy happy as could be saying, "We go down town mommy." We make a pit stop at the golden arches (McDonald's) knowing that this is going to take a while. Only to go to the wrong office, cross busy streets. But all the while Liam happy as can be at the many sights of police cars and policemen in uniform like the ones he only sees in books. We find the right place and see a very lovely woman who informs us we need two things we don't have. Again, UGGGHHH!
We head to Payne Park so that Liam can play and have lunch - I really wanted to reward him for being so good. But Payne Park sucked with hardly any playground under no shade on a very hot day. We drove all the way past our house, another 12 miles, to the brand new park whose opening we attended this weekend. Liam was happy, and also, was just starting to have a poopy accident in his underwear. Did I mention that we are also potty training and that we must take these precautions of asking potty questions and keeping in mind all of the places we will be going to and where and if there are bathroom, making provisions for all of the trees he will have to pee on if they don't?
Well, I got him cleaned up and on the playground, eating his nuggets and apples, where he was happy as can be, and I sat under a slide trying to get all the wind in the shade of a slide. We'd been at the part for almost 2 hours before I called it quits, to my child's astonishment because he still had tons of energy.
So I got dressed and poured myself and my hubby a cup of tea this morning knowing that I would be writing at Panera with a large cup of coffee and a nice sandwich. Stomach turning from hunger would have to wait a while longer. I woke up Liam, and of course, immediately came his plea, "I not go to school today mommy." I got him dressed and fed and out the door 15 minutes early (I never thought I'd leave that early) and this only gets us to school 5 minutes early (his school is 10 miles and 25 minutes away. I peel him from me like a leech and hoping his crying and tears would subside soon, I am off to write.
I get my coffee and sandwich and sit down. I spend a few minutes rereading the last page I wrote and putting on the cloak of my protagonist and close my eyes to imagine the setting in Mendoza where my story is based. I write for 2 hours, freezing myself to death, changing the music on my ipod to better inspire my writing process. When I'm too cold I go outside to warm up under the sun, listening to Joni Mitchell's "Both Sides Now" and find a new inspiration bit for my story. I loved that one. Breaks are always good, they provide perception. I go back and finish another half hour and go to rummage the fun housing racks at Marshalls, something I haven't done in a year or more. I catch a mom I don't know perusing and we started a conversation, I wanted to get her contact info but didn't. I should have. I should do a personal card like my friend Harmany to hand out.
So far so good. I pick up Liam from school and wehead to the Post Office to do his passport card for the cruis. We stand in line for 30 minutes, while Liam is trying to pull the line marker down but mostly being very well behaved until the asshole attendant very annoying tells me that I have to have an appt. UUUGGGHHHH!!! Did I tell you I have a toddler and that we had waited for a half an hour?
So we headed to the downtown office, completely 10 miles the opposite direction towards downtown, with my little boy happy as could be saying, "We go down town mommy." We make a pit stop at the golden arches (McDonald's) knowing that this is going to take a while. Only to go to the wrong office, cross busy streets. But all the while Liam happy as can be at the many sights of police cars and policemen in uniform like the ones he only sees in books. We find the right place and see a very lovely woman who informs us we need two things we don't have. Again, UGGGHHH!
We head to Payne Park so that Liam can play and have lunch - I really wanted to reward him for being so good. But Payne Park sucked with hardly any playground under no shade on a very hot day. We drove all the way past our house, another 12 miles, to the brand new park whose opening we attended this weekend. Liam was happy, and also, was just starting to have a poopy accident in his underwear. Did I mention that we are also potty training and that we must take these precautions of asking potty questions and keeping in mind all of the places we will be going to and where and if there are bathroom, making provisions for all of the trees he will have to pee on if they don't?
Well, I got him cleaned up and on the playground, eating his nuggets and apples, where he was happy as can be, and I sat under a slide trying to get all the wind in the shade of a slide. We'd been at the part for almost 2 hours before I called it quits, to my child's astonishment because he still had tons of energy.
