Easter at the ER

Last week, my husband C. discovered he had to go out of town unexpectedly. For 4 days. Over a holiday weekend. When Miles was out of school. And we had invited guests for Easter brunch. In spite of this, I suppressed toned down my first reaction, which was panic and dread.

In fact, things started out swimmingly. I took both kids to the zoo (by myself!), Miles and I dyed Easter eggs (fun!), picked flowers for the table (festive!), and made cupcakes with 3 (3!) different colors of pastel frosting. We went to the playground, the farmers market, and the neighbors’ for dinner. We were FINE without C. GREAT, even. Look at me, I’m Supermom! I don’t need no stinkin’ husband!

(Imagine the theme song from “Jaws” starts playing now.)

Then I noticed Riley’s head felt a little warm. And his cheeks looked red. I took his temperature and it was 102.9. Uh, oh. By the time I got him some Tylenol, a bath, and in bed along with his brother, I was exhausted. And I hadn’t even cleaned up the house yet, put together the kids’ Easter baskets, picked out their church clothes, or prepared the French toast casserole for tomorrow when my brother and his family were coming. Ugh. Now’s about the time another parent would come in handy.

The next morning, Riley woke up at 6:30, miserable. Flushed, feverish, nose crusted with snot. Oh, boy. Church was out. Again, had there been 2 parents, one of us could have stayed home with the baby. I don’t even know if we can show our faces at Miles’ (Christian) school after not going to church ON EASTER. Oh, well, I guess God will understand.

I called my brother right away. After much deliberation, they decided to come anyway with their 2 kids. The older kids are in school and daycare and probably teeming with germs at all times anyway. Well, thank goodness they DID come because when Riley woke up from his nap he was burning up. When his temperature read 104, I started to panic. I called the pediatrician, who said to take him to the ER.

At this point I was mildly hysterical and called C. in tears. “Don’t worry,” he said. “He’ll be fine.” The hospital staff, God bless them, were friendly and efficient. They got us right into an exam room and a nurse took the baby’s temp again (103.8) and sucked out his snot with a hospital-grade snot-sucking machine. Riley took this about as well as someone having their face plunged into hot lava.

I tried to distract him with a rattle, which he promptly smashed in half. If you’ve ever wondered what’s inside those cheap, painted wooden rattles you get for $1 at Target, the answer is dozens of tiny metal balls. Now all over the hospital floor.

So then the doctor comes in, all calm and soft-spoken, and says, “Fevers are our friends. It’s the body’s way of fighting off infection. They can go as high as they need to --103, 104, 105. Treat the child, not the fever.” I almost snapped, “Listen, Jack Handey in clogs: my baby is BURNING UP and I am HOME ALONE with 2 KIDS for 4 DAYS!!”

I calmed down a little after the tests came back negative for flu and RSV, and they decided he just had an ear infection and prescribed antibiotics and the correct dose of Motrin for his weight and let us go home. By this time, 3 hours had passed.

Thank God my brother and SIL were there to take care of Miles. Thank God Riley did not have some horrible infectious disease that he’d passed on to everyone else. Thank God this is my second baby and I have built up my tolerance for seeing my child sick and in pain. Thank God for red wine and Easter candy to help soothe my nerves.

And that, people, is Murphy’s law for moms. The one weekend Dad goes away, all hell will break loose. And if you ever find yourself smugly thinking you’re Supermom? Get ready. That’s the “Jaws” theme song beginning to play...

P.S. Also, I forgot to mention the garbage disposal broke right before our brunch guests arrived.

FLICKS O’ THE WEEK: Can you believe I rented 3 movies to watch while C. was away? “Have You Heard About the Morgans?”; “The September Issue”; and “Coco Before Chanel.” Know how many I’ve watched so far? Half of ONE.

It Gets Easier...Sort of

There are 2 types of new moms, in my opinion. 1: Those who say "Why doesn't anyone talk about this stuff?!" Meaning, they want the nitty-gritty, gory details about everything right from the start. 2: Those who essentially plug their ears and go "nah-nah-nah-nah!" every time someone tries to tell them something unpleasant about motherhood. "Maybe that was YOUR experience," they think. "But things will be totally different for ME."

Guess which one I was? That's right, the stubborn second one. But in an effort to appease everyone, I attempted to write an honest yet encouraging post about whether or not the statement, "It gets easier" is actually true. What do you guys think?

