The other day, my mother was over to spend some time with the kids while I booked a one-way ticket out of crazy town got some things done around the house. After lunch, we sat around chit-chatting when my 11 month-old suddenly got very chatty.
Baby: Bah Bah Bah…BAH! BAH BAH!
Me: You talking to Momma, little baby?
Baby: BAH! Bahbahbahbahgahbahdah…dahgahdabuhbah.
Grandma: Did you hear that, Kristine?!
Me: What, mother?
Grandma: He said bye-bye!
Me: Um…I didn’t hear that, exactly, no.
Grandma: Come on, baby! Say, BYE BYE Grandma! BYE BYE!
Baby: BahbahBUHBAH!
Grandma: SEE?! Right there! He SAID IT!
Me: Right. I’ll go mark the calendar, Mom.
I can’t be certain, but I would’ve sworn I saw her Googling “Harvard Admissions” later that evening.
It’s like the Holy Grail of early motherhood. The shiny toy at the bottom of the Cracker Jack box. The Pharaoh’s treasure.
Yes, ladies. I’m talking about the burp. Of all my motherly neurosis, I think the burp has a firm grip in the Top Five spot. Because, really? It’s kind of ridiculous. Having said that, it was not uncommon for my evenings to go something like this:
And let’s not forget about the directives I’d leave for the babysitter. Which were followed up by texts. And, ultimately, a phone call:
Babysitter: [Surprised.] Oh, hi Mrs. C…just got your text here.
Me: [Anxious.] Hi! Yeah, well just wanted to follow up in case…you know. So, did he drink his bottle? You warmed it up like I asked, right? And he had his blanket? After jammie time? And with a clean diaper?
Babysitter: [Stifled sigh.] Yeah, I did all that. And he drank 6 ounces.
Me: [Alarmed.] ONLY SIX?! Well, did he have to burp? You burped him, didn’t you?! PLEASE TELL ME YOU BURPED HIM.
Babysitter: [Audible sigh.] Yes, Mrs. C. He burped. And I offered it again, but he wasn’t interested.
Me: [Dramatic sigh.] Well, I guess he’ll be fine. One ounce [yes, really] shouldn’t make too much of a difference. But he did burp, right? Because sometimes he even has to burp tw—
Babysitter: [Sternly.] He. burped. twice. Mrs. C.
Me: [Resigned, embarrassed, ordering wine.] Alright then! Well, just wanted to check in! We’ll let you know when we’re on our way ba—
Babysitter: OKAY! BYE! *click*
(Next week, I’ll offer my tips on how to hire and keep a babysitter.)
The other day I was at the nail salon for like the first time in three years. And I remembered why I use to love going. Other than the nice Asian lady who massages your neck while your nails dry, there’s the other patrons who cluck about like no one in the world can hear them talk about their hernia.
During this particular visit, two women recognized each other. The woman sitting next to me in a pedicure chair was about eight months pregnant. The other, was a 50-60 year old tanner with a predilection for the young adult section of the clothing department. She was also a new grandma. I could surmise from their conversation that they had maybe once worked together or something.
I knew this would be a remarkable conversation within minutes. NO new grandmother can resist unsolicited advice for the pregnant, people. NONE.
Soon they were talking about preperations for the new baby:
TanGrandma: So do you know what you’re having?
PregnantLady: No, we don’t!
TG: [Not believing.] Really?! I always thought it was so much better to know ahead of time. That way you can prepare.
PL: Well, we’re still prepared…gender doesn’t really matter in that department. I’ve been spending all my free time stocking the nursery and—
TG: Oh, don’t even BOTHER. I mean, why stress yourself? You don’t even USE that thing for months!
PL: [Getting bothered.] Well, it’s just this urge I have. I just want to have things set up…
TG: [ROLLS EYES.] Yeah, they call it NESTING. So bird-like. Kinda gross, huh?
I couldn’t help myself. I HAD to butt in.
Me: Sorry to eavesdrop [read: it's impossible NOT to, really], but I just wanted to let you know that I was the same way with both my babies. I wanted everything set up ahead of time.