Mommy Dog Days - Part 1
Today is one of those mommy dog days where it starts off well and then slowly nose dives into an unseen abyss. I will preface this redactation by saying that yes, I CHOSE to stay home and raise my son, and that I do love it and wouldn't trade any of these days for anything. But I will follow that with saying that after two degrees, an advanced degree, working in engineering and then in libraries (will go back), this is the hardest job I will ever do in my life. Not only is it exhausting, but it comes with caveats you didn't anticipate. What are they? Well, you knew about feeding a baby, clothing a baby, and all of the other baby tending things - well, you knew what they were, not necessarily how much out of you it would really take. You also kind of knew, my husband and I had discussed, what our roles would be inside the home and out as far as chores, cooking, cleaning, landscape maintenance, etc. What no one told you though, was that you would also have to run every single errand (go to the bank, the post office, the car maintenance thingy, etc.) that needed to be taken care of Monday through Friday 8 - 5 with your child while you did everything else - grocery shopped, cooked 3 meals and 5 snacks per day (healthy if you're me, take longer), make sure the house doesn't come down on you from piles of laundry and dust, put up with your child's demands and whining while you are trying to discipline him so he doesn't grow up to be a heathen and try to teach him things through play that now seem necessary before you send them to pre K, try to have yourself, your child and the house in some presentable shape so when your husband walks in the door at 6 o'clock from a hard day you don't hear him sigh that disgusting sigh implying "What did yo do today?" with still 1/3rd of the day to go. And no matter how much you have thus far on this job you've learned to anticipate, plan and organize, the inevitable still holds true, shit happens.
Go to Part 2 for a sample, random day of what this entails.
Go to Part 2 for a sample, random day of what this entails.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Autism Awareness Month
I feel bad that this whole month has gone by and I haven't done anything, not even donate a measly $5 towards Autism research. So I will at least dedicate some time here. I came too close to the subject on Autism from my own anxiety ridden neurosis when Liam was an infant. I was aware of it in high school because I knew a friend who had a sibling that had Autism. I became really intrigued by it and for some reason thought that the day I had a child he would have it. Stupid I know. So when I had my first son, a preemie and then the vaccination days came by, I started to get a very nervous feeling.
Being the type of person who thinks something must be wrong for the world to still keep functioning (yes, I believe it's fucked up as much as I am), I started looking for signs very early. I even asked the doctor at the first vaccination session, and left very uneasy. Then the next round came and I pulled out my librarian hat and started researching. I read a wonderful book on the subject by Stephanie Kay and learned the history of vaccines, how they get passed (extremely dangerously), grouped (dangerous) and the dangers of each of them on these young children.
No, there has been no official link between Autism and vaccines, but I believe in my heart that if there was a link, it would never reach the public. Too much is at stake. So while my husband the scientist says there is no link, he also agrees that the debate is not over and will not be for some time.
One little boy at my son's preschool has Autism, I could tell right away. I already knew all the signs, I had the 22 criteria memorized by the time Liam was 6 months old. And my heart breaks for this beautiful little boy. Luckily his mom is doing the work. I have a 25 year old cousin who lives in my native Argentina who has Autism, low functioning and non-verbal. But there the resources are so limited he's never even been diagnosed or treated. He regressed, or was seen at the age of 2 when he wasn't talking. My husband has a cousin who had Asperger Syndrome and with a lot of intervention in school, now is a double major in Math and Astrophysics on his way to working at NASA with a lot of potential. And by looking at him you would never know it. I watch all the families on TV, I cannot miss a show about Autism and I hope to someday do something, even if it's volunteering at a school or center for children with Autism. I know too much about it and can't just turn a blind eye because my child doesn't have it. I am encouraged by all of the amazing people who are working so hard to find a cause, link to something, and a cure. With love and compassion to those who are afflicted. Adriana.
Being the type of person who thinks something must be wrong for the world to still keep functioning (yes, I believe it's fucked up as much as I am), I started looking for signs very early. I even asked the doctor at the first vaccination session, and left very uneasy. Then the next round came and I pulled out my librarian hat and started researching. I read a wonderful book on the subject by Stephanie Kay and learned the history of vaccines, how they get passed (extremely dangerously), grouped (dangerous) and the dangers of each of them on these young children.
