Monthly Archive

AM got a spot at a university speech clinic. This is, frankly, awesome. It is 10 minutes from our house. It is two hours a week, while Miss M is in school. It is $150 for the entire spring semester.

His “therapist” is a grad student, who will be supervised by her professor. Yesterday they put him through his paces to see what he could do. They came to the conclusion that he a) is adorable and b) understands everything you say to him.

Yes, yes.

But clearly they don’t know any ASL. Because not only was he directing his way around the toys and having a rotten time with the mouth and lip exercises (I was doing them because clearly he would have freaked out to have a stranger touch his face), at one point he had decided he had had E.NOUGH. He plopped into my lap and signed to nurse. I said no. He signed for a snack. I said no. He consented to page through a board book, but then suddenly signed “all done.” Emphatically. Then he stood up, signed it again and signed “coat.” As in, “Where the hell is my damn coat, lady? I am OUT OF HERE.”

I distracted him with trains from home so I could finish talking to the professionals. So I have a little trepidation about Monday. And Wednesday. And the following Monday. Etc.

Hopefully it will just take a few sessions to work out the kinks, although an hour of paying attention is an eternity for a toddler in any situation. Please cross your available digits for us!

From Miss M: 

“Ema, that’s BIGNORMOUS!”

“I don’t wanna go in my ‘partment building. I want to go to Israel.”*

“Is today tomorrow?”

* We haven’t been there in almost three years but are going in three months.

From AM:

Picking at the tablecloth and signing “table” “blanket,” neither of which I knew that he knew.** (He’ll only sign in proper context.)

We taught him to say “Ema” which sounds like “mmmMA!” It was cute for about five seconds, but now he thumps up and down the hall whining “mmmMA!”

I think we’ll stick with the signing.

** It’s stuff like this that gets us disqualified from EI. When he was being evaluated he was shown a picture of a baby and was clearly supposed to say “baby” or “ba” or some such. No dice. He signed “bath.” Why? Because the baby had no clothes.

Apparently the stigma of being under psychological care is real, not only perceived.

Someone I know is going through a rough time and could use the services of a therapist. However, this person needs services in a Slightly Distant City. Close enough to see a show there; too far for me to be able to ask people around here for referrals. Because the other option for this person is to essentially look in the phone book for names. (Or, to call a spade a spade, take names from a health insurance website.)

Through some divine act of memory I was able to recall that someone I know around here grew up in Slightly Distant City. Although she has probably not lived at home in 10-15 years, her parents still live there. I wrote her an email this morning, describing the need in the briefest of terms and asking if she or her parents knew of anyone (or knew of anyone who knew anyone) who could provide such services. I was not asking, mind you, for personal experiences, just even a name of someone reputable. Within minutes I had a return email to the effect of: “What? Do I know you? We don’t know anyone or anything that can help your friend in any way. Sorry.”

I would blame it on the hush-hush fishbowl aspects of the Orthodox community, except that this person (like myself) did not grow up Orthodox. In fact, she is hippy-dippy enough that I would think she’d be open to the idea of people needing help from time to time.

So what’s a friend to do? Open the Yellow Pages?

You tell me.

If anyone reads Ianqui’s blog (and you should, ’cause she cool–and not just because we were born on the very same day!), you know that I met her on Sunday night in the Village to see The Business of Being Born.

This was A Big Deal.

• Taxman had to come home early from the office, give everyone dinner, and put them to bed. (AM still nurses before bed, although he apparently did not kick up a fuss.)
• It was freezing cold. Manhattan is a fracking wind tunnel. The whole borough.
• I never go to the movies. Not once in 2007. I saw Charlotte’s Web over a year ago with my mom. The last movie I saw before that was Sideways. Miss M was six months old.
• I took a car into Manhattan, which meant either finding street parking or paying for a lot, which I find personally offensive because of what these places charge. Do I look like I am made of money? (And of course, the shame of showing up to a blogger meetup with Ianqui in a car. Hey, at least it wasn’t the van! Because I would have had NO chance of street parking that animal.)

Clearly I wanted to see this movie, and I was going to take advantage of seeing it Right Now, when it was playing only in NY and LA, not waiting until it comes out on DVD and forgetting and then not seeing it until 2011.

And, wow, now I want to have a home birth. Although I absolutely admit that I am putting that feeling out into the universe because I know it can never happen. After two C-sections? Two three-day long labors? These were not C-sections for anyone’s convenience; trust me when I say that my births were inconvenient for everyone. My doctors, my doula (who insisted that she was tossing out the length of my first labor because it skewed her statistics so wildly), my in-laws, my husband. I hesitate to say that I earned the C-sections, but hey, those babies were not coming out on their own unless they needed to borrow the car or something. 