PL: [Big smile.] RIGHT?! My husband thinks I’m crazy, but …
TG: [Rolls eyes AGAIN.] Oh, I don’t know…
Me: Well, it’s clearly a PERSONAL choice [eyeballs TanGrandma]. And I actually used our nursery almost immediately. I mean, who wants to be stocking drawers and closets after just having GIVEN BIRTH?
TG: [Snaps gum. Adjusts Ugg boots.]
PL: Exactly!
And that kind of winded down the unsolicited advice portion of their conversation. Maybe it was rude of me to interrupt, but I sure as hell would’ve high-fived the crap out of anyone that had come to my rescue in a similar situation. Clearly, I am a martyr.
Anyway, to all you pregnant Mommas out there, the Anti-Unsolicited-Advice Team is alive and well. It can be treacherous territory, but rest assured that your comrades surround you in spirit.
(Beware, you cynical Mommas, Grandmas, and Spinsters.)
Alright, I’ll go first. When I was pregnant, I totally wanted to be pregnant with a baby BOY. Not a girl–no way, thankyouverymuch. I know how I was growing up, and there’s no WAY I wanted to be near that strain of my karmic payback.
As it turned out, I did have a boy. In fact, I had two.
(And now I realize that my karmic payback came in the form of daily hazardous waste cleanups.)
But when I was a few months pregnant, I was still having fun guessing which gender my child might be. I kind of had a “gut feeling” that it was a boy, and my coworkers and friends were convincing me that this was probably accurate. So, good; at least my gut is trustworthy. (Too bad it hates my jeans and is constantly trying to roll out. But now I’m getting off topic…and maybe gross).
But all this talk was making even more curious and I was entirely too impatient to wait for my sonogram. Naturally, I turned to Google, which is “up there” in the trust zone with my gut and sound medical advice.
After a few clicks…BEHOLD! I’d found the Chinese Pregnancy Chart!
After talking again with my co-workers, prodding for inappropriate information (”So, what month were you fornicating with your husband…wait, it was your husband, right? Actually, never mind…just the month is good.”) I crunched some numbers (okay, more like I made up a number) and concluded that this thing was like 90% accurate! (50% of the time!)
No, but really, it totally lined up with both my boys.
But also, I was starting to feel a little silly. I mean, what if my gut (you bastard) was wrong? Or the calendar? Could I really sue the Chinese? Because what if it didn’t work out?
Doctor: Congratulations! It’s a boy!
Parents: Ah, rats. So much for that. Eh, we’ll keep it anyway.
Doctor: …
This kind of internal soul-searching called for some MORE googling (yes, it’s a problem) and I found a SLEW more of these gender-predicting techniques. Some of my favorites:
Sexual position–missionary will help you concieve a girl, and (yes, I quote) “doggie-style” for a boy. Why? Because girls are boring and men are, um, dogs? Is it just me, or does this feel sexist? It’s making me want to burn my bra or something. But not my nice, lacy one from Victoria’s Secret. Maybe that one from Target, however.
Sperm Prediction–Is this even true? Female sperm are “hardier” (good LORD) than male sperm? Because one site tells us that having sex a few days before you ovulate will, ahem, “weed out” the skimpy male sperm and the females (the dying ones, presumably) will be left to catch that egg! Um, yikes.
Caloric intake–more calories will result in a boy and fewer, a girl. What? Like, after the fact? Bitch, PLEASE. We are not picking up what you are laying down. (Did you test this with extra intake of Captain Crunch and cookies?)
Of course, science and technology suggest it’s only a matter of time before we can, in fact, choose our baby’s gender. Which would’ve been cool if I were planning on taking over the world or something. It seems like it would be a bit reminiscent of building an army of clones.
But really, a vending machine would be the MOST convenient, in case any of you scientists out there are listening. *wink*
When I first found out I was pregnant, one of the more exciting things was realizing I was finally going to put to use all those names I’d been collecting over the years.
Me at age 17: Oh, Jeremy…I like that one…Jacob, too! Adeline is pretty for a girl, right?
Oh shut it. Like you DIDN’T do that in between all those games of MASH. Besides, it was less “I-want-to-have-a-kid” and more “naming-things-is-fun.”