No, there has been no official link between Autism and vaccines, but I believe in my heart that if there was a link, it would never reach the public. Too much is at stake. So while my husband the scientist says there is no link, he also agrees that the debate is not over and will not be for some time.
One little boy at my son's preschool has Autism, I could tell right away. I already knew all the signs, I had the 22 criteria memorized by the time Liam was 6 months old. And my heart breaks for this beautiful little boy. Luckily his mom is doing the work. I have a 25 year old cousin who lives in my native Argentina who has Autism, low functioning and non-verbal. But there the resources are so limited he's never even been diagnosed or treated. He regressed, or was seen at the age of 2 when he wasn't talking. My husband has a cousin who had Asperger Syndrome and with a lot of intervention in school, now is a double major in Math and Astrophysics on his way to working at NASA with a lot of potential. And by looking at him you would never know it. I watch all the families on TV, I cannot miss a show about Autism and I hope to someday do something, even if it's volunteering at a school or center for children with Autism. I know too much about it and can't just turn a blind eye because my child doesn't have it. I am encouraged by all of the amazing people who are working so hard to find a cause, link to something, and a cure. With love and compassion to those who are afflicted. Adriana.
Monday, April 27, 2009
Laryngitis, Please Return My Voice
Laryngitis, please return my voice. You've absconded with my only ability to get my child to listen to me, and while yes, it doesn't work all the time, trying to talk come out in yelps that leaves him saying, "Mommy's funny," and running from me. I lost my voice on Friday and have only recovered it in bits and spurts, only lasting to midday and then disappearing again. At first I felt bad because he didn't understand and he thought I was mad at him, since my voice drops a couple of octaves when I discipline his bad behavior. Poor little guy. Even my husband is making jokes at my expense, and they are not funny.
"Some may say you are the perfect wife, beautiful, sexy, and can't talk," he said yesterday.
Today he said I sounded sexy right before I lost it again. All I know is that it hurts and I'm frustrated. You can't take a voice away from a talker......I guess I'll wait. People are all concerned about the Swine Flu and I could care less, my voice is my tool, let the pigs roll in the mud.
I've been walking around for days with a bear jar of honey, which is the only thing that has helped my throat. It really works. But with a cold and a husband with a cold, too, it's been a bad week. We feel like we've been sick for ever, since last September really, when Liam started school. Then it's been one cold per month for each of us, and I was a person who only got one cold per year. I can't wait to restore my YMCA membership and start juicing (real fruits and veggies with a juicer) to get healthier.
"Some may say you are the perfect wife, beautiful, sexy, and can't talk," he said yesterday.
Today he said I sounded sexy right before I lost it again. All I know is that it hurts and I'm frustrated. You can't take a voice away from a talker......I guess I'll wait. People are all concerned about the Swine Flu and I could care less, my voice is my tool, let the pigs roll in the mud.
I've been walking around for days with a bear jar of honey, which is the only thing that has helped my throat. It really works. But with a cold and a husband with a cold, too, it's been a bad week. We feel like we've been sick for ever, since last September really, when Liam started school. Then it's been one cold per month for each of us, and I was a person who only got one cold per year. I can't wait to restore my YMCA membership and start juicing (real fruits and veggies with a juicer) to get healthier.
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Mommy Playdates
After almost three years of trying to find, finding, partaking in, falling out of, and finding enduring friendships through mommy playdates, I can say that I've graduated to the next level. What is that level and why? I am still redefining what that level is for me and as to the second part of that question - it never really worked for me or to put it in another way - the positives never outweighed the negatives. This is my story.
When you think of all of the groups or clicks one can or has joined in their lifetime - be it in elementary school, high school, college, work groups, hobbies acquired, etc., I've begun to think that non are as elemental, in one way or another, as mommy groups. To understand why it didn't work for me, I would have to bring it back to my early years. I could never really fit into any groups during my adolescent years in school, especially groups dominated by women. Why? I don't know but think that bits and parts of me lay everywhere and not all in one place. Clicks in school were too exclusive - the artists (I drew), the druggies (I smoked pot), the straight A students (never), the class clowns (lacked standard humor), the ones who kept creating new groups trying to place themselves somewhere (I couldn't be too narrow minded or limited in my likings), the athletes (no athletic bone in this small body). So if I tried to join, they didn't let me in and I just wondered by myself or with a friend or two. But girls just didn't like me. Fast forward to pregnancy.
