Here’s the setup: A., me and kids are coming back from our morning walk outside. I am carrying Ulysses’s bike with a front wheel full of the nastiest dog poo you can imagine. The Dandelion has just decided to start an impromptu potty training 15 minutes ago and took off his diaper.

At the entrance to the building we meet our neighbor, a new father to a 2 weeks old baby girl. He is in his sweats, pale, looking just a little better than what is currently dripping from Ulysses’s bike’s front wheel. He sees us, and get this expression on his face that is somewhere between an immense relief and a plea for help.

“Say” he says, “what on earth do you do when the baby doesn’t sleep AT ALL?” “She doesn’t sleep at all?” we ask, “No she doesn’t. We think it’s gas.”

You know me, I immediately assume full parental-guide veteran-mother-of-two been-there-done-that position and start talking to him about breastfeeding, and positions, and nutrition, all the while promising him that it gets better, really it does.

While I’m in full mambo-jumbo mode, I catch out of the corner of my eye A.’s face, and he is starting to get this incredulous look on it. So I stop and I turn to him, to see what’s it about. A. takes advantage of this momentary pause, faces our neighbor and says: “She is standing here with a smelly, nasty, poo dripping toy that she just carried for 8 blocks, and I, well I just got peed on. I don’t know what to tell you dude, but getting better? That’s a bit of an overstatement.”

Then we both collapsed on the ground laughing and our poor neighbor went back upstairs, presumably to write his “Good Bye Cruel World” letter.

Our friend came to visit yesterday with her 6 weeks old baby girl. Our friend is a new mom with a tendency to “crunchiness”, mid-thirties, free spirit, lived all around the world, did some crazy things in her days, a sort of an avantgarde performance artist and a totally cool person in all respects.

And she’s driven insane by her mom and her advices.

“The baby isn’t dressed warm enough”, “Why does she sleep in your bed?” “Why don’t you have a regular feeding schedule? It’s not good for her to eat whenever.” You get the picture, I’m sure.

Funny thing, advice. We need it - as new parents, we crave it. We go to baby manuals and baby sites and mommy blogs and look for support and wisdom. But when it comes unsolicited, or maybe even just in a tone or manner we don’t feel comfortable with, it hurts us. It insults us. It’s perceived as criticism of our parenting.

Sometime it is criticisms, but not as often I think. I think the problem lies with the inherent vulnerability of new parenthood. Here you are, endowed with this enormous responsibility you’re not necessarily prepared for, and you can be pretty lost. Still, it’s something that you need to do, it’s your thing, and you want to do it your way, even thought you don’t always know exactly what it is.

When Ulysses was born I was as much of a novice as anybody else. I was receiving advice from EVERYBODY. Heck, my MIL and mom spent about two hours discussing the exact qualities my baby dresser should have. At some point, when it started to get to me, I decided to take a stand and simply… ignore it.

I had a line I used to deliver whenever some unsolicited advice came my way: “This baby is not a democratic regime. It’s a dictatorship and we [meaning, me and A.] are the sole rulers.” And it really helped me both in making sense in my mind about things and in calmly accepting the advices that were less than welcomed.

My point is, (yes, there is, surprisingly enough, a point), most if not all advice-givers are well-meaning. The one good advice you need in order to make it easier to either receive advice or ignore it is to remember one simple truth: you are a good parent.

Photo credit:Laughlin Elkind

1.10, you confuse me.

I know, I know, I should be prepared. It’s not like 4.0 wasn’t 1.10 a few short years ago. Still, you perplex me.

You wake up in the middle of the night every night. What gives? Five months ago you were already sleeping through the night, and now all of a sudden it’s no good for you? You won’t go to sleep unless I’m there, which is just too cruel a trick to play on me after being the easiest kid to put to bed ever since you were 6 months old.

You won’t shower, because you don’t want to take your clothes off. Every evening when it’s shower-time, we go through a screamfest until you are willing to be separated from your dirty clothes. Then you are happy as a button.