Read more about it at TheBump.com:

Carseat Kerfuffle

A post this week on another blog got me thinking. About how some things are so much easier said than done. And how we sometimes do things even when we should know better. And about how little kids can throw giant hissy-fits over carseats. It prompted me to dig into my archives for this little gem from when Miles was almost 2:

We have not had a smooth start to the new year. It’s as if the minute the ball dropped, evil spirits conspired to make my life difficult. For one thing, Miles has turned into a Terrible Two virtually overnight. Apparently, he didn’t get the memo that his birthday’s not till June.

It started one day when I was picking him up from the sitter and, instead of running towards me, he turned and sprinted in the opposite direction. This kicked off a fun game of catch-me-if-you-can, culminating in me wrestling him to the floor to get his coat on. Then, once we got home, he refused to come inside. Once in the house, he refused to take his coat off, and so on and so on.

Then came the Talbot’s Parking Lot Incident. Let me set the scene for you: that morning, we’d joined my neighbor and her 2 sons at an indoor playground. I won’t reveal the name of the place, but in my opinion it should have been called Ultimate Lawsuit Zone. It was mayhem, people. Picture hoards of tiny Vikings pillaging inflatable villages. Picture Lollapalooza for kids, with mosh pits and crowd surfing and torn shirts, only with juice boxes instead of beer.

My son, clearly born without the fear gene, took off like a bullet the second we stepped inside. Panicked, I ran around looking for him, only to spot him whizzing down an unbelievably steep slide with his arms up. Not even remotely concerned that no one was at the bottom to catch him. My poor neighbor was trying to keep her 3-year-old from being trampled alive and feed her 5-week-old at the same time. After 40 minutes of this, we’d had enough. Sweaty and frazzled, we parted ways in the parking lot.

But I couldn’t leave well enough alone. I just HAD to pop into the Talbot’s outlet for a minute to check out the kids’ stuff. Let me tell you: no amount of 70% percent off Christmas clothing could make up for the saga that ensued.

Miles started getting antsy in the store, so we left. Once back at the car, however, he adamantly refused to get back in his carseat. Back arched, teeth bared, legs kicking, arms flailing, the whole bit. Although I outweigh my child by over 100 lbs. and can carry a half-dozen bags of groceries at once, I physically could not force his stubborn little body into the carseat. The more I tried, the madder and meaner he got.

I stopped and took a deep breath. Passersby were staring. I feared someone would call Social Services. Fine, I thought, have it your way. So I let Miles run amuck in the car. He crawled into the front seat, beeped the horn, turned on the windshield wipers and generally had a grand old time. After awhile, I tried again to get him into the carseat. Same scenario. By this time we both had scratches on our faces and were out of breath. I yelled, he screamed. Neither of us was giving in.

Finally, in desperation, I called C. at work: “I am stuck in a friggin’ parking lot with your stubborn son and you better come get him into his damn carseat before I leave him by the side of the road!!” He did.

At this point, Miles was sobbing and heaving hysterically. He smacked away anything we tried to give him -- a drink, a snack, a toy. Thinking it might soothe him, we headed for the Chick-fil-A drive-thru. We sure as HELL weren’t letting him out of the carseat again! Waiting for our food, I saw a woman walk by with a baby on her hip and 3 other children under the age of 6. Calmly, peacefully, all holding hands, like it was NO BIG DEAL. I hated her on sight.

Since that day, the carseat showdown has become a near-daily experience. Once, I bribed Miles with an old cereal bar that had probably been on the floor of the car for 6 mos. Another time, I sang "The Itsy Bitsy Spider" and tickled him. I even called my mom and tried to get her to distract him over the phone. Some things worked, most didn’t. All I know is, this year can only get better.

The Cure for Teen Pregnancy

I must have jinxed myself, because I was JUST thinking how Miles has never really embarrassed me before in public. I mean, we’ve had some tense moments in Target, but he’s never said, “Mom, why is that lady so fat?” or “Don’t make me sit next to that scary man!” in church or anything.

Well. Then we went to the playground today. It’s a little one near our house that’s usually deserted, and we go there when we need to kill an hour before dinner. So we show up, and there’s this teenage couple canoodling on top of one of the play structures. I mean, they were in broad daylight and weren’t licking each other’s faces, but they were obviously trying to have a moment, if you know what I mean.