When I was pregnant, my sister and a friend were pregnant at the same time. I had just miscarried (where they hadn't) and I was a bit anxious to say the least. Then I met a woman whose husband worked with mine and she was pregnant with her 4th child. But that wasn't until I was already bedridden due to having no cervix and dilated at 17 weeks. We all went through our pregnancies together, sharing our stories, and sometimes in very intimate details, but it was different for me. I was confined to a bed for 120 days, 60 of them in a hospital bed no bigger than a 8x10 room. The only group that I could have belonged to were the women in the adjacent rooms that I never got to meet. And behind it all was the fear of how early our son would come. Fast forward to the birth.
Liam was born at 34 1/2 weeks and directly into the NICU. We were lucky that his health was great and that we could bring him home after 10 days (10 long days of looking at the empty blue-yellow plaid bassinet that Jay had bought and placed right next to my side of the bed, waiting. Going to the hospital every moment that I wasn't sleeping and waking up several times during the night to call and check up on him. This compared to all of the healthy perfect bringing home baby stories I heard all around us and had watched on TV during my whole pregnancy. The only great thing about this was the beautiful birthing experience I had, with no Lamaze and living mindfully in the moment of every movement he made in my belly. I was lucky. This should have been a preparation for the mindfulness required in raising a child who cannot see past this very instant and this very desire. Fast forward to Liam's personality.
Getting to know Liam has been such a wonderful, yet anxious experience (for me). While Jay trusted that the universe would know where to place Liam or where he would fall, I couldn't. My controlling nature got the best of the first 2 years of Liam's life, sadly to say. With his preemie status all I could think of what could go wrong. You name it, it crossed my mind. At first I was obsessed with SIDS. I dreaded that every time he went to sleep he wouldn't wake up. Then my mind centered on the Autism spectrum since he was 6 months old. I read books on vaccinations (which I still hold on the knowledge conveyed in them), I looked online and did tons of research. Being a librarian can sometimes be a curse. It brought so much anxiety about the delusions I was seeing that were not there, I ended up in counseling and on anti-anxiety medication. I worked daily on raising Liam and trying to not get anxious when he rubbed a shoe string for too long, padded his blanky for a while, didn't respond when I called his name every time, and later when his speech was delayed because of his confusion with the Spanish/English dynamic we had in our home.
During all this time, I tried to go to mommy groups, but Liam was too shy, too afraid of the other children, and his tantrums were fierce. He would cry and scream the minute he heard another baby cry and it took him so long to reset that we'd have to leave (a library book baby event, hospital group, coffee house meeting). Then he started head banging and it was over. His head banging drew in the rolling eyes and the "What's the matter with your son, is he okay?" Meaning, is he normal and make him stop before he gives himself a concussion. Yes, the pounding of a skull on a tile floor of a gymnasium can be resoundingly loud. And going back they just remembered who we were and stayed away. This seemed to happen everywhere. Now we didn't fit in. And it was quite lonely.
Then there were the comparisons that didn't help. Mothers are an obsessive bunch, let me tell you. We can size up a child in no time. There is the initial phrase, "You're son/daughter is so cute," followed by the inevitable question, "How old is he/she?" This serves two purposes:
And while you may say that I am bitter or cynical, you are right about the cynical, realistic I think. But not bitter. Just think back. You could call it sharing, but was it really? Are you still sharing past your child's second birthday and maybe have been lucky enough to make a friendship out of other similar interests that you have together? Otherwise, you keep getting together because staying home all day with a child will wreck your mind and you need an adult conversation about anything, including yes, mostly revolving around your child. All this while your child runs around and you have to just make sure they don't hurt themselves while you keep your sanity. If you don't agree with me, please let me know how you did it better so I can learn and then club myself over the head with my son's baseball bat.
