Category Archive

Five years ago today I did this thing with my body that seemed completely impossible. I gave birth. If you’ve given birth, you understand. If you haven’t, trust me when I say it’s bizarre. I’m not saying good or bad, because I know plenty of people who’ve had miraculously joyful or excruciatingly awful birth experiences. But I think most women would agree it’s a sensation unlike any other.

So it is with parenting. I remember when I was pregnant and Randy wondered if he was ready to be a dad. You’re never really ready, but you just do it anyway.

Zoe constantly surprises us. She knows things we can’t fathom how she learned (my sister used to be the same way, and did an amazingly accurate impression of Dr. Ruth when she (my sister) was about five years old). She is alarmingly self-aware. She can be absurdly dramatic and absolutely silly (which shouldn’t be a surprise given that her dad is pretty darn silly). She will soon be teaching her grandparents how to use their computers and the iPad.

Zoe is mostly joyful and sometimes petulant. She argues. She is often a good listener except when she completely ignores us. She can be careful and meticulous except when she makes a giant mess and refuses to clean it up. She usually wants to be the center of attention and–as much as I don’t want to be a helicopter parent–she wants me to follow her around on the playground and watch her tricks. I struggle to find the balance between serving as an enthusiastic audience and encouraging her to be more independent. She almost always asks for permission before doing things, even things she knows she’s not supposed to do, which I really appreciate and don’t really understand. I guess at heart she is a rule follower, which she gets from me for better or for worse. She has lovely manners–usually–although she gets frustrated that other kids ignore her on the playground when she says “excuse me” and politely asks for a turn. She’s doing exactly what she’s supposed to do, but they don’t care. This is also a challenge I’ve long had. According to my mom, she watched with concern when I was about Zoe’s age and I was repeatedly pushed out of the way at the water fountain. Of course I was taught not to push back, but certainly I deserved a drink too. This is something we’re trying to figure out together. And one of the reasons we are glad that Zoe is so excited about martial arts.

Yes, I said martial arts. She’s taken ballet, which was fine but she’s really more of a modern dancer. She’s doing soccer this spring at school and she’ll begin her second session of gymnastics after spring break. But she also just finished a two-week trial at Creative Martial Arts, up the street from our house. She was inspired to try it after attending the tae kwan do birthday party of a friend who, at 7, just earned her brown belt (the level just below black). I wasn’t sure how an actual class would go, but she took to it immediately. Amid a group of five- to seven-year-olds, most of whom were much more experienced than she was, she fell right in line. She caught on to the commands, persevered with her jabs and crosses and front kicks, yelled “AIYAH!” as loud as she could muster. I was slightly surprised and a little awed at how well she did for a beginner, this girl who loves to be a princess and wanted to get a manicure and pedicure for her birthday, and often tells us when she’s tired that she’s feeling “fragile.” But she demonstrated you can be tough and tender at the same time.

Another point of pride, although it seems inevitable coming from two families of devout readers and professional writers and editors, is her reading and writing. Randy and I both have a harder time enforcing bedtime when Zoe is reading to us. On the way to our excursion to Baltimore today, Zoe read me Henry and Mudge: the Sparkle Days, which was not seasonal but nonetheless lovely. On the way home she read me Henry and Mudge: the First Book, the first installment in one of our favorite series. Henry has a cousin Annie who has her own series, which we love to read as well. Today in the art studio at the Port Discovery Children’s Museum, Zoe wrote this description of a picture she drew. It says “A young girl playing with her baby sitter who gets lost in the woods and she can’t find her parents and does not find them.”

Perhaps that raises some strange issues of babysitter abandonment or separation anxiety, but we’ll deal with that later. To be fair, in real life her regular babysitter’s last day is tomorrow, and right before she wrote this she had become separated from me while climbing on this three-story structure (I could see her but she couldn’t see me).

So who knows what five will bring, and whether we are ready. We know that she will have another eye surgery (hopefully the last) in May. She will no doubt expand her already large medical vocabulary. We know kindergarten is fast approaching, although we are trying to hold it at bay as best we can because it brings anxiety for everyone. And we don’t know yet what school she’ll be attending. Meanwhile, we will enjoy every last moment at Zoe’s wonderful preschool and try not to think about how none of her preschool friends are likely to be in kindergarten with her. She will make new friends. She is a social girl. She is brave. She is kind. And we are very proud. Happy birthday Zoe! We love you so much.

I came across this book at the library recently: Dear Me: A letter to my sixteen-year-old self . A funny array of celebrities, including William Shatner, Erykah Badu, Suze Orman, Aasif Mandvi, and JK Rowling, have written letters to their 16-year-old selves. Some letters are insightful and moving. Some are kind of lame. I haven’t read them all yet but I get the idea.

Then I had an idea. My birthday is coming up in a couple weeks. I am fast approaching 40. While there are certain kinks that need ironing out in my life, in general I’m in a pretty good place and I have so much to be thankful for. And things worked out perhaps differently but much better than my teenage self could have imagined.

So I’m going to write a letter. I am inviting you to write one too. You can write it for yourself, you can share it with your family or with me. If you want I will publish a collection of letters people send on my blog. I know you need a deadline, so it’s April 19.

And I know you are not all writers. This is not a competition. You will not be judged. Is just something to do, if you are so inspired. If you feel like sharing, I would love to know what words of wisdom you are sharing with your 16-year-old self.

During dinner Zoe said, “Mommy, what do you like about your job?” and listened to my answer. Then she asked, “Daddy, what do you like about your job?” and listened to his answer. Then told us what she likes about school. I thought, wow, what a conversationalist.

Then she drank some milk, spit it all back into her cup, and drank from the cup again. I told her that was disgusting.

Earlier tonight she was trying on some new clothes and said she wanted to do a dance in her new cover-up and new shoes. I said, sure, I’d love to see her dance. Then she picked up a hammer. I grabbed it and explained we don’t dance while wielding hammers.

Now, at 20 minutes until 10pm, I am down the hall from her room where I am doing work. I can hear her music. All of a sudden I hear her singing along. Why is she awake? But she’s singing “This Little Light of Mine” and sounds adorable. So how can I be mad?

One of the best things about social media—and Facebook in particular—from where I sit as a mom is both the crowdsourcing for suggestions and the support and sympathy you can receive when something is going on with your kid. Any time of day or night, friends out there—whether it’s someone who sat next to you in high school American History, or a former co-worker, or the parent of one of your kid’s friends—will offer you advice and encouragement.

You can post about your kid’s ceaseless cough—as I did last night—and people will offer honey and humidifiers and home remedies. You can post when your kid won’t sleep, won’t eat, fell off the jungle gym and had to go the ER, got tubes for ear infections, and the list goes on. Parents out there are very understanding and you feel like you’re less alone in dealing with your traumatized or traumatizing child. No one says, “wow, you must be a terrible parent for letting these things happen to your kid,” or “Your kid sure is clumsy!”

But, as Zoe’s urologist Dr. Hodges points out in It’s No Accident, and his urologist predecessor Dr. O’Regan pointed out to Dr. Hodges, no one wants to talk about poop or pee. No one is going to post on Facebook, “Hey my kid had 5 accidents today and I have no idea why!” Or, “My kid pooped in his pants at school again—man that sucked!” It’s embarrassing. No one wants to talk about it. Even though pee and poop accidents are clearly NOT the fault of the child, as my family has certainly learned over the past year and a half, there is still a huge stigma that somehow the accidents ARE your child’s fault, or inexplicably YOUR fault, for not correctly potty training your child. Even well-meaning strangers or acquaintances don’t necessarily understand what’s going on (and why would they, since the truth about accidents has not been widely told until now). Thankfully (and I am very very grateful) we have wonderful family members and friends and teachers who have tried as best they can to understand the physiological reasons behind Zoe’s condition and have supported us through everything we’ve dealt with. Thanks, guys.

Still, I feel like most people don’t get it, and unfortunately that extends to many doctors and early childhood educators who absolutely need to get it. That’s why I’ve tried so hard to tell people about Dr. Hodges’ work with our family, how he has helped (and continues to help) Zoe, and why the book is so important. It turns out that several friends of ours have experienced problems with their children having accidents at one time or another. Many have come to me, knowing what we know, and asked for advice. I have told them everything I know, and encouraged them to seek additional help if they need it (although I don’t know local doctors who are equipped to address this issue, which is why we ended up driving more than 300 miles to see Dr. Hodges and his colleagues for treatment our insurance didn’t cover much of).

I don’t know how to erase the stigma of pee and poop problems, other than to continue to publicize the roots of the problem and the solution. I hope someday people won’t be blaming parents or children for potty issues, but will be working with them to help their children be healthy without fear or embarrassment. Then at least they can stay dry when they fall off the jungle gym and head to the ER for stitches.

The piece above is also posted at It’s No Accident.

By the way, Zoe is doing well. Thanks to the variety of medications and therapies Dr. Hodges has prescribed, she no longer has frequent accidents. She still has occasional accidents, and we are still hoping to reduce that to zero, but we don’t know when that will happen. There’s no way for us to know how stretched out of shape her rectum had become or how thick her bladder walls were or how long it will take for those organs to regain their proper shape and function. It’s different for everyone.

Recently she had a terrible relapse that was completely bewildering to us. Turns out she had gotten constipated again (but she was still pooping frequently, so she was really backed up). Faced with such a serious setback after months of progress, I decided to make another attempt to use a suppository with Zoe, which Dr. Hodges promised would clear her out pretty quickly. Zoe and I worked it out so she was willing to let me give her the suppository without a fuss. I let her get ready at her own pace and she did some yoga beforehand. Also, she will do almost anything for the chance to be read to, and when you’re sitting on the toilet for a while, you can listen to a whole lot of stories. So after three days of suppositories Zoe’s colon and rectum were as empty as a cave, and she’s back to normal. I’m hopeful this won’t happen again, but if it does I’ll know what to do. 

I wonder if it’s just me for whom infertility leads to a particular perversion of magical thinking. Until Saturday I was convinced I was pregnant, thanks to a variety of the usual signs, most notably a period that was a week late. As I’ve written before, these days are beyond agonizing. Part of you wants to rejoice and think that at last, the wait and anxiety and anguish is over. Part of you doesn’t want to allow any excitement to mount, only to be cruelly crushed by reality. Every time you drive by a drugstore you think, “should I buy a pregnancy test?” but then you think, “if I buy it now, then I won’t be pregnant.” When you’re out to dinner and your friends suggest that you get a glass of wine, you would definitely like one to ease your stress, but you think if you order one then you don’t really believe you’re pregnant, and so therefore you won’t be. Or if you have a drink you are somehow saying you don’t care that you’re pregnant or you’re not concerned about the health of your baby, and so somehow you don’t deserve to be pregnant. I know none of it makes any sense. But that doesn’t matter. Your brain just goes in all these painful directions, always circling back to the absurd idea that somehow your thoughts are controlling your fertility, rather than what’s happening in your uterus. You think, maybe you actually were pregnant but your body decided the cells weren’t dividing properly and the embryo needed to go in the no-go chute. Does it matter if you were or weren’t for that week? You aren’t now.

Meanwhile, your child’s obsession with obstetrics becomes almost too much to bear. Morning, noon, and night she pretends to be pregnant, or says she’s having a baby brother or sister because you’re pregnant, and stuffed soccer balls and baby dolls are constantly hidden behind her shirt. You beg her to play something different. You wonder if the only cure for her babymania is for you to actually have a baby, and then she’ll know what it’s like for real. Obviously, if you could make that happen, you would. Is she doing this to torture you? No, you’re sure of that. But it does. Is she doing this because she senses your desperation? Somehow, maybe, although you’re not sure how. Or is she just a little girl who’s very fond of playing mommy having a baby? Are other children similar obsessed? Does it matter?

You’ve been told by many people to think positive–that if you envision being pregnant and having a baby, it will happen. But what if you envision it and it doesn’t happen and then your vision just hangs over your head like an impossible dream, and you are haunted by what isn’t? You have a life to lead that is not well-served by being consumed by babymaking. Your daughter’s obsession need not be your own. But how do you put it out of your mind? Perhaps some magic is required. Some more peaceful or joyful sorts of magical thinking you haven’t yet figured out how to achieve.

I’ve known parents who blast AC/DC on their way to drop their kids off at day care. And I know parents who are strictly Veggie Tales and Raffi until their children are old enough to complain.

When Zoe was born we definitely leaned toward lullabyes and Sesame Street music and the like. It wasn’t hard because I already listened to Sesame Street music (even as an adult–Jim Henson is one of my heroes) and we were turned on by friends and family to a variety of children’s artists whose work is not at all nauseating and even enjoyable, such as Elizabeth Mitchell and Laurie Berkner. We also resurrected our own childhood favorites, including In Harmony, Free to Be You and Me, and Peter, Paul & Mommy. We also rocked Zoe to sleep on many nights to Sweet Honey in the Rock, Cape Verdean singer Cesaria Evora or to a classical bedtime mix that Randy created.

After a couple years when we figured it was safe, we loosened up a bit about what we played when Zoe was in the car. Also we missed our grown-up music. Often she would request (by which I mean demand) to listen to kids music. We took turns.

Now that she’s almost five, her tastes have matured. There’s a lot of grown-up music she likes, including Adele, Florence and the Machine, Lady Gaga, the Beatles, Madonna (thanks to the Superbowl halftime show) and the music covered on Glee. I am a certified Gleek and have downloaded many a Glee tune and made a bunch of cds that are often in rotation in the car. And I know Zoe is not the only preschooler who likes Glee. I’ve heard from many friends that their kids sing along to the Glee songs and I’ve seen that disturbing video on YouTube of the cute little Filipino kid in the Warblers outfit singing and dancing to “Teenage Dream.”

What I don’t know is if all these other kids ask as many questions as Zoe does about what the lyrics mean. Recent inquiries have been about: “I Kissed a Girl” (“What does she mean ‘it felt so wrong it felt so right?'”), “Only the Good Die Young,” “Born this Way,” “Never Going Back Again,” and “Without You.” Generally I try to answer very straightforwardly and at face value. “She’s talking about how she kissed a girl and it felt nice but she’s worried that her boyfriend will get mad.” It’s easier with songs that are celebrational and positive: “It’s about how you should always like yourself and be proud of yourself even if people make fun of you or you make mistakes.” “It’s about how she really likes being with someone she loves.”

I really don’t want to get too deep into the concept of romantic love. I did teach her the word passion because she asked about it in the context of an Adele song. I told her it meant to love something or someone very much or feel very strongly about something. She said “like I’m passionate about going to Aunt Susannah and Uncle Aaron’s house tonight!” OK, sure. She does understand love, even in a way way way prepubescent sort of way, so that’s something. And she has strong feelings about a lot of things.

It’s fun that she likes this music. I DVRed the Grammys and fast forwarded through the boring parts to find songs by artists she likes. When something caught her ear she asked me to get up and dance with her. We talked about Katy Perry’s blue hair. Zoe LOVES “Firework” (mostly the Glee version, because I really don’t think Katy Perry can sing) and she was disappointed Katy Perry sang something else on the Grammys. But it’s also tricky, because it is clear now that she is really paying attention, and she isn’t willing to just let things slide. She wants to learn what the words are and what they mean and make sense of it all. For me it’s like being on a parenting game show. Quick, explain this very sophisticated concept in 30 words or less that won’t lead to further questioning!

And she just as often will ask for the Muppets or Susie Tallman lullabyes or Barenaked Ladies’ Snacktime (their cd for kids). And I am so excited when I’m playing a regular BNL cd and she says “aren’t these the people who sing “Food Party?” That’s my girl! I like that we can share more music and have little dance parties together.

At the same time, she’s reading now, which is thrilling for all of us, but similarly opens up new possibilities for questions that I never anticipated. We were driving behind a van the other day with stickers on the back that said JESUS IS COMING. BE PREPARED. Zoe read the sentences and said, “Jesus is coming? What does that mean?” I changed lanes and changed the subject. Not ready for that one yet.

There was a period in junior high school where I experimented with make-up. I remember a day when I won an eye shadow kit in a contest and took the opportunity of lunch to beautify myself in the bathroom. I think I chose a Kermit-esque shade of green. I showed up in history class after lunch and the boy who sat next to me, never the most tactful young man, said with genuine horror, “what’s all over your face?”

Perhaps I improved my technique a bit and learned a little about color, but I never really got the hang of it. I wore mascara to all the high school dances. I’ve bought, very occasionally used, and eventually thrown away various products both cheap and expensive. I am fully aware that some well-applied concealer would do wonders to mitigate the dark circles that have been under my eyes since I was a kid.

But I just don’t have time to worry about it, and I evidently don’t care enough to become more expert in make-up application. I’d rather sleep for five more minutes than make myself up in the morning. And then there’s the other thing.

I feel kind of weird about it. I know it makes you look better, I get that. But it’s not really me and it’s not really what my face is like. One of the most important things about me, for which I have been loved and teased, is that I am genuine. I am me, take it or leave it. A former co-worker accused me (not in a nice way) of being “guileless.” So what? Why should I be otherwise?

My mom wears lipstick. I wear lipstick. My sister understands make-up and wears it well, still managing to look natural but artful. I’ve already told Zoe that when she’s older and wants to learn about make-up she needs to ask her aunt.

But then there are special occasions. I wore a little makeup for my wedding. I think my sister helped me put it on. For her wedding, she treated me to a professional make-up session. I was so transformed (and I am the first to admit I looked terrific) that some of my own relatives didn’t recognize me. 

So last week I was scheduled to have a professional head shot taken, for us on various website or in print publications where I am plying my trade. And the photographer arranged to have a make-up artist there to pretty us up free of charge before the photo shoot. So I did it. Who doesn’t want to look beautiful in a photo? And she made me up, very naturally, and the photographer took the photos.

And I got them back today and it’s weird. Everyone says the pictures are beautiful. I agree. But I feel a little strange because it doesn’t look like how I look every day. I guess it doesn’t have to. I suppose can be extra lovely as I represent my professional self. And go back to being my normal, flawed self the rest of the time.