And then WE showed up. “Hi!!” shouts Miles, running over. Faint greetings from the teen lovers. “I’m 3. We’re making a pie. My dad’s getting a haircut. He should be home soon. My favorite toy is my spaceship. It’s in my room. I have a really cool room. It’s messy sometimes. My favorite color is green.” And on and on and ON.

OMG. You’d think the lustful teens would be the ones who were embarrassed, but no. That’d be me. “Miles! Come over here and leave them alone.” He did, for a few minutes, before running back over to play an annoying extended game of peekaboo with the poor, privacy-starved couple.

Meanwhile, I’m chasing Riley around trying to keep him from eating wood chips. “He’s so cuuuuute,” I heard the teen girl say to her beau. Cut to me, shouting, “Riley, NO! Yuck! Don’t eat that!” I pick dirt and bits of wood out of his mouth, then turn back to Miles who’s bellowing to his new friends, “I’m wearing my new boots! I like Spiderman. And I like Batman, too. I got a pock-sicle today. It was green. Green’s my favorite color.”

Now, these teenagers must REALLY have had no other place to go, because they continued to sit on top of the slide even while being badgered by the world’s most talkative preschooler. I finally gave up trying to distract him. Besides, I was too busy keeping his baby brother from taking a header down the stairs and ingesting his body weight in sand.

“See kids? THIS is what can happen if you have unprotected sex!” I was practically broadcasting by my very PRESENCE. Do you think the teen couple took note? Nah, they were too busy giggling and gazing into each other’s eyes. Ah, young love.

Hopefully our little interaction on the playground jolted them into behaving responsibly and considering the consequences of their (potential) actions. Yeah, right. I’m sure once me and my double stroller were out of sight they were like, let the canoodling commence! OK, kids. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.

RECIPE O’ THE WEEK: Here’s the “pie” we made for dinner tonight (aka, crustless spinach and tomato quiche courtesy of Anchormommy). My 13 m.o. loves it! My 3 y.o., not so much. But I think he’s coming around since I let him crack the eggs and stir in the spinach this time.

In the Thick of It

The other week I met a mom. We started chatting about our kids, as moms tend to do, and she asked how old mine were. When I told her 3 and 1, she gave me a look that was part pity and part relief. Her kids were 5 and 7, I believe. “Wow, you’re really in the thick of it, aren’t you?” she said.

I suddenly remembered a friend telling me about a very similar conversation she had with another mother when HER kids were 3 and I. Except I believe that woman’s exact response was, “You’re in hell, huh?”

If complete strangers are widening their eyes and oozing sympathy, there’s gotta be something to it, right?

The thing about having kids ages 3 and 1 is that one is trying to be independent and the other is still completely dependent on you. One can talk (you may wish sometimes he’d stop) and the other gets your attention by screaming and crying. One is trying to do wheelies on his scooter and the other is trying to scale the stairs. One can eat anything but won’t, and the other can’t eat everything but tries to. One is still napping (thank God) but the other wages epic battles against quiet time. One may be out of diapers but you’re still wiping 2 butts. It’s grueling, people.

And yes, I’m sticking with that word: GRUELING. Rail at me all you want about how motherhood is nowhere near as hard as picking beans in a field and I will tell you you’re WRONG. It’s harder.

In a single day, you can find yourself rushing to the pediatrician because of some weird rash, racing to the ER because someone did a faceplant at the playground, saving one kid from drowning when his brother gets too rowdy in the bathtub, fishing the other one out of a duck pond, and changing a wet kid in a crowded locker room after swimming lessons while the other screams in the stroller. And yes, these are all real-life examples.

In a single night, you can find yourself comforting a child who’s coughing and another who’s having nightmares. You could be chasing away monsters, singing lullabies, fetching cups of water, and changing diapers and sheets. You might sleep from 11 p.m. straight through till 7 a.m., or you could be woken at 2 a.m., 4 a.m. and 5:30 a.m. You never know.

Some days I wonder if I will ever again wake up without a small, damp person clawing at my face and kicking me in the stomach. Will we ever get through a meal without tears and threats? Will I ever get to finish a cup of coffee without reheating it 7 times? Will I ever get to shampoo AND blow-dry my hair on the same day? Or wash, dry, fold, and put away a load of laundry in the same week?