You won’t eat anything healthy, while a mere three months ago you were voluntarily consuming vegetables. The healthiest thing you are willing to eat nowadays are fruits, but mostly it’s chocolate, cookies and some more chocolate. I dig you 1.10, I really do. Chocolate is my favorite food too, but in the name of all that is holly, you were eating fresh fish at 9 months. WHAT HAPPENED?

You understand everything I say to you, but have yet to acquire the willingness to comply. It’s maddening really, your ability to look me in the eyes, grinning devilishly, and blatantly ignore me.

This playing with my mind has got to stop, 1.10. It’s hard enough to keep a straight face long enough so you’ll get the message that what you’re doing is wrong, the mind games are really just… too much.

And you know what the best news are? Only two months left until Terrible Two begins.

If you need be I’ll be crying in the bathroom.

*with regards to Alice.

When I was about 15 I had a really bad fight with my boyfriend. It was the worst fight we had in the entire two years of our relationship. I don’t really remember the details, but I remember we didn’t talk for a few days and I remember that I was very distressed and upset over it, as any desperatly-in-love fifteen years old should be when she has a fight with her boyfriend.

After those few days of silence we found ourselves sitting in his car, shouting at each other and trying to figure this thing out. What upset me the most was that I couldn’t understand why it was such an intense situation, it didn’t make sense to me. I couldn’t put my finger on anything I have done or not done that should have made Boyfriend angry to that extent. Logical girl that I am I was trying to understand from him what had happened, and through a none-too-coherent string of explanations and accusations I suddenly realized it had nothing to do with me.

It turned out something happened to him, that had no connection to me and he was very angry and upset and almost traumatized by it. And he was getting it all out by fighting with me. That moment, when it dawned on me what the problem was I was torn between two contradicting impulses: my anger at him that was still very much present, and the an instant sense of compassion for him and his pain and my need to comfort him and make it go away, because I love him.

Why am I telling you this? (”Why is she talking about her old boyfriend and all?” asks A. while trying to not grit his teeth too laudly.) I’m telling you this because that conflict between anger and compassion is coming back with a vengeance. Ulysses has a knack for making me go absolutely insane within milliseconds. Then I will be angry at him. Then he will break down and sob miserably. Then I will remember that he’s acting like that because he has some hardship that he is unable to express. Then I will collect him from his puddle on the floor and comfort him and try to understand what the problem really is.

That moment, when my view is instantaneously shifting, I am able to really feel his pain through the layers of my own anger, tiredness, impatience and frustration. Then anger will evaporate, replaced by concern and tenderness tinged with just a little bit of guilt. That moment is at the same time rock bottom and breathtaking height of being a parent. That moment is something I want to never lose.

Then, when my boys are teenagers and are actually TRYING to be misunderstood, I could REALLY mess with their minds by UNDERSTANDING them.

Halloween is my favorite holiday. First, it’s in the fall, which is my favorite season, (cold enough for soups, warm enough for long walks) (wow, that came out kitschy.) Second, it’s three days after my birthday, (yay, my birthday! Who hasn’t heard about my upcoming birthday yet? Outer Space, it’s my birthday!) And third, the costumes! I lurrrrve the costumes.

Those of you who read me regularly know that I’m a wannabe crafter. I want to be, but I can’t because I’m hopeless when it comes to the actual crafting. That doens’t mean I don’t waste my time reading craft blogs and daydreaming about the day the Angle of Skills will come to bestow some fine motor skills upon me.

On the up side, my journies through craftdome have rewarded you, beloved reader, with the gift of many Halloween related tips, crafts and easy-peasy costume ideas.

A good place to start is at Parent Hacks where you can gear up on hacks and tips from other parents, like swapping costumes instead of buying expensive ones that will only be worn for 10 minutes. From there you might want to head on to Rookie Moms for more thoughts and ideas on celebrating Halloween with babies.

If you wnat some inspiration, take a look at this chicken on etsy. Also on etsy, for you wacky colinary types, sushi costumes for baby.

Some simple costumes ideas and instructions can be found at wisegeek and at essortment. Also, there an article on how to turn a stuffed animal to a baby costume here. Sounds a bit… spooky to me, but hey - it is Halloween.

If you got some skillz, you might want to try making this adorable pucca costume at zakka life, or perhaps even attempt the reversable superhero costume at Puking Pastilles.

I hope you have a great holiday!

Photo credit: Stephanie Costa

I had to admit he was right. I HATE IT WHEN HE’S RIGHT. Grrrr. But he was. I have this horrible tendency to procrastinate (hey, didn’t we talk about it already?), and to believe that tomorrow is another day. Then tomorrow becomes the day after tomorrow, and then Sunday and oops, it’s been two weeks.

I find that it’s harder to resume blogging than it is to start blogging. Starting to blog is a tabula-rasa state, the only way to go is up. But resuming blogging is a matter of getting your groove back, getting back with the rhythm. Not as easy.

Yet here I am, resuming. Promising myself that this is going to be the one thing I’m not going to cut corners on, the one thing I will do everyday. Almost.

P.S: it makes me feel slightly better that I’m not the only one who can’t keep her posting rate up.

procrastination, meta-blogging

– I’m making dinner. The salad is ready and I’m busy with the potatoes. The Dandelion enters the kitchen, pushes a chair, climbs on it, and standing on the chair starts munching on the salad. THE SALAD. He ate the salad out of free will. No coaxing, no cajoling. He wanted the salad so bad he actually climbed on a chair to get to it. In my world, my chocolate-is-my-only-food Ulysses-centered world, we call it a miracle.

– Ulysses is finally 100% potty trained, after relinquishing the night diaper. A week and a half with no nightly accidents, and counting. Hall of fame moment: waking up at 4AM to hear Ulysses climbing into our bed after going to the bathroom, and A. whispering to him “I’m so proud of you.”

– Going to the swimming pool for the first time with the kids. Ulysses asks: “mommy, are there sharks in there?”

This mom thing, I think I’ll keep at it.

Photo credit: Frank Hebbert

hall, of, fame

I’m a world-class procrastinator. I never do anything now that I could possibly do later, and when later comes, I usually still don’t do it because, hey, there’s always tomorrow.

I started counting how many times this cursed tendency of mine has gotten me into knee-deep trouble, but it was too complicated, so I decided to do it some other time. The surprising thing is that you would expect I would, I don’t know, learn my lesson, but no. No lessons learned whatsoever.

There is one place, and one place only, where my procrastination saves me a lot of trouble. My kids. All those dreaded kids-related struggles - weaning, potty training, eating properly - I just… don’t do it. Or at lease don’t do it when everybody else does. Each time, I know I should start tackling the subject months before I gather enough mental energy to actually do it. In the mean time, between the time I start thinking about it and the time I actually do it, I need to ignore many comments of the “Why is he still breastfeeding?” or “Is he still wearing a diaper?”, and let’s not forget the cherished “why doesn’t he eat vegetables?” variety. I’m a real good ignorer. (You can’t be a world-class procrastinator without some mad ignoring skillz.)

The magic is that by the time I’m ready to start the struggle - get that diaper off, reclaim my boobs - my kid is ready. I don’t need to fight them too hard, neither of us gets too frustrated for too long, it just works.

Don’t hate me now, it’s not like there’s no struggle at all. Took Ulysses almost 3 weeks and ENDLESS piles of laundry to potty train, but I have a feeling it could have been a lot worse had I done it when he was two (when my MIL, for one, thought I should start) and not when he was almost three.

Yes, my friends, procrastination is going to be the new thing in parenting. Remember where you read it first. And when my book, Kids For Dummies - The Lazy Approach comes out, don’t forget to recommend it to your friends.

Oh, and I’m still waiting on the vegetables struggle. Maybe I’ll have a little talk with Ulysses about it. When he’s 20.

Photo credit: Ann Marie

potty, training, weaning, procrastination

So I was spending the entire week two weeks ago being horribly miserably sick *insert over-inflated self pity here*, and then the next week, which was actually last week, planning my big comeback post after not writing a whole week and guess what happened? Nothing. Nothing happened. No post and no shoes. (That’s a common saying in my family, its origins lost in the mists of time). And you know why? Because I SUCK.

If you, patient reader, were a vegetable, say a radish, and I was the gardner in charge of taking care of you, you would have probably died. That’s why in our house A. is in charge of the plants. The kids tend to be very loud when not fed, so I manage not to forget them.

Miserably sick as I was, (self-pity, have I mentioned? It’s my new hobby. Sexy no?) I have to admit that a week of lying down and doing nothing while other people took care of my kids was the best vacation I had in the last four years. (Omigod, how sad is that?) Sure the food sucked and the weather sucked even worse (and by weather, I mean alternating shivering and sweating), but I had an entire week to myself. A whole week (okay, four days) when no one wanted anything from me, when I had to do absolutely nothing for someone else.

In a sense it was even better than a real vacation. I didn’t need to make reservations, didn’t need to have the nightly argument discussion with A. over where we’re going to go for dinner. It was just me and my duvet doing our thing.

(That was a remarkable piece of self-deception, don’t you think? Barcelona? Berlin? Who needs them? I’ve got chicken noodle soup and 103 fever!)

Jokes aside, the best outcome of the sick week was the sense of refreshment and the renewed patience I gained during it. As if someone pushed the restart button on me, and all the petty little grievances and annoyances were purged from me along with the fever. I wish I could be the mom I was last week every week of the year, but I’m too realistic to believe that. One of the biggest challenges is that ability to put yourself aside and not take out on your kids what you’re feeling, and it gets so much easier if you give yourself a break now and then.

Next vacation will be a real one, though.

UPDATE: I just noticed I forgot to credit the picture-taker, shame on me. The beautiful, taste-bud-stimulating picture was taken by Jen. Sorry, Jen!

sick, vacation

If you didn’t click on the above link, you might be under the impression I’m an overreacting drama queen. Not everybody likes fictitious heavy metal, but really, how bad could it be? Bad. As bad as having an ER intern take a long needle and insert it into your newborn’s spinal canal to sample his cerebrospinal fluid in order to test for meningitis.

You can thank me later for affixing this image in your mind.

The nurse that resolutely ushered me out of the room before the procedure promised it wouldn’t hurt and that the doctor knows what he’s doing. Liar. I’ve never despised myself quite so much as when I was meekly walking out of the room, knowing in my gut she is not telling me the truth. Feeling that I should stay there, if not to protect my baby from the pain I could not prevent, than at least to hold his hand and comfort him.

I understand why she did what she did. I understand that the last thing they need is an hysterical mom losing it in the midst of a very delicate procedure. I understand that they need to check for everything when such a young baby comes into the ER, even if all he has is bronchiolitis, because at this age meningitis needs to be treated quickly and aggressively.

I understood, but it didn’t help my wanting to barge into the room and rescue my poor baby from the hands of the evil monsters.

Were there alternatives? I’m not sure. Maybe I could have demanded that they not perform the procedure. Could I have taken that responsibility on myself? I suspect not. Than again, knowing how painful the procedure is, could I have just let them go on with it without protesting or at least raising the question of necessity?

I think that despite my inherent trust in authorities and institutes and my respect for the medical profession in general, if I ever face the decision again, I’m going to be much more intrusive. You have to perform a painful medical procedure on my baby? Convince me there’s no other way. Right now, I don’t care for your long shift and all the other things on your mind. This is my baby and I need you to see it for the tiny human being that he is, and not as the 125 case of the day. I need you to really care for him and his discomfort, and I’ll be a nosy and noisy shrew if I have to.

This is not even the post I meant to write when I started. I meant to write about baby’s attention span after reading this, but the opening paragraph sent me 18 months back to the spinal tap story:

Philosophers and doctors used to dispute (sometimes still do dispute) whether babies are conscious or merely (as Alison Gopnik puts it in her criticism of the view) “crying carrots”. This view went so far that doctors often used to think it unnecessary to give anaesthesia to infants. Infants are still, I think, not as conscientiously anaesthetized as adults.

Infants are still, I think, not as conscientiously anaesthetized as adults. And that’s why my next visit to the ER, may it never come to happen, is going to be radically different than my last one.

(Please don’t forget that I’m no doctor or any medical professional for that matter, and that my opinion is my opinion only. )

baby, hospital, 'spinal, tap'