Heh.
Anyway, when it was actually go-time, I started to feel the pressure. My husband didn’t like some of them, and the rest no longer seemed PERFECT. [Read: DON'T NAME BABY AFTER EX-BOYFRIENDS] So I searched online. I bought books. I made lists. And, people, the names I was coming up with…?
I had somehow gotten it into my head that my son/daughter’s name would have to be UNIQUE and ORIGINAL and if I heard any prospective name in casual conversation, it’d be dramatically struken of my list:
Friend: Yeah, so then Sam–my brother–told me about this girl he met at the ba–…
Me: HOLD THE PHONE, sister. Your slutty brother is named Samuel?! GODDAMMIT.
(I’m not really such a great friend, it turns out.)
This? This ridiculous behavior? That’s why we end up with children named:
Shithead (Prononuced Sha-teed)
Orangejello (Pronounced Ohrannj-alloh)
and, of course, Apple.
Really.*
But I still couldn’t quite shake the PRESSURE of name-finding. And it only seemed to increase toward the end of my pregnancy. My husband and I still hadn’t decided on a name, but the rest of the world was apparently tired of waiting. WHO KNEW. At work, I was getting inquiries constantly. One conversation is a story I still tell today:
Her: SOOOOO?! What are you going to NAME him?!
Me: Oh…yeah. [Smiling awkwardly.] Well, actually we’re not sure yet! I think we’re going to wait to meet him and then decide between a few.
Her: Oh. Well I guess you can do that.
She guesses?
Her: Well, what are the options?
Me: [Dodging.] Uhmm, to be honest, they kind of change every day.
Her: [Annoyed.] Well, let me tell you. My niece just named her son Tyler. And I really like that name SO much. You can use that one. Make sure you add it to your list.
I CAN USE IT?!
People, it was all I could do to lob my puffy, pregnant hand across her pompous, chubby cheek.
In the end, we selected a name after I gave birth. And it all seemed perfect. I almost didn’t even mind that my husband had more or less decided on this name months prior.
Almost.
__________
*Consult Malcom Gladwell for more on peculiar baby names. He’s got some interesting stuff to say on the matter.
Ah, milestones. Those little achievements that mark the maturation of baby into boy (or girl), and for some mothers, even grounds for some in-your-face my-baby-is-better-than-yours bragging rights.
*LOVE* those moms.
But while there are the standard milestones that our pediatricians and books tell us to look out for, there are some that I find to be much more noteworthy. For example, both T9 (aged 11 months) and Plus One (aged, 2 and 5/6 years) have recently come upon some really amazing accomplishments. Please excuse the dramatic introduction…they’re really just THAT exciting to me:
T9’s FONTANEL is shrinking! Oh, that’s right, this boy has had a crater in his head…a crater that THROBS…for AGES. And it has grossed. me. out. Also? Induced anxiety. Because, really…is it SUPPOSED to throb that much? Is he dehydrated? DOESN’T THAT HURT?! But as he ages, the hole is getting much less noticeable. Also, he has a bit of a patch of hair up there now, so that helps, too.
And Plus One?! Plus One has reached the “Momma?Momma?Momma?Momma?Momma?Momma?” age! (!!)
Yeah, okay, this one is not exactly exciting. Acutally it’s devastating. But he still says things like “pampake” (pancake) and “perrrr-sick!” (perfect!) so that totally (mostly) makes up for the incessant talking.
And, as much as I absolutely HATED when people would tell me to “ENJOY IT!” when I first announced my kids’ births (ENJOY IT?! I HAVEN’T SLEPT IN 10 MONTHS!), I totally get it now. My babies have up and left and these two little boys have come and taken their places! If they weren’t so cute and agreeable (well…), I might have to call the authorities. But we’ll give it a month…see how it goes.
(And *this* is totally how you get tricked into having MORE BABIES.)
I subscribe to the recall list for children’s products because it’s good to know if their beds are actually deathtraps in disguise, or if their teething rings have in fact been pumped full of rat poison. Plus, it makes me look really important because I’m more or less guaranteed an email once weekly.