So why the heck do people do this kid thing, then? Because all the stress and struggles are interspersed with moments of real joy.

I’ll be yelling at Miles to take his hands off his brother when I notice Riley is laughing harder than I’ve ever seen him laugh. Riley will be wailing in the car and I’ll hear Miles say, “Don’t cry, buddy. When you get bigger we’re going to have bunk-beds, isn’t that exciting?” The tears and scrapes are offset by hugs and silly songs we make up. A day may start with spilled milk and slammed fingers, and end up with a picnic and feeding the ducks. And then one kid slips and falls into the pond and it’s back to tears and laundry.

So, yeah. I’d say we’re in the thick of it. But at least I know from these other moms that there’s life on the other side of 3 and 1. Man, 5 and 7 must be a walk in the park... without a change of clothes.

MILESISMS, VERB EDITION:

- When he uses half a bottle of soap to wash his hands, he’s “make suring” they’re really clean.

- “Mom, when you’re done take caring of Riley, can you get me a snack?”

- He likes “lawn mowering” the grass with his toy lawnmower.

So Fast

It wasn't so long ago I had to fight back the urge to punch those well-meaning folks who accosted me at the park, the supermarket, and virtually everywhere I went with my baby to tell me, "Enjoy it. It goes so fast!" Maybe for YOU...

But now I'm starting to come around. I get it. I blinked and my baby was 1. How did THAT happen? Read more about how it really does go so fast at TheBump.com. This is as sappy as I get, people.

Welcome to Our Home

Hi! Come on in, but watch your step. Those are our muddy shoes from a trip to the park yesterday. And don’t mind the kids’ snowsuits, which I hung on the doorknob to dry -- in February. All those coats on the floor are because of the broken coat rack, which I’ve tried to glue back together 3 times now. The baby thinks it’s fun to knock it down.

Whoops! Watch out for the bowling pins. We turned the hall into a bowling alley the other day when it rained. Ugh, more shredded newspaper? Looks like the dog or the baby got into the recycling bin again.

Here, come on in to the kitchen. I’ll make you some tea. Don’t mind the crunchy floors. That’s just the Cheerios left over from breakfast. And don’t worry, those plastic cups and plates strewn all over aren’t dirty. The kids just like to go through the cabinets and play with the dishes. They use the pot lids for cymbals. And “skateboard” on the cookie sheets. Sorry there’s no place to sit. Miles is using the stools for his fort. Yes, that’s the random pile of junk over there in the corner.

Let’s go have a seat in the family room. Just shove that laundry aside. Don’t worry, that’s clean, too. The kids just dumped it out so they could make a spaceship out of the laundry basket. Contrary to appearances, we actually DO own a toy box. Several of them. But the kids empty them out daily because the toy they want always happens to be at the bottom. After awhile, it just seems pointless to keep putting the toys back, you know?

The bathroom? Sure, it’s the door on your left. Just be sure to close the door behind you if you don’t want an audience. Don’t trip on the Elmo potty next to the tub. And there’s a lock on the toilet, since Riley just discovered how to open it. That will explain any foreign objects you may see floating in there. Wait -- here’s some toilet paper. We don’t keep it on the roll anymore since SOMEONE likes to unroll it every chance he gets. And the soap is that purple bubbly stuff in the SpongeBob bottle. I know it looks and smells like juice, but trust me.

Want something to eat? I think I have some cookies around here somewhere. Oh, wait, sorry. I used the last one as a bribe to get Miles to eat his dinner last night. How about some animal crackers? Cheese sticks? Dehydrated fruit bits? No? Here, let me get rid of your tea bag for you. We have to keep a stack of cookbooks on top of the trashcan so the baby doesn’t throw away the remote control when we’re not looking.

You’ve got to run? Are you sure you don’t want to stay for dinner? I can nuke up some extra chicken nuggets and frozen corn, it’s no trouble. I just have to give these guys a bath first, before it gets too late and they start having meltdowns. No? Well, maybe another time, then.

Great to see you, too! Yes, that’s a great idea. We’ll get together at YOUR house next time.