But I digress.

The laboring women in this movie just radiated grace. Even at their lowest moments, in pain, exhausted, overwhelmed, they were beautiful. I think the me of 10 years ago, or even five years ago when we were in the midst of “trying,” would have been embarrassed and scared to watch. Nudity! Moaning! Babies emerging! Augh, my eyes! But. Having “been there” twice, I was awed by their power and trust in their bodies.

The huge advantage of a home birth, which I attempted to re-create in my labors by refusing to go to the hospital until I was so exhausted I needed, mentally, to know how dilated I was in order to push further, is the freedom to labor in the position and state of undress that’s comfortable, changing as necessary. Not tied to a bed or an IV. Working with gravity instead of against it. The film showed women laboring–and delivering–in the bathtub, next to a bed, squatting on the floor. Compared to what I, and a gajillion other modern American women, had experienced in the hospital, it seemed Biblical. And I mean that in the best of ways: natural, fundamental, connected to previous generations of women, attended to by women who are experts in birth. And strong.

One thing that struck me about the home deliveries was that the babies often didn’t cry immediately. “What’s wrong?” the moms demanded, “Why isn’t he crying?” But everything was fine; the babies blinked in confusion on their mothers’ chests for a moment or two, then they all let out the stereotypical yelp. My (unprovable) theory is that the births were so seamless, particularly in the case of the waterbirths, it took them a minute to realize they were no longer inside. Once they came around, of course, they joined the newborn chorus. Which is, I am convinced: “Holy shit! I don’t want to be here! It’s COLD! It’s BRIGHT! I don’t like it! Put me back! Put me back right now! I hate you!”

The movie had its flaws. I think that pitching birthing at home to the average American woman is unrealistic. People are too scared, too litigious, too afraid to ruin their bed linens or their couch. I am not judging–I would have never considered having Miss M at home. The very idea of pushing her out was horrifying; I guess I wanted surgical backup. Although in retrospect I can’t figure out why I thought a hospital would be a better place for feeling comfortable and doing that than my own home (or, at the very least, the Roosevelt Birthing Center). Of course, I probably should have gone with a midwife-hospital delivery for AM to give myself the best chance for a VBAC, but I was so overwhelmed by the pregnancy with him in general I couldn’t see going outside my comfort zone to a new medical professional. Oh well.

So I wish that the movie had explored more avenues for women within a traditional hospital setting: delivering with a midwife; using a doula; even just educating themselves to the teeth about the pros and cons of various interventions and writing a birth plan and sharing it with their health care provider. But hey, moderation isn’t quite sexy enough for the movies. Even though I am still pretty amateurish in the whole birthing business, I had enough reading and experience to want to yell at every woman laboring on her back, “Stand UP!”* And I didn’t do that much reading.

For me, the saddest and most frightening part of The Business of Being Born surrounded the pregnancy and birth of Abby Epstein, the director. She and her boyfriend-now-husband (the movie’s cinematographer, Paulo Netto) became pregnant, unexpectedly, during the filming. She was thinking of a homebirth but wound up with an emergency C-section; her water broke several weeks early and her son was breech. The frightening part was that the baby had some sort of growth restriction (unclear to me if it was IUGR or something else), and when she quizzed her doctor about why it wasn’t caught earlier in the pregnancy, he said something like, “We usually discover this after a stillbirth. We don’t catch it in the middle.” Um, holy crap.  The sad part was that this mom-baby dyad (to get all LLL on y’all) was clearly behind the 8-ball. Watching her, teary-eyed, desperately trying to nurse her tiny preemie for the first time on the third day of his life. With NO apparent help.** I just wanted to reach up to the screen, help his latch, and strip everyone down for some Kangaroo care.

But back to me. It was hard to walk out of the theater without wanting another baby, sometime in the future. (It’s the newborn fingers that get me!) At the same time, though, that whole avenue of a natural birth, never mind one at home, is closed off to me. (I spent the drive home plotting an upending of an imaginary scheduled C-section, because: Choosing the date that someone is born? Creeps me out.) So that makes me wistful. Then again, I think I have to be a better parent to the kids I already have and a better partner to the husband I already have before I can really and truly think about adding another person to the mix. No idea if I will ever get there.

Which brings me to my point about Choice. I have been at this mothering thing for a relatively short time. But long enough to know that while it is rewarding, it is hard. It is demanding in every possible way: physical, mental, emotional, financial, spiritual, more that I haven’t even thought about. It can’t possibly be right for every woman at every point in her fertile life. I cannot and will not judge another woman’s circumstances for a decision to become a mother or to become a mother again. Or not. It’s personal. And for right now, that means it’s political too.

* During my 2.5 hour pushing phase with AM, even though I was partially numb, I felt compelled–at my very core–to be upright. It was instinctual. Wasn’t practical, but it couldn’t be stopped. Taxman and my doula held me up because I could not prop myself. How other women can deliver flat on their backs I have no idea.

** I am savvy enough to know it could have been edited this way for effect.

Walking to the library, hand in hand

Me: “Guess what, little girl?”

Miss M: “What, big girl?”

Me (trying not to laugh): “I love you.”

Miss M: “I love you, too!”

We had sleepover company for Shabbat, friends who have moved a few states north. Their daughter, D, was Miss M’s first real friend–we got them together at least twice a week. They still play well together, if by “play,” you mean harass the adults in their lives into reading every Curious George book (classic and otherwise) in our library.

Miss M was very excited to wake up on Friday morning and see D sleeping in her room. “Ema,” she stage whispered as she sat on the potty, “D is my best friend.” 

They were chatting as I herded them into the living room and went to see about their breakfast. “Ema,” Miss M called after me. “I didn’t nurse yet. I want to nurse.” Then she turned to D, who did nurse as a baby but is now three and very attached to the more traditional milk of preschoolers, and offered, “Do you want to nurse too?”

(Uh. At least her heart was in the right place.)

After Shabbat, D’s parents packed up to head for her grandparents’ house in New Jersey, and our kids got ready for bed. Miss M, as her parting gift, gave D a hug and one of her recently trademarked, inappropriately intimate open-mouthed kisses. Reserved only for really good friends and blood relatives.

I have to present three book choices to one of my book clubs in a few days. I have a shelf full of unread books. I need opinions! Good, bad, yes, no, never! Help me winnow!

Here’s my (incomplete, but appropriate for this particular book club) list of unread books, in no particular order:

Never Let Me Go (Kazuo Ishiguro)

All the Finest Girls (Alexandra Styron)

Small Island (Andrea Levy)

On Beauty (Zadie Smith)

An Unfinished Season (Ward Just)

A Death in the Family (James Agee) or My Antonia (Willa Cather)*

Secrets of the City (Anne Roiphe)

The Fourth Hand (John Irving)

The Bonesetter’s Daughter (Amy Tan)

Mister Posterior and the Genius Child (Emily Jenkins)

King Leopold’s Ghost (Adam Hochschild)**

* I haven’t read either; I have a suspicion that the book club coordinator, who is an English prof, has read both. Although her specialty lies elsewhere.

** I generally far prefer fiction for book clubs, but this came highly recommended.

Dear Mr. Retiree Volunteer,

It’s very nice that you volunteer your time at the Maritime Aquarium. You’ve obviously earned the respect of the organization because they use you in their promotional materials.

But perhaps it’s been a while since you’ve had quality time with the toddler/preschool set. Yesterday, a school in-service day, my friend and I blitzed through with our kids. Their ages are 4 years 2 months, 3 years 7 months, 22 months, and 21 months. We had four kids, two strollers, food, sippy cups, diapers, coats. (What we needed were valets and a sheepdog, but really not your fault.) We managed to get the kids interested in the touch tank. Not to actually touch things, because they were not feeling so brave, but to look at the little creatures right up close.

“Oooh, starfish!” exclaimed the older girls, thankfully pausing in their frantic inspection of the large tanks (in 10 second chunks).

In the interest of being scientifically accurate (I am assuming), you said, “Actually, we call them sea stars, because they’re not fish.”

To which I did NOT reply, “Are you KIDDING me?” But I wanted to. I just could not think of a polite way to dress you down while respecting your volunteer commitment, setting a good example for the preschoolers, and preventing AM from diving in with the otters.*

Kids this age are little sponges and will soak up what you have to say, but they’ve got to stop whirling like tops first.

Please enjoy the rest of your afternoon.

Cordially,

One Tired Ema

* He couldn’t have gotten in. But damned if he wasn’t going to try.

So AM’s application to participate in state-sponsored early intervention has been turned down.

Sounds so much nicer than “he has been disqualified” or “he’s been rejected,” which of course is what I’ve been saying to everyone around here.

The long and short of it is: he is age-appropriate in every other way. Yes, his expressive language is not even on the charts, but his receptive language is fine. He communicates. He has good cognitive skills. When shown a picture of a baby during the testing with a special education teacher, he noticed that the baby had no clothes on and signed “bath.” So basically, we couldn’t have dumbed him down if we tried.

The speech therapist’s report listed 12 oral/speech objectives that he is not meeting and strongly indicated the need for therapy in general, but at the same time she had noted that his receptive skills were acceptable and therefore meant that he did not meet the qualifying level of two standard deviations below the mean. She basically said that she hoped he was delayed in another area, because two scores of 1.5 standard deviations below the mean also qualify. No such “luck.”

Through Early Intervention we basically have no recourse except to wait a few months and do it all again. All of it–social workers, forms, everything. Our case worker told us if we wanted to try to keep the file open it would require approval from the Regional Supervisor (I swear there were caps in her voice when she said it). And probably nothing would come of it except the command to wait a few months and do it again.

It’s frustrating as hell.

Thankfully, we have good health insurance, which would cover a lot of private speech therapy. The weekly or twice-weekly co-pays will suck, to be sure, but we have flex-spending, so it’s pre-tax dollars, which, Taxman tells me, is good. (Honestly, I haven’t a clue.) Better than the alternative, anyway, of paying out of pocket for everything.

Or we can try the university speech clinic route, although I don’t know how to get into one.

I just want to do something. Soon. I am tired of sitting on my hands and waiting. There’s work to be done, and I want to begin.

My little boy. So much to say, but no words.*

I love him even when he throws his trains. And legos. Lately he’s brought mimicry to a whole new level of sophistication. No longer content to merely crawl under the dining room table with his brush and dustpan, he empties the detritus into the trash. One grotty piece of cereal at a time. Armed with dirty clothes, he trots to the washing machine and actually loads it.

In the bath, he demands equal treatment–he wants to wash himself, thank you very much, and don’t you be too slow or too stingy with the babywash. One of these days he is going to insist on washing Miss M’s hair because she is the self-appointed washer for him. He wants to sit on the potty like her, and, for good measure, helps himself to her underpants and tries to put them on. (He’s partial to a pink pair of Elmo undies.)

Then there are the phones. Loves ‘em. There are a couple of old ones floating around the house, but really he prefers the real ones, the ones that beep and light up and call people. Cell phones are good too. Lots of fun things to do with those.

Yesterday I went to pay a condolence call. Normally, this is the kind of thing that kids do not attend, but I didn’t have a choice and knew that it would be ok. I arrived laden with snacks, trains, and a book for AM. This kept him quiet for a bit, but eventually I passed him my cell phone. After an accidental speed dial connection to Taxman, he did his usual button pressing and head tilting. Then he snapped the phone shut, lifted his shirt, and held the phone to his belly. It looked like he was giving himself an ultrasound, but he’s never seen that done before.

“Oh wow,” I murmured a minute later, right before I melted into a puddle of maternal ooze. “He’s trying to clip the phone on to his pants.” So.cute.

* DQ’d from EI. Its own story.

Assuming she wants one!

Then I will tell her the following story. If she doesn’t find it funny, then I didn’t tell it correctly.

We were away for Shabbat, visiting friends who used to live down the block from us but lit out for the suburbs when they were expecting their second baby. The kids had a great time, especially Miss M, who had the run of the playroom (full of toys and paraphernalia that goes with girls who are 5 and 7–kitchen! dollhouse! princess dress up clothes!) and the basement (trampoline!) and a horde of other guest kids to play with (ranging in age from 4 to 10) on Shabbat afternoon.

Taxman and D got to relive their pre-child years for a single hour on Saturday night, when J and I magnanimously allowed them to go out bowling while we fed the kids dinner. Finally, an hour past normal bedtime and dressed in sweats, Miss M and AM were trundled back into the car, where they fell asleep on the Cross Island Parkway and graciously transferred to their own beds without protest.

Until 6:30 the following morning. When Miss M was horrified to realize that she had slept in her clothes. “Ema,” she wailed, “I’m not wearing pajamas!” We tried, in vain, to reassure her that it was ok, that she had been wearing comfortable clothes, that she had slept all night without waking up. “I didn’t sleep in pajamas!” she shrieked, absolutely beside herself. 

So, after a potty trip awash in tears, she opened her top dresser drawer and gratefully pulled on a pair of pajamas. “I have pajamas on,” she said, all smiles. “Now,” she demanded, crawling into bed with me, “I want to nurse.”*

* This, of course, set off AM, who feels that my breasts are solely his property, despite daily evidence to the contrary.

before haircut

This is what it looked like on a “good day” (freshly washed, not slept on) before the chop!

For the “not so good days,” imagine an electrical socket, this much hair, and add in dry steam heat.

So you see….

straight hair and lollipop

Hot damn!

By (Curious) George, I’ve sort of got it!

And please forgive my breaking my promise by posting even more about The First Haircut. Think of it as my re-entree into the world of adorable pictures.

Yippee!

We thank you for your support….

I promise.

But first a confession: I haven’t posted pictures in, um, about 11 months, because that’s when I switched to WordPress and I have yet to figure out how to properly post pictures. This drives me nuts. If anyone knows how to skool me in the ways of WordPress imgs, plz help!

Anyway, the straight hair made her look not like herself. It wasn’t at all stick straight because it has way, way too much body, even after being blown into submission. Rather imagine a tiny, red-haired Donna Reed (from the ’40s, not the ’60s).* And when she woke up this morning it was back to curly, although not as much as usual and actually pretty nice looking. Her tresses at 6:30 am usually sport the Bride of Frankenstein look.

The other odd turn of events is that the child now has Product. Namely gel for kids (no alcohol), which we are suppose to apply to wet hair and scrunch.** I have no Product beyond two-in-one in-shower hair care. But I have to be honest: It’s a relief, because hopefully this will keep the frizz under control. In a bizarre twist of fate, my daughter seems to have inherited her hair–color, texture, and kink–from my college roommate, who scared the crap out of me when she arrived freshman year bearing an enormous vat of gel. No, really, a vat. (32 oz? 40? 64?) I got used to the gel long ago, but now I have a deep understanding.

* By the way, I am so not an expert on the post-WWII era of TV/movies/pop culture. But when I said that to the woman who cut Miss M’s hair, she had no idea who Donna Reed was. Then I, of course, felt like an idiot–but isn’t Donna Reed kind of iconic? Not exactly Lucy, but still Up There?

** I actually know how to do this. When I mentioned it to Taxman, he blanched. I will teach, of course. I feel compelled to share my (admittedly limited) hair care knowledge, when called upon.

A conversation, brought to you by instant messaging

nu? how did it go?

fine

she wasn’t happy about the hairwash or blow dry but it was ok

her hair survived?

it’s crazy–she blew it out, so it’s straight

she didn’t lose the curls tho, right?!? RIGHT?!?

no

phew

they will come back after a hairwash

oh, ok

send her to school like this tomorrow and see what they say

yeah, that’s the plan

Clearly someone else needs a brownie as well.

Like RevDrMom, I found myself quite disoriented over the past 10 days or so without the usual moorings of a regular work schedule for Taxman and of preschool for Miss M. It wasn’t bad, but ordinary weeks have sort of a beginning, a middle, and an end, not three Sundays and two Thursdays and Shabbat. I wonder if it’s been messing with AM also, because his naps went all haywire and it took 90!minutes! to get him to sleep last night. So far it’s looking like today will be a more normal go of it…

(Aside, am I really that habituated and boring? Alas, it appears so.)

As long as he’s sleeping, though, I am going to continue freaking out about this afternoon. I’ve scheduled Miss M’s first haircut for 3:45, and I must complete my tizzy now, so that she will be calm and open to lollipop bribery.  I’ve been saying for about a year that she needs a haircut, but now it’s very true–if only to get rid of the dead ends that snarl every ponytail holder in the universe. I will repeat, over and over, “It’s just a trim.” I don’t want it short; I like the option of putting it up. Miss M prefers a little top knot “and curly in the back,” but this makes her look about five and breaks her father’s heart. I like two little poufy pigtails because it’s adorable or a tight, ballerina-like bun because it keeps the hair out of her face the best when she’s eating yogurt or using glue. But when it’s not too frizzy (maybe 2 days out of 7 in the winter) I accede to her wishes, if only to avoid the inevitable tantrum, with howls of “Ema, I want ONE!”

Anyway, this rite of passage has been pushed back far too long, and now I am too invested. I am beyond vain about her hair (and AM’s eye color, just so that nobody thinks I am playing favorites), as evidenced by the above freakout and willingness to spend probably more money on this afternoon’s adventure than my past three haircuts combined.* I need a good smack, clearly. But at the same time, her hair is the first thing people notice about her, so I feel responsible for getting it right. Ack, the pressure, it’s all too much!

I must go eat a brownie.

* Full disclosure: Taxman cuts my hair, so it’s free. But I never liked to spend much; in college I used to wait until I went home and my stepmom took me to her salon. Great haircuts, but I wouldn’t have wanted to pay for them by myself!