If the play date is small enough and you attend it often, the dynamic is different. You share more. Very quickly - after you have sized up all the children - you start learning about the women's marriages, divorces, prior careers, if they plan to return to work, their parenting styles, the way they were raised, their dreams (if they can remember them and plan to carry them out v. defecting now that they are a mommy) etc. We share more with these women in a short period of time than we do ever again in our lifetimes, and do so desperately. We crave this contact. More so than at any other point in our lives - before and after. It gets us through the sleepless nights, the cracked nipples, the what did you do to get your child to keep nursing?. And yes, it gets you through the day and night because you know at the end of the day while you could share this with the love of your life he doesn't quite feel the same way you do and really doesn't want to know the minutia of how you were pumping and when you stood up the milk (that is as precious as gold) spilled all over the floor. And with your crazy hormones you cried for an hour about it. All they want to know is when will you be over the baby enough to remember to take them off the back burner, which is now cold, or be in the mood to have sex again, without excuses of tiredness, hormones that haven't come back to normal, dirty because you haven't showered in three days, etc. And we can't blame them, they went along this roller coaster with us, but one of us rode in the front and the other in the back and we didn't share the same thrill.
So where is your mommy group now? Do you see them regularly? Do keep in touch via email, phone, or have you gone in separate ways after returning to work, having another child (which happens much too quickly after the first one)? Have you made a life long friendship with these other women who at one point were your lifeline? Or are you sad to see them go, but know that the only common interest that held you together is now growing up and you have moved on? I think about this all the time and wish that I could have made more friends and miss one dearly that moved away. I still have three who keep me sane and am lucky as hell to be able to call on them, day or night, with a question or a bitch session about anything, and they will listen. And then there's my sister, who goes along for the ride with me every time, holding my hand, even when she doesn't agree with me or when she has to put my anxiety to rest. No judgment, just love and compassion.
When you think of all of the groups or clicks one can or has joined in their lifetime - be it in elementary school, high school, college, work groups, hobbies acquired, etc., I've begun to think that non are as elemental, in one way or another, as mommy groups. To understand why it didn't work for me, I would have to bring it back to my early years. I could never really fit into any groups during my adolescent years in school, especially groups dominated by women. Why? I don't know but think that bits and parts of me lay everywhere and not all in one place. Clicks in school were too exclusive - the artists (I drew), the druggies (I smoked pot), the straight A students (never), the class clowns (lacked standard humor), the ones who kept creating new groups trying to place themselves somewhere (I couldn't be too narrow minded or limited in my likings), the athletes (no athletic bone in this small body). So if I tried to join, they didn't let me in and I just wondered by myself or with a friend or two. But girls just didn't like me. Fast forward to pregnancy.
When I was pregnant, my sister and a friend were pregnant at the same time. I had just miscarried (where they hadn't) and I was a bit anxious to say the least. Then I met a woman whose husband worked with mine and she was pregnant with her 4th child. But that wasn't until I was already bedridden due to having no cervix and dilated at 17 weeks. We all went through our pregnancies together, sharing our stories, and sometimes in very intimate details, but it was different for me. I was confined to a bed for 120 days, 60 of them in a hospital bed no bigger than a 8x10 room. The only group that I could have belonged to were the women in the adjacent rooms that I never got to meet. And behind it all was the fear of how early our son would come. Fast forward to the birth.
Liam was born at 34 1/2 weeks and directly into the NICU. We were lucky that his health was great and that we could bring him home after 10 days (10 long days of looking at the empty blue-yellow plaid bassinet that Jay had bought and placed right next to my side of the bed, waiting. Going to the hospital every moment that I wasn't sleeping and waking up several times during the night to call and check up on him. This compared to all of the healthy perfect bringing home baby stories I heard all around us and had watched on TV during my whole pregnancy. The only great thing about this was the beautiful birthing experience I had, with no Lamaze and living mindfully in the moment of every movement he made in my belly. I was lucky. This should have been a preparation for the mindfulness required in raising a child who cannot see past this very instant and this very desire. Fast forward to Liam's personality.
Getting to know Liam has been such a wonderful, yet anxious experience (for me). While Jay trusted that the universe would know where to place Liam or where he would fall, I couldn't. My controlling nature got the best of the first 2 years of Liam's life, sadly to say. With his preemie status all I could think of what could go wrong. You name it, it crossed my mind. At first I was obsessed with SIDS. I dreaded that every time he went to sleep he wouldn't wake up. Then my mind centered on the Autism spectrum since he was 6 months old. I read books on vaccinations (which I still hold on the knowledge conveyed in them), I looked online and did tons of research. Being a librarian can sometimes be a curse. It brought so much anxiety about the delusions I was seeing that were not there, I ended up in counseling and on anti-anxiety medication. I worked daily on raising Liam and trying to not get anxious when he rubbed a shoe string for too long, padded his blanky for a while, didn't respond when I called his name every time, and later when his speech was delayed because of his confusion with the Spanish/English dynamic we had in our home.
During all this time, I tried to go to mommy groups, but Liam was too shy, too afraid of the other children, and his tantrums were fierce. He would cry and scream the minute he heard another baby cry and it took him so long to reset that we'd have to leave (a library book baby event, hospital group, coffee house meeting). Then he started head banging and it was over. His head banging drew in the rolling eyes and the "What's the matter with your son, is he okay?" Meaning, is he normal and make him stop before he gives himself a concussion. Yes, the pounding of a skull on a tile floor of a gymnasium can be resoundingly loud. And going back they just remembered who we were and stayed away. This seemed to happen everywhere. Now we didn't fit in. And it was quite lonely.
Then there were the comparisons that didn't help. Mothers are an obsessive bunch, let me tell you. We can size up a child in no time. There is the initial phrase, "You're son/daughter is so cute," followed by the inevitable question, "How old is he/she?" This serves two purposes:
- To compare that child to yours,
- To see if you make a connection with this other person whom you know nothing about but could in 2 seconds be exchanging the most gruesome mucus exchange of the birth story.
And while you may say that I am bitter or cynical, you are right about the cynical, realistic I think. But not bitter. Just think back. You could call it sharing, but was it really? Are you still sharing past your child's second birthday and maybe have been lucky enough to make a friendship out of other similar interests that you have together? Otherwise, you keep getting together because staying home all day with a child will wreck your mind and you need an adult conversation about anything, including yes, mostly revolving around your child. All this while your child runs around and you have to just make sure they don't hurt themselves while you keep your sanity. If you don't agree with me, please let me know how you did it better so I can learn and then club myself over the head with my son's baseball bat.
If the play date is small enough and you attend it often, the dynamic is different. You share more. Very quickly - after you have sized up all the children - you start learning about the women's marriages, divorces, prior careers, if they plan to return to work, their parenting styles, the way they were raised, their dreams (if they can remember them and plan to carry them out v. defecting now that they are a mommy) etc. We share more with these women in a short period of time than we do ever again in our lifetimes, and do so desperately. We crave this contact. More so than at any other point in our lives - before and after. It gets us through the sleepless nights, the cracked nipples, the what did you do to get your child to keep nursing?. And yes, it gets you through the day and night because you know at the end of the day while you could share this with the love of your life he doesn't quite feel the same way you do and really doesn't want to know the minutia of how you were pumping and when you stood up the milk (that is as precious as gold) spilled all over the floor. And with your crazy hormones you cried for an hour about it. All they want to know is when will you be over the baby enough to remember to take them off the back burner, which is now cold, or be in the mood to have sex again, without excuses of tiredness, hormones that haven't come back to normal, dirty because you haven't showered in three days, etc. And we can't blame them, they went along this roller coaster with us, but one of us rode in the front and the other in the back and we didn't share the same thrill.
So where is your mommy group now? Do you see them regularly? Do keep in touch via email, phone, or have you gone in separate ways after returning to work, having another child (which happens much too quickly after the first one)? Have you made a life long friendship with these other women who at one point were your lifeline? Or are you sad to see them go, but know that the only common interest that held you together is now growing up and you have moved on? I think about this all the time and wish that I could have made more friends and miss one dearly that moved away. I still have three who keep me sane and am lucky as hell to be able to call on them, day or night, with a question or a bitch session about anything, and they will listen. And then there's my sister, who goes along for the ride with me every time, holding my hand, even when she doesn't agree with me or when she has to put my anxiety to rest. No judgment, just love and compassion.
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