TIP O’ THE WEEK: Thanks to my dad, we’ve discovered this mini-barrel of Red Truck wine. It’s 4 bottles for the price of 3, and best of all it stays fresh so you can just drink a glass or 2 a night. Much classier than a box, don't you think? ;)

8 Reasons I Love Mom Blogs

Actually, I just call them blogs. But I thought this headline would be more controversial. (That’s a JOKE, people!!)

1. They’re entertaining. Where else will you find a picture of a kid who gave himself a Desitin facial? Or a baby’s reaction to peeing in his own face? Or a podcast by a preschooler trying lobster for the first time? Or an account of a work-at-home mom locking herself in the closet to conduct a conference call? On blogs, that’s where.

2. They’re interesting. I do love my magazines, but lots of them are cutting my favorite parts -- the personal essays, the humor pieces, the stuff about non-celebrities. When I get sick of “10 Ways to Lose the Baby Weight” I go online and read funny or introspective stuff by real people.

3. They’re helpful. Yes, there are a bazillion books and articles that tell me how to potty-train my kid. If you’ve read any of my past posts, you’ll know NONE OF THEM helped me. What did? Reading other moms’ accounts of their toilet trials and tribulations. And if you think that means I get all my medical info from sketchy, disreputable sources, you’re dumber than you think I am.

4. They’re informative. For non-mom stuff, too. I’m a writer, so I read blogs that tell me how to be a more prosperous one and answer questions about writing and publishing. I’m a blogger, so I read blogs that tell me how to blog better and make money at it. I’m a wife, so I read blogs about how to have a happier marriage. And I’m a HUMAN, so I read blogs about celebrity fashion disasters to learn from others’ poor sartorial choices. (OK, that’s a lie. Mostly I just laugh at the pictures.)

5. They’re timely. Let me regale you again with the tale of the time I wrote an essay about my firstborn that was published in a national magazine 3 YEARS LATER -- after the birth of my second child. It’s embarrassing enough that by the time a celebrity appears on the cover of a wedding magazine, they’re usually divorced. If I want to find out what’s going on NOW, I’ll check Twitter and blogs, thankyouverymuch.

6. They’re diverse. I read blogs written by people who live in exotic locales like Georgia, Utah, Idaho, Florida, Canada, the UK, and Japan. I read blogs by authors, actresses, chefs, lawyers, librarians, doctoral students, GUYS even. Turns out not everyone is a 30-something SAHM in NY or LA. Who knew??

7. They’re interactive. You want to know why I blog instead of writing all this stuff in my own private journal? Because I actually like to interact with other people! I know this may come as a shock from someone who blogs semi-anonymously and only reluctantly recently joined Facebook, but it’s true. I read what other people write and respond and vice versa. Sometimes we--GASP!!--meet in real life. You know, at conferences where we talk about tutus and stuff. ;)

8. Because I just do, OK?! Look, I don’t disparage people who like to collect Hummel figurines or breed Chinese crested hairless dogs or make their own socks. (At least not to their faces.) And I doubt those people feel the need to defend their interests or professionalism. (Although what do I know? There could be some huge uproar going on right now in the hairless-dog-breeding community. Heck, THIS POST could incite one! Crap.)

So I’ll stop listing the reasons why I like what I like and write what I write and read what I read and do what I do and just get on with it. Sound good?

The Falafel Debacle

Did I ever tell you guys about the time I made falafel? No? Well, that’s probably because it was AWFUL. I had this idea that because both my kids like chickpeas I should kick it up a notch and make something fancier than our usual dinner fare (e.g. spaghetti and peas). Plus, I have golden memories of this amazing falafel I had in Montreal one summer when I was studying French there in college. It was legendary, people.

My falafel? Was nothing like that. I knew I’d gotten off to a bad start when the recipe said to use a food processor and, since we don’t own one, I decided to use a blender. Only the bottom third of the chickpea mixture was mixing, so I tried to shove it down with a rubber spatula. When that got chewed up, I picked out the pieces of plastic and tried a wooden spoon. When a chunk of that splintered off, I thought about giving up, but instead I transferred the whole mess in two batches to the Magic Bullet.

Then, it turned out we didn’t have enough vegetable oil to deep-fry the falafel patties so I added some olive oil to the pan, thinking I’d sauté them instead. Healthier, right? So here’s what happened: the falafel dissolved in the oil and I ended up with a pan full of chickpea sludge. Did I mention that I had invited our neighbors over for dinner and there were 5 hungry kids running around my house at that point?

I managed to salvage a few paltry falafel patties, which were gritty and too salty and contained shards of wooden spoon. My neighbor, ever the good sport, pronounced them “not that bad.” The girl is a terrible liar. But polite. Needless to say, the kids wouldn’t touch the stuff and ate chicken nuggets instead. And THAT is why I don’t cook much, people.

Someone who does is Matthew Amster-Burton, author of Hungry Monkey: A Food-Loving Father's Quest to Raise an Adventurous Eater. A food writer and dad in Seattle, he writes about his culinary adventures with his very funny and precocious daughter, Iris. The child was eating sushi at 10 mos. She once did a podcast about lobster. And her favorite food is some Szechuan dish with pork that her dad grinds himself. For real.

I loved this book, even though I am SO not the intended audience. For one thing, I’m a vegetarian. For another, my favorite cookbook is one he openly disparages (Desperation Dinners). And for another, I hate grocery shopping and only do it because I have to, whereas Amster-Burton goes food shopping at farmers’ markets and specialty grocery stores up to 8 times a week (!!).

But I’m a sucker for a good read, especially one about a devoted stay-at-home dad and his hilarious 3 y.o. I know ALL about hilarious 3 y.o.’s. Mine is a pretty good eater, but there’s no WAY he’d ever eat a fish eyeball like Iris does.

The book is very funny and includes recipes, 99% of which I will never make. With the possible exception of the Pad Thai. I laughed out loud at the chapter about his stint as preschool “Snack Dad.” He makes empanadas and Chinese dumplings for the class -- from scratch. I would HATE this guy if I were another parent at his school. As a point of comparison, I brought in prepackaged popcorn when it was my turn to do snack.

My poor children will never know what it’s like to grind their own spices, buy shrimp straight off the boat, or make sticky rice at home. Oh, well. Maybe when they’re in college they can study abroad one semester and get a taste of what good food is like.

READ O’ THE WEEK: Amster-Burton’s book includes a “recommended reading” section at the end, complete with food-related kids’ books. One of our favorites is Jamberry by Bruce Degen, a rollicking, rhyming fruit adventure. Mmmm, jam...

Early Bird

The baby has decided to make a liar out of me. Remember how I said now that he’s 1 he’s gotten a lot easier? WRONG. Don't let this picture fool you. The past 3 days in a row he’s decided to wake up crying at 4:30 a.m. Not just whimpering and falling back to sleep. Wide awake, hollering at the top of his lungs. Why? Teething? A dirty diaper? A burning desire to watch infomercials? Who knows. Any attempts to coax him back to sleep in his room or ours are futile. It’s like wrestling a bobcat.

Needless to say, being forced awake before the sun’s up sets the tone for the rest of the day. By the time 10 a.m. rolls around, it feels like it should be 5 p.m. No such luck. I have tried to rest when Riley goes back down for his nap, but that plan is foiled by someone else: his brother.

Miles’ idea of “quiet time” is to jump repeatedly off his bed onto the floor, or to build intricate structures out of books and blocks and then crash into them with his trucks. I’d have a more restful nap backstage at a Metallica concert.

Also, I cannot WAIT until Riley learns to talk. He has no problems being HEARD, mind you, it’s just that his primary means of communication is a range of high-pitched screams. “AAAAAHHHHH!” means “Come get me out of this crib immediately!” while “UUUUUHHHHHHH!!!” means “You are not feeding me at a sufficiently swift pace.” There are other screams that mean “Give me that toy back” and “How dare you keep me out of the cabinet where you store the toxic cleaning products!”

In between the screeching and clawing and not sleeping, he is actually quite cute. Lucky for him.

I’m sure there is something witty or pithy or profound I could say here. But waking up at 4:30 a.m. does not render me at my peak mental performance, shall we say. I’m lucky I can string a sentence together.

So, hey -– if there are any rowers or bakers or newspaper delivery people out there who need help getting up extra, extra, EXTRA early? I’m happy to lend you my screeching bobcat alarm clock. If the noise doesn’t wake you, the aroma from his diaper sure will.

QUOTE O’ THE WEEK: “When I grow up I’m doing to be a donut maker and a diver.” –Miles, age 3. Good luck with that, son. And make mine a maple frosted.