But it also brings to light the stark contrast between today’s sense of child safety and that of, say my safety when I was a child. Take for example a recent conversation with my mother:
Me: But this catalogue is over the top, Ma. You can’t really think Plus One needs a frigging shampoo visor.
My Mother: Well, maybe not that, but this ear and throat exam kit might be helpful for the baby.
Me: Mom, you’re not lucid. I’m not a doctor! No. What the hell would I even be looking for in there? A Mucinex doll?
My Mother: Well, we just didn’t have things like this when you guys were little. We didn’t even have car seats, really.
Me: What do you mean you didn’t have them, really?
My Mother: Well, I mean, we kind of did…it was like a box that we’d put you in when you were real little…but…
Me: A box?
Yeah, so I did some research on this because I mainly wanted to see if this box was cardboard or what. Well, as it turns out, other people want to know how they survived their childhood as well because I found some pictures of some 1980s car seats (a little after my time but not by much).
Behold:
First: Wow, that’s a lot of nicely-styled hair.
Second: I fully remember a similar couch and blanket (and pillow!) from my childhood…which brings me to #3
Third: I’m pretty sure that kid could possibly be my brother and maybe my parents’ storage shed has been robbed.
But last: Uh, Mother? That doesn’t look like a BOX to me! I mean, sure, it looks completely unstable and a little like Stephen Hawking’s chair, but it’s not a BOX!(?)
Which begs the question…what the hell WAS my mother putting us in? Maybe I’m better off not knowing. At least she didn’t let us stay up late, go to the candy store owned by a pedophile, do heroin.
__________
*PS: I have to apologize for offending the delicate sensibilities of anyone who tuned in to hear my appearance on the Man Time Show. We were *supposed* to be talking about parenting, but, eh…discussed other matters.
I just recently completed my graduate courses at a local state college. And while it was kind of difficult to juggle all that with two very young children, I liked that it got me out of the house, thinking of things other than poop and sleep schedules. It also helped me in an area I wasn’t aware was lacking: my social graces.
You see, being home with children apparently allowed me to fall so utterly into MOMMY mode that I forgot how to, well, ACT…you know, around other people. Here’s a memorable example of my trial-by-fire re-initiation back to the world of grown-ups. Warning: it’s not pretty.
*****
One night, I had to stay late after class to talk with my professor about my paper. A few minutes into our meeting, I get a call from my husband, who is home with the kids. In the background I can hear Plus One making a happy commotion. But for some reason, this clash of home-life and academia have made me slightly nervous. Already, my awkwardness is infecting my speech. I am evidently uncomfortable mixing my scholastic and personal life. There is absolutely NO REASON for this other than my inability to be NORMAL in everyday situations. Here’s an excerpt of the conversation:
The Hub: You on your way?
Me: [Suddenly, irrationally convinced my husband thinks I'm having an affair with my Professor.] Yeah, uh…sorry, I’m just uh…I’ll be a bit longer…I wanted to meet with my professor…we’re uh, you know, i have to write that paper…I just…I, uh…HEY! Is that Plus One in the background?
The Hub: Yeah, he’s telling me the water’s too hot for his bath. Alright, see you when you get home.
Me: [Overzealously] I LOVE YOU!
Him: Love you, too.
*click*
Me: [To my professor] Ah, that was just my husband! He’s giving my son a bath, and he’s so funny…T9, I mean Plus One! Oye, I’m always confusing their names…so sleep deprived, but you know, not so much that I can’t function, I mean, I do watch the kids all day, and they’re fine and everything…but anyway my son is always saying that the water is too hot, and I think he’s probably just saying that to because I normally give him the baths, but since I’m not home, my husband’s doing it…and this one time, we tried to show him how the shower works…
Professor: [Concerned]…is the water too hot?
Me: [A bit too eagerly]Oh, no! [nervous laughter] It’s just he has this thing with the word and sometimes with his food, and even when it’s like, I mean, I always cool his food for him, like practically serve it cold…but not really COLD-cold because I mean, I do cook it…unless it’s like a sandwich or something…
Professor: …so, where were we?
This might be a good time to note that I was sweating profusely by now and had regressed to the whole stick-your-lower-lip-out-and-blow-upward-toward-the-nose in an effort to cool off. I also mentioned the heat several times and talked about how I wished I had a hair tie while lifting my hair up off my neck and then promptly letting it fall again. Unfortunately, none of these strategies have a very significant effect on the current temperature.
A few minutes later…
Professor: So, this part…you mention this author, but I’m not sure I understand this quote. What was this article about?
Me: [stare]
Professor: [stare]
Me: Ohuh…right, gosh, I can’t remember the name of it…oh, that’s right, it was a book! Yeah, it was a book.
Professor: Okay, but what was it about?
Me: Oh man, what WAS that title? Implications…social theory…oh boy. I’m drawing a blank here [blowing with my lower lip] Boy! It’s hot! Ha! Gosh, it was like 42 degrees like a week ago, remember?
Professor: We can just go back to that later. In this section here, you can get rid of that APA bullshit, I think.
Me: [Not even listening. Now trying to blow toward the corner of my mouth to see if that changes anything] Okay, sure.
Professor: Sorry, is it ok that I just cursed?
Me: What? Did you? I wasn’t even paying attention…well, I mean, I was paying attention, of course, because I’m listening to you. But, you know, I didn’t even notice. Gosh, I mean, I curse all the time. My husband’s always yelling at me for it. Well, I mean, I don’t curse…like, not in front of the kids or anything. I’M A PERFECT PARENT! [Nervous laughter.]
Professor: [stare]
It’s amazing I go out at all, really.
__________
*BONUS!
Just in case this post was too long, I wanted to at least divert your attention to this fun announcment. I’m going to be making an appearance on the Man Time Show tomorrow, Thursday the 22nd, at 1pm EST. The topic is parenting, so things should be interesting, considering all the ridiculousness I seem to bring to the table. You can even join in on the conversation via Twitter (use #mantime in your tweet!).
And if you don’t have the chance to tune-in live, be sure to check the link later in the day for the uploaded podcast!
When T9 was about four months old, there was one miraculous evening when he slept for 9 hours straight. NINE. It was amazing. It was my first opportunity in, say, at least 6 months to sleep for a long chunk of time while the rest of the world snored away like the privileged bastards they are. And I say 6 because for the last few months of my second pregnancy, I was like a 75 year-old Jewish woman from Brooklyn.
3 AM, any given night, October 2008:
Me: [Dramatic sigh.] F*@k, my friggin’ back! The baby’s using my sciatic nerve as a damn teething ring.
James: [Resisting the urge to tell me to shut the hell-o up] You sound like a 75 year-old Jewish woman from Brooklyn. Oh, and I’M TRYING TO SLEEP.
Of course, once the baby came, my sleep continued to be interrupted because he was up eating lots. Since I’m nursing, this meant I was up feeding him lots. It’s fairly simple logic. And it’s just how it works, right?
So maybe you can imagine my elation when my eyelids creaked open to eyeball the clock that night I was gifted with uninterrupted sleep.
It was 3am, and the baby was still sleeping. Halle-freaking-lujah.
Kind of.
Because, as I soon realized, there was a reason why I was creaking open my eyelids at 3am without a baby’s cries to awaken me. There was a rather dull but intense pain in my chest. The throbbing kind of pain that triggers those parts of the brain that shout “doctor,” “Web MD,” or “more liquor.”
Turned out it was my boobs. My boobs were about to explode. Without the baby waking every few hours to empty them, the milk just accumulated. I know how this works, but was not quite prepared for the obscene amount PRESSURE.
I took my finger and poked my left breast. Rock solid. Which, aside from that pain thing, really was kind of nice. I took a moment in that 3am fog to imagine what my boobs would look like in the mirror at that moment: twice their normal size, perky, magnificent. If I could have such firm, full breasts next time I wear that nice dress with the low neck-line, I’d be queen of the damn mountain! (Whatever that means.)
But I wasn’t wearing a dress. And I was lacking the rest of the bangin’ body to accompany the bangin’ breasts.
And maybe most importantly, I was in bed, at 3am, and my boobs were about to freaking burst. This meant I had a few options:
Get up and pump that juice.
Wake up the baby and let him feed voraciously.
Go back to sleep and hope that when my boobs did in fact burst, the explosion doesn’t wake the neighbors.
Naturally, I selected #3, as #1 and #2 required me to get out of bed. Somehow, I made it through the night without any loud noises and with my mammaries still attached to my chest.
But the rest of the night, I dreamt I was Sheyla Hershey. And it was fantastic.
I feel like I haven’t fully introduced you to me, I mean, my boys. This, however, will probably give you more insight than you’d ever wanted.
*****
I’m nothing if not completely aware of the dangers of stereotypes and the duty we have as AMERICANS to end their dirty cycles of ignorance. However, in some situations…in MY situation–the situation of mothering BOYS–sometimes such stereotypes are self-serving, somewhat accurate, and therefore totally worth perpetuating. In other words, my two boys are crazy, hardcore, badass little em-effers.
But I’m still not completely sure if THEY will be the death of ME or if I/THEM.
Because, people, I am That Neurotic Mother. I know. But before you get all SIGH and ::rolls eyes::, I’ll let you know that I am in therapy. I am also quite familiar with the red wine section of my local liquor store. This helps. (The wine.)
But REALLY. I’ll offer an example from just the other morning. My youngest, T9, is almost 11 months old. He was pulling himself up to stand at our living room coffee table when I saw his hand slip and his face land on the bottom shelf. I CRINGED, grunted, and hoped at least one tooth remained intact. Like, dude head-butted the table with his mouth! When I opened my eyes, I heard a little whimper, so I scurried over to pick him up BEFORE I called 911. But by the time I had lifted him to see the blood trickle from his lips, the boy was SMILING. My infant son had karate chopped a piece of furniture with his face and thought the blood stained wood was amusing. I spent the next hour trying to ascertain the size of the puncture wound his tooth had made in his lip, and whether it needed stitches. He laid there, fighting for freedom by attempting to bite my fingers off.
I will not survive this, people.
Then there’s my eldest, Plus One, who’s nearly three. Luckily, he’s a actually a bit milder than his young protege. However, the FATES are INTERVENING, and so he still manages to invite trouble. Perhaps you would like an example? The three of us were in Target the other day, doing a great job of not being THAT family as we strolled through the aisles (I only busted out the hand sanitizer ONCE! CLAP FOR MOMMY!).
Plus One was in the cart area, eating a muffin while I made bank in the safety and disinfection sections. Suddenly, I saw his muffin lunge up from the cart and onto the floor. Before I could scold, I heard him shriek and simultaneously try to climb over his brother and into my arms. By the time I got around to pull him out, I saw THE BEE. People, we were 20 minutes into our shopping trip, INSIDE the store in effing OCTOBER. Have I SINNED? WHAT ARE THE ODDS OF THIS CRAP?!
(Related: As I was nursing Plus One’s throbbing hand, T9 attempted to hurl himself out of the shopping cart. He was very nearly successful. A rubber-necker came to the rescue. T9 thanked him with a head-butt.)
Come ON!
So there. Those are my boys. And they are badass, with all their bloody grins and ballooning limbs. But while I’d like to blame my neurosis on all this, this nonstop CATASTROPHE, the truth of the matter is that I’m pretty sure I’m just, well, crazy? This isn’t the correct term, I’m sure, but it’s similar to what resonates from my husband’s “Oh, Wife” after I tell him these THINGS.
Later that night, after I’d put the kids to bed, checked T9’s pulse, and re-sealed Plus One’s plastic bubble, I headed back to my bedroom where I found my husband. He appeared to be, well, nursing his tenders, if I might borrow a line from Kung-Fu Panda.
Me: YOU TOO?! What’s wrong? Did the kid jump on you again?
Him: Nah, I just did too much walking downtown this afternoon. It was hot. You know…sweaty?
Me: Ah. Hang on a sec…[I quickly skipped down the hall and emerged again with a small tube.] Try this.
Him:Desitin?!
Me: What? It’s the unscented kind! And while I’m sure the kids won’t notice if you borrow some, I must draw the line at application.
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Soon they were talking about preperations for the new baby:
