So, my dh, who is the greatest husband of all time, came down with a cold last weekend. Although to hear it from him, he's the first person who's ever had one this bad. I can't really complain, but I will anyway, since he's been coping well with my recent and ongoing sever depressive episode like a champ. That said - what gives? Do all men shuffle around in their jammies and slippers for extended periods of time mumbling to themselves and coughing loud enough for everyone within ear shot to interpret their misery as being on the threshold of death? Do all men lie down for extended periods of time on any flat surface nearby? I want to say, though I have not, Buck-up little cowboy - take your medicine, put on your shoes and keep moving. Of course, since I have harboring these uncharitable thoughts, I myself have come down with a bad cold. Serves me right, I suppose. Buck up, little cowgirl.
Post script:
A month or so after this post, I got sick, very sick - and coughed and hacked (and peed my pants) and wheezed and sneezed with cold chills and hot sweats. It lasted for days and days and then a week, and then two. Suddenly, I had so much more compassion for my husband and vowed, that I will never again complain about how miserable he acts when he feels so bad... until next time, at least.
Thursday, July 3, 2008
What do SAHM do all day??? from DCUM, 02/15/07
From DCUM in response to the question: What do Stay at Home Moms DO all day?
Friday, February 15, 2007
I make lists of the projects I will do when my kids go to school. I referee epic battles. I take a zillion pictures and print none of them. We go out everyday to somewhere - and scour our-kids and gocitykids over a hot cup of coffee each morning that the boys are not in preschool. I make "practice runs" to places like the grocery store and buy only an item or two.
I remember how much we wanted children and how long it took us and how much it "cost" us in emotional energy and money - and all the shots in the ass and the dr.'s appointments. I pass out my "mommy business card" to anyone who will take it - and urge them to get connected with other moms. We go to the car wash, whether it needs it or not. We look for construction sites and hang out there. We visit the fire stations, each and every one in the county... We look for emergency drills being conducted by the county and hang out there, too.
I clean house and tidy-up with my helpers. We all have spray bottles and rags and we have a couple of vacuums and unbreakable (almost) plates. I throw dinner in the crock pot with my helpers. I go to the appliance store and get giant card board boxes and bring them home to the living room for as long as they last. I talk to my mommy gal pals on the phone while the kids are napping - and read dcum and mona and the other 1/2 dozen list serves that deluge me. I run my two roombas over and over again. I hide in the bathroom and pretend I can't hear what's going on elsewhere in the house. I read them a dozen books (or two) and cuddle with them at every opportunity. I "fix" things using scotch tape and batteries.
I worry about my kids' education and how to combat the negative influences that will impact them. I ponder what it would be like not to be home and feel grateful that I am. I remember my career and don't miss it. I remember be trim and fit and do miss it.
Knowing this special time before "real" school, and soccer practices and video games and television and sleepovers and driving lessons, and proms and SATS will be gone in the blink of an eye, I get down on the floor and play trucks and trains and cars and I finger-paint and stamp and hand out big rolls of scotch tape and big boxes of band aids to the boys, just to see what they'll do with them.
Friday, February 15, 2007
I make lists of the projects I will do when my kids go to school. I referee epic battles. I take a zillion pictures and print none of them. We go out everyday to somewhere - and scour our-kids and gocitykids over a hot cup of coffee each morning that the boys are not in preschool. I make "practice runs" to places like the grocery store and buy only an item or two.
I remember how much we wanted children and how long it took us and how much it "cost" us in emotional energy and money - and all the shots in the ass and the dr.'s appointments. I pass out my "mommy business card" to anyone who will take it - and urge them to get connected with other moms. We go to the car wash, whether it needs it or not. We look for construction sites and hang out there. We visit the fire stations, each and every one in the county... We look for emergency drills being conducted by the county and hang out there, too.
I clean house and tidy-up with my helpers. We all have spray bottles and rags and we have a couple of vacuums and unbreakable (almost) plates. I throw dinner in the crock pot with my helpers. I go to the appliance store and get giant card board boxes and bring them home to the living room for as long as they last. I talk to my mommy gal pals on the phone while the kids are napping - and read dcum and mona and the other 1/2 dozen list serves that deluge me. I run my two roombas over and over again. I hide in the bathroom and pretend I can't hear what's going on elsewhere in the house. I read them a dozen books (or two) and cuddle with them at every opportunity. I "fix" things using scotch tape and batteries.
I worry about my kids' education and how to combat the negative influences that will impact them. I ponder what it would be like not to be home and feel grateful that I am. I remember my career and don't miss it. I remember be trim and fit and do miss it.
Knowing this special time before "real" school, and soccer practices and video games and television and sleepovers and driving lessons, and proms and SATS will be gone in the blink of an eye, I get down on the floor and play trucks and trains and cars and I finger-paint and stamp and hand out big rolls of scotch tape and big boxes of band aids to the boys, just to see what they'll do with them.
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
For the love of all that is Holey - DCUM December 7, 2007
To: dc-urban-moms-list@mailman.dcurbanmom.com
> Date: Friday, December 21, 2007, 7:41 AM
I am either going to shoot myself or starting drinking at breakfast! I know parents of twins
(and more) around the world have successfully potty-trained their kids without doing either, but I feel like I am going to lose what is left of my small mind.
John and David declared on Tuesday that there would be no more diapers. Fine. That was our plan for the holiday break, since we are masochistic freaks who like to do all the hard things over the holidays – think losing the pacifiers, dropping some nursings, etc.
My problem is, it’s not the potty training that is driving me over the edge, I can clean and sanitize and redress with the best of ‘em – it’s managing my hell boys…
I bought four different potties at various consignment sales, with the theory that we could start by having them scattered about the house like candy from a piñata. Naturally, they only like one of them, so they spent Tuesday pushing and shoving each other off the favored
throne, or simply dominating said throne (and thereby their sibling) by refusing to get off of
it…
Fine. So, I went out and got two matching potties Wednesday and that seems to have solved that problem. Each child, however, likes to have "company" while doing their deeds, which leaves the other child to either wreak havoc elsewhere in the house (think kitchen – think mess), run off with the toilet paper and unroll the whole thing to get to the tube within
(which then becomes "unusable" because his royal highness on the throne wishes to unravel his own paper), or to stand in the bathroom and antagonize the crap (so to speak) out of the one who is dutifully sitting.
Or, while one is dutifully sitting, one will go elsewhere in the house to have a sneaky pee or a sneaky poo, aka "accident." Or, wholly unrelated to one being on the potty – one will be doing the tantrum thing somewhere in the house and need immediate attention to prevent serious
self-inflicted bodily injury, and the other will arrive on the scene to investigate, while making "that face" and "that sound" that indicates that a poop is in progress.
When one is left to do his business solitaire, whilst I attend to some other emergent crisis, he manages to either screech until I return, or proceed in silence to find something in the bathroom that he has no business doing, like removing the lid from the back of the john, breaking into the "childproof" cabinet under the sink, or dispensing enough hand soap into the sink with water to make the bubbles overflow ala Great Falls with 6 tons of Dawn dumped in upstream.
And the friggin’ dog (an 85 pound Sheppard) keeps joining us in the bath room…and vomited all over the rug in the boys room – yes, the dry-clean only sheepskin rug which I promptly threw in the washer.
And the boys insist on being entirely naked while learning this new skill…
I am not an inattentive parent and I have a house the size of a cracker-jack box and I am running as fast as I can back and forth. I realized recently that my primary methods of "parenting" these first three years have been containment, elevation (of off-limit things) and deception (gee, I have no idea where your cow bells are, sorry). Sadly, those techniques seem inappropriate in this venue.
Please, someone, throw me a bone and tell me I’ll make it til Saturday when my husband is on-duty. Other than straight jackets – what else can I do that won’t win me a referral to CPS?
I have yelled more in the last three days than in the last three years combined and am concerned about by place on Santa’s list as we approach the big day.
Advice, commiseration, and a stiff drink are all welcome…not necessarily in that order, of course.
> Date: Friday, December 21, 2007, 7:41 AM
I am either going to shoot myself or starting drinking at breakfast! I know parents of twins
(and more) around the world have successfully potty-trained their kids without doing either, but I feel like I am going to lose what is left of my small mind.
John and David declared on Tuesday that there would be no more diapers. Fine. That was our plan for the holiday break, since we are masochistic freaks who like to do all the hard things over the holidays – think losing the pacifiers, dropping some nursings, etc.
My problem is, it’s not the potty training that is driving me over the edge, I can clean and sanitize and redress with the best of ‘em – it’s managing my hell boys…
I bought four different potties at various consignment sales, with the theory that we could start by having them scattered about the house like candy from a piñata. Naturally, they only like one of them, so they spent Tuesday pushing and shoving each other off the favored
throne, or simply dominating said throne (and thereby their sibling) by refusing to get off of
it…
Fine. So, I went out and got two matching potties Wednesday and that seems to have solved that problem. Each child, however, likes to have "company" while doing their deeds, which leaves the other child to either wreak havoc elsewhere in the house (think kitchen – think mess), run off with the toilet paper and unroll the whole thing to get to the tube within
(which then becomes "unusable" because his royal highness on the throne wishes to unravel his own paper), or to stand in the bathroom and antagonize the crap (so to speak) out of the one who is dutifully sitting.
Or, while one is dutifully sitting, one will go elsewhere in the house to have a sneaky pee or a sneaky poo, aka "accident." Or, wholly unrelated to one being on the potty – one will be doing the tantrum thing somewhere in the house and need immediate attention to prevent serious
self-inflicted bodily injury, and the other will arrive on the scene to investigate, while making "that face" and "that sound" that indicates that a poop is in progress.
When one is left to do his business solitaire, whilst I attend to some other emergent crisis, he manages to either screech until I return, or proceed in silence to find something in the bathroom that he has no business doing, like removing the lid from the back of the john, breaking into the "childproof" cabinet under the sink, or dispensing enough hand soap into the sink with water to make the bubbles overflow ala Great Falls with 6 tons of Dawn dumped in upstream.
And the friggin’ dog (an 85 pound Sheppard) keeps joining us in the bath room…and vomited all over the rug in the boys room – yes, the dry-clean only sheepskin rug which I promptly threw in the washer.
And the boys insist on being entirely naked while learning this new skill…
I am not an inattentive parent and I have a house the size of a cracker-jack box and I am running as fast as I can back and forth. I realized recently that my primary methods of "parenting" these first three years have been containment, elevation (of off-limit things) and deception (gee, I have no idea where your cow bells are, sorry). Sadly, those techniques seem inappropriate in this venue.
Please, someone, throw me a bone and tell me I’ll make it til Saturday when my husband is on-duty. Other than straight jackets – what else can I do that won’t win me a referral to CPS?
I have yelled more in the last three days than in the last three years combined and am concerned about by place on Santa’s list as we approach the big day.
Advice, commiseration, and a stiff drink are all welcome…not necessarily in that order, of course.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Crying it out - I am a sucker
From February 2008 in reply to the periodic battle that arises over crying it out:
I’m a sucker for my twin boys, and always have been. I tried CIO once and it nearly broke my heart.
Against all advice, I routinely nursed my children to sleep until they were 26 months old. My husband and I love to snuggle up with my boys, and always have – to hear their gentle breath, to touch their soft skin and to feel their warmth. Now that they are 3+, one of us still snuggles with them before nap time or evening sleep, often staying with them until they doze off and we can gingerly place them in our loving arms and carry them to their cribs. We sit together in soft light, listening to the sound of the same beautiful music that we have heard thousands of time since their birth. I often think about the time in the not too distant future when they will be so much less open to the special closeness we now share. I think about what their hands will look like when they are men, and how their voices will change. I am so often the beneficiary of the sweetest kisses in my cheek, with the kindest words I’ve ever heard: Mama, you are a good woman. I will love you always and forever. You are my heart, and I am yours.
We will have no more children, and someday there will be no more lullabies. What will linger for me is the magical time that we have shared. And should we find ourselves someday burying one or both of my children in some godforsaken chain of events, I will never regret the time I’m given them. And should I die before I am ready – and they are ready to lose me, my husband can tell my sons, Your mama heard you, and she came to you. She held you – you are in her heart, and she in yours. She will love you, always and forever.
As an addendum - I cannot say how much I love lying with my boys, cheek to cheek on a cramped loveseat in their room, as they share their memories of the day and the fantastical things they are in the process of dreaming up. It is, by far, my favorite part of each day.
I’m a sucker for my twin boys, and always have been. I tried CIO once and it nearly broke my heart.
Against all advice, I routinely nursed my children to sleep until they were 26 months old. My husband and I love to snuggle up with my boys, and always have – to hear their gentle breath, to touch their soft skin and to feel their warmth. Now that they are 3+, one of us still snuggles with them before nap time or evening sleep, often staying with them until they doze off and we can gingerly place them in our loving arms and carry them to their cribs. We sit together in soft light, listening to the sound of the same beautiful music that we have heard thousands of time since their birth. I often think about the time in the not too distant future when they will be so much less open to the special closeness we now share. I think about what their hands will look like when they are men, and how their voices will change. I am so often the beneficiary of the sweetest kisses in my cheek, with the kindest words I’ve ever heard: Mama, you are a good woman. I will love you always and forever. You are my heart, and I am yours.
We will have no more children, and someday there will be no more lullabies. What will linger for me is the magical time that we have shared. And should we find ourselves someday burying one or both of my children in some godforsaken chain of events, I will never regret the time I’m given them. And should I die before I am ready – and they are ready to lose me, my husband can tell my sons, Your mama heard you, and she came to you. She held you – you are in her heart, and she in yours. She will love you, always and forever.
As an addendum - I cannot say how much I love lying with my boys, cheek to cheek on a cramped loveseat in their room, as they share their memories of the day and the fantastical things they are in the process of dreaming up. It is, by far, my favorite part of each day.
What I gave up when I got married
Recently there was a discussion about email addresses and women who share one with their spouses. It included the thought - I gave up my name when I got married...
Here's what I gave up - from MONA, winter 2008:
When I got married, I gave up being alone – alone for the holidays in a sea full of family and extended family, alone for the long three day weekends when my colleagues were hurrying home to their families, alone at night, but for the comfort of a trustworthy dog at my feet and a cozy cat nestled on the pillow beside me.
When I got married, I gave up having to do “it” alone – to clean the gutters with no one holding the ladder, to drop the car off at the shop and still get to my next destination on time, to stand by the side of my trustworthy dog when they put him down, to get back and forth to the hospital for surgery, to manage a household…
When I got married, I gave up being my only real, sincere and giving cheerleader – now I have someone who roots for me in the world, in the big and the small, who looks ahead with enthusiasm and optimism with me, and who relishes many of the same joyful memories that I have over a chilled glass of white wine.
I share a bed, a home, a car, two children, the chores, the ups and downs, the good, the bad and the ugly with my husband. I share dreams with him and sorrows, joys and consternation.
My marriage has been no sacrifice to me – it is what sustains me in a troubled, uncertain and chaotic world.
Here's what I gave up - from MONA, winter 2008:
When I got married, I gave up being alone – alone for the holidays in a sea full of family and extended family, alone for the long three day weekends when my colleagues were hurrying home to their families, alone at night, but for the comfort of a trustworthy dog at my feet and a cozy cat nestled on the pillow beside me.
When I got married, I gave up having to do “it” alone – to clean the gutters with no one holding the ladder, to drop the car off at the shop and still get to my next destination on time, to stand by the side of my trustworthy dog when they put him down, to get back and forth to the hospital for surgery, to manage a household…
When I got married, I gave up being my only real, sincere and giving cheerleader – now I have someone who roots for me in the world, in the big and the small, who looks ahead with enthusiasm and optimism with me, and who relishes many of the same joyful memories that I have over a chilled glass of white wine.
I share a bed, a home, a car, two children, the chores, the ups and downs, the good, the bad and the ugly with my husband. I share dreams with him and sorrows, joys and consternation.
My marriage has been no sacrifice to me – it is what sustains me in a troubled, uncertain and chaotic world.
My Big Red Secret
It turns out that my big red secret turned out to be a really good investment of time, when we have had occasion to call the medics to our home twice in the last month. Knowing the guys - and them knowing the boys, made the work of getting the job done (possible poisoning & treatment of a finger wound).
From summer 2007 on MONA & NVPOM:
We have been having a complete hoot for the last 6 weeks dropping in on various fire stations across the county – I wanted to share this big red secret for those of you who might have a youngster who would enjoy such a frolic. We have visited five (or six) different stations – and just have dropped in when the opportunity arises. The boys LOVE it and the firefighters have been so pleasant and so welcoming – answering the same questions over and over and over again – and of course, letting the kids climb all over the equipment, and open every compartment on the truck.
Our visits usually last for 20-30 minutes – and we often have the extra bonus of seeing other interesting county vehicles gas up at the pumps – which, if the firetrucks have lost their shine, is a great diversion.
We have also learned:
Firefighters go poop and pee in the potty (for those potty training)
Firefighters like a clean place – and put all their “toys” away
Firefighters stick together and do not leave one another (for those who have runners)
Firefighters wear socks
Firefighters hang up their clothes and put away their shoes
Firefighters who are shorter than 36” do not use dirty words
Firefighters eat their vegetables and drink their milk
Firefighters know how to leave the “house” quickly
Firefighters always wear their seatbelts
Firefighters are good listeners
Firefighters are kind and helpful
Firefighters do not hit
Firefighters take turns
Firefighters share
Firefighters do not spit in the house
Firefighters do not throw food or trash on the floor
The other very cool thing for those who host playgroups is that your local fire truck and/or medic unit will drop by for a visit if you call and ask – and obviously, if they are available. Such a visit may, if you are lucky, be punctuated by a loud and rapid departure.
From summer 2007 on MONA & NVPOM:
We have been having a complete hoot for the last 6 weeks dropping in on various fire stations across the county – I wanted to share this big red secret for those of you who might have a youngster who would enjoy such a frolic. We have visited five (or six) different stations – and just have dropped in when the opportunity arises. The boys LOVE it and the firefighters have been so pleasant and so welcoming – answering the same questions over and over and over again – and of course, letting the kids climb all over the equipment, and open every compartment on the truck.
Our visits usually last for 20-30 minutes – and we often have the extra bonus of seeing other interesting county vehicles gas up at the pumps – which, if the firetrucks have lost their shine, is a great diversion.
We have also learned:
Firefighters go poop and pee in the potty (for those potty training)
Firefighters like a clean place – and put all their “toys” away
Firefighters stick together and do not leave one another (for those who have runners)
Firefighters wear socks
Firefighters hang up their clothes and put away their shoes
Firefighters who are shorter than 36” do not use dirty words
Firefighters eat their vegetables and drink their milk
Firefighters know how to leave the “house” quickly
Firefighters always wear their seatbelts
Firefighters are good listeners
Firefighters are kind and helpful
Firefighters do not hit
Firefighters take turns
Firefighters share
Firefighters do not spit in the house
Firefighters do not throw food or trash on the floor
The other very cool thing for those who host playgroups is that your local fire truck and/or medic unit will drop by for a visit if you call and ask – and obviously, if they are available. Such a visit may, if you are lucky, be punctuated by a loud and rapid departure.
Friday, March 14, 2008
Lollipop stickies and black tar hands
After suffering through another week of wheezing, sneezing, coughing and sniffling, I finally mustered the courage to return to the ped's office today. Once again, we arrived on time - and this time I cleverly inquired: "How far behind is the doctor?" 45 minutes I was told - so off we went to the parking lot, to circle the periphery and read all the license plates. We were all distrught when the tow truck which pulled into the lot did not actually tow anyone, but standing and waiting killed about 10 minutes. Our eventual visit to the doctor was relatively uneventful, but for my son John insisting that he "be doctored" again and again and again. A pleasant, over-worked, already behind doctor obliged before giving us the the final verdict: Viral bronchitis for both boys - nothing to be done.
The promise of the day, which was made before we even left the house, was that good behavior would lead to visit to a new construction site in nearby Clarendon. I almost forgot that our ped's office sits atop an old fashioned pharmacy with five shelves worth of candy, including an entire shelf dedicated to lollipops and other suckers. Being a sucker myself, we wandered in and began the intricate and complicated task of choosing.
One of the things that I have marveled at with my boys is their choosing - I wonder to myself, what are you thinking about as you slowly run your fingers through the box and examine each lollipop individually? Why does it please you so much to pick each one up to study the packaging, the twist of the paper and the length of the stick? There is silent but palpable excitement over what might be within and intermittently a question about whether a particular lollipop has been crushed by and 18-wheeler or had the stick bitten off by a bad wolf. Hard to say, I reply...
We all made our choices and paid for our lollipops - and then 2 out of three of us changed our minds and needed a different color. Hmmmm, wonder who that could be.
Enroute to the construction site I heard from the back seat fantastic shouts of DUMP TRUCK!!! STOP THE CAR!!! As I was driving 45 miles an hour on Route 50 and could not instantaneously stop the car, David hurled his apple green, half eaten lollipop in my general direction, where it promptly became ensnared in my ever lengthening hair. After muttering a string of expletives to myself without making a sound, I got the car turned around so we could all take a look at what turned out not to be a dump truck, but instead a bright red and shiney Peterbilt wrecker with the name "Henry" on the side. Entranced by the prospect of the wrecker towing away a school bus, we pulled to the side of the street nearby to watch the show. I must say, we got more than we bargained for when the tall, pot-bellied, chicken-legged, tobacco chewing, hairy-chested tow truck driver stepped out of the cab and came around to hook up the bus. He was wearing a white tank-top style t-shirt like my grand dad used to wear, layered beneath a tattered and too small sweat jacket on top. The ensemble was complete with some polyester athletic shorts and a well-worn baseball cap. Imagine my surprise when he bent over to hook the gizmo to the whatchamacallit under the bus - My gaze was fixed on the bus, curious as to whether it might fall off the gizmo and crush the man - when David exclaims from the back seat: "I see the man's anus. It's peeking out. Look. His anus." It was, of course, not his anus, but the large crack in his fanny to which any of us who have ever had a plumber in our home have sadly become accustomed.
The entire frolic and detour from our original destination ate up another 30 minutes or so, and so, with all deliberate speed, we continued on our merry way, following the big red tow truck and the going backwards school bus as far as our paths were paralell. At some point, I was directed by the child seated behind me to "Move to the left lane," apparently so that we could become precariously closer to the oncoming traffic which was whizzing past us. It worked out just fine, as I eventually turned left to get toward the New Construction Site (NCS).
With luck on our side, I found a metered parking space within a stone's throw of the NCS, and a pocket full of nickels and dimes to buy me an hour and a half on the meter. Consumed by glee, we sprinted to the sidewalk adjacent to the construction site to watch the small skid-steer sized asphalt grinder chew up a perfectly straight line of asphalt at a remarkably slow pace. Simply fascinating, I must say. After being asked to "move along" by a rather giant fellow (whom we later learned was not the jerk he first appeared to be), we circumnavigated the perimeter of the entire site, a good size city block. No circumnavigation worth it's salt would be complete without an actaul dig of our own, so diving nearly head first out of the primary containment device, we found a small patch of filthy, dirty, asphalt ridden ground and got to work. Twenty minutes and many varieties of loud cooming and vromming sounds, all to either the amusement or complete dismay of lunchtime passersby, John and David had hands as black and as sticky as night. It turns out that lollipop sticky hands are the BEST for attracting asphalt to ones hands; fingernails that are overdue to be cut also add a special dimension to such a foray. Eventually, the boys tired of using their bare hands as hoe-rams (yes, that's the official name) and back hoe scoops, and I sensed a hunger related meltdown fast approaching. We strapped back in to minimize any damage we might to do the lucky business in whose sinks we decided to wash up - and headed down the street to the Clarendon Grill. Twenty minutes of scrubbing (emerging soaking wet from the torso down) and three grilled chees sandwiches to go later, we emerged, ready for a picnic lunch around the corner where the back hoe and bulldozer were working side by side to further tear up the already torn up street to lay new water pipes in a very deep and narrow hole.
The construction men certainly seemed to enjoy having an audience and seemed, like Mike
Mulligan and his steam shovel, to work a little harder and a little faster as we sat on the sidewalk nearby watching, riveted by the sound, the movement and the power of the big machines.
It's taken me many days to complete this post, and we were back at the site today. Three excavators, three back hoes, one loader, numerous skid steers, one giant purple rock crusher and one giant purple "high reach" demolition machine and we were pretty much in hog heaven. The previously mentioned fellow who urged us away from the asphalt grinder was much more relaxed today and enjoyed getting down on the boys' level to answer their questions. His name is Kip and I think I will try to set him up with the babysitter soon.
The promise of the day, which was made before we even left the house, was that good behavior would lead to visit to a new construction site in nearby Clarendon. I almost forgot that our ped's office sits atop an old fashioned pharmacy with five shelves worth of candy, including an entire shelf dedicated to lollipops and other suckers. Being a sucker myself, we wandered in and began the intricate and complicated task of choosing.
One of the things that I have marveled at with my boys is their choosing - I wonder to myself, what are you thinking about as you slowly run your fingers through the box and examine each lollipop individually? Why does it please you so much to pick each one up to study the packaging, the twist of the paper and the length of the stick? There is silent but palpable excitement over what might be within and intermittently a question about whether a particular lollipop has been crushed by and 18-wheeler or had the stick bitten off by a bad wolf. Hard to say, I reply...
We all made our choices and paid for our lollipops - and then 2 out of three of us changed our minds and needed a different color. Hmmmm, wonder who that could be.
Enroute to the construction site I heard from the back seat fantastic shouts of DUMP TRUCK!!! STOP THE CAR!!! As I was driving 45 miles an hour on Route 50 and could not instantaneously stop the car, David hurled his apple green, half eaten lollipop in my general direction, where it promptly became ensnared in my ever lengthening hair. After muttering a string of expletives to myself without making a sound, I got the car turned around so we could all take a look at what turned out not to be a dump truck, but instead a bright red and shiney Peterbilt wrecker with the name "Henry" on the side. Entranced by the prospect of the wrecker towing away a school bus, we pulled to the side of the street nearby to watch the show. I must say, we got more than we bargained for when the tall, pot-bellied, chicken-legged, tobacco chewing, hairy-chested tow truck driver stepped out of the cab and came around to hook up the bus. He was wearing a white tank-top style t-shirt like my grand dad used to wear, layered beneath a tattered and too small sweat jacket on top. The ensemble was complete with some polyester athletic shorts and a well-worn baseball cap. Imagine my surprise when he bent over to hook the gizmo to the whatchamacallit under the bus - My gaze was fixed on the bus, curious as to whether it might fall off the gizmo and crush the man - when David exclaims from the back seat: "I see the man's anus. It's peeking out. Look. His anus." It was, of course, not his anus, but the large crack in his fanny to which any of us who have ever had a plumber in our home have sadly become accustomed.
The entire frolic and detour from our original destination ate up another 30 minutes or so, and so, with all deliberate speed, we continued on our merry way, following the big red tow truck and the going backwards school bus as far as our paths were paralell. At some point, I was directed by the child seated behind me to "Move to the left lane," apparently so that we could become precariously closer to the oncoming traffic which was whizzing past us. It worked out just fine, as I eventually turned left to get toward the New Construction Site (NCS).
With luck on our side, I found a metered parking space within a stone's throw of the NCS, and a pocket full of nickels and dimes to buy me an hour and a half on the meter. Consumed by glee, we sprinted to the sidewalk adjacent to the construction site to watch the small skid-steer sized asphalt grinder chew up a perfectly straight line of asphalt at a remarkably slow pace. Simply fascinating, I must say. After being asked to "move along" by a rather giant fellow (whom we later learned was not the jerk he first appeared to be), we circumnavigated the perimeter of the entire site, a good size city block. No circumnavigation worth it's salt would be complete without an actaul dig of our own, so diving nearly head first out of the primary containment device, we found a small patch of filthy, dirty, asphalt ridden ground and got to work. Twenty minutes and many varieties of loud cooming and vromming sounds, all to either the amusement or complete dismay of lunchtime passersby, John and David had hands as black and as sticky as night. It turns out that lollipop sticky hands are the BEST for attracting asphalt to ones hands; fingernails that are overdue to be cut also add a special dimension to such a foray. Eventually, the boys tired of using their bare hands as hoe-rams (yes, that's the official name) and back hoe scoops, and I sensed a hunger related meltdown fast approaching. We strapped back in to minimize any damage we might to do the lucky business in whose sinks we decided to wash up - and headed down the street to the Clarendon Grill. Twenty minutes of scrubbing (emerging soaking wet from the torso down) and three grilled chees sandwiches to go later, we emerged, ready for a picnic lunch around the corner where the back hoe and bulldozer were working side by side to further tear up the already torn up street to lay new water pipes in a very deep and narrow hole.
The construction men certainly seemed to enjoy having an audience and seemed, like Mike
Mulligan and his steam shovel, to work a little harder and a little faster as we sat on the sidewalk nearby watching, riveted by the sound, the movement and the power of the big machines.
It's taken me many days to complete this post, and we were back at the site today. Three excavators, three back hoes, one loader, numerous skid steers, one giant purple rock crusher and one giant purple "high reach" demolition machine and we were pretty much in hog heaven. The previously mentioned fellow who urged us away from the asphalt grinder was much more relaxed today and enjoyed getting down on the boys' level to answer their questions. His name is Kip and I think I will try to set him up with the babysitter soon.
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
I feel pretty good about drugs in the water, actually
In the last day or two there has been a flurry of discussion about recent findings that there are measurable amounts of prescription and over the counter drugs to be found in many municipal water supplies. No one has mentioned the grand amounts of cocaine, heroin and mary jane that are invariably flushed down the potty every day as search warrants are being executed and mortified parents are rummaging through their teenagers' rooms and discovering bags of unknown powdery and leafy substances stuffed inside of camouflaged books' secret compartments.
In any case, I personally was relieved to hear that there are copious quantities of drugs dripping out of my faucet into our families meals and into my children's sippy cups. It's so cool that we can bath and shower in them, too. While I have dutifully been doing my fair share to boost the country's GNP by purchasing a wide variety of products of medicinal value, I can honestly and finally go along with Target's slogan: Get More. Pay Less.
Never again will I have to buy an OTC med. I won't be in pain ever again either, and neither will anyone in my family. What with aspirin, tylenol, ibuprofin, sodium naproxen, percocet, vicadin and the like lowing freely, we should be able to sustain some fairly serious injuries and not feel a thing. Even more exciting for me, is that I shall no longer experience depression. According to my calculations, there should be enough Prozac and Zoloft and Lithium washing over and through me that my mood should be pure sunshine, 365 days a year. What a relief.
I am also overjoyed to know that because of the free narcotics, antibiotics, antifungals, anticoagulants, anti-thrombotic, anti psychotic, psychotropic, antiarrhythmics, and the endless list of other "anti" medication, I can passively be "pro" just about anything and secure myself a place in the Guinness Book of World Records as "The Oldest Living Person in the World Who Avoided All Normal and Abnormal Medical Conditions and Disease by Drinking Tap Water." I will never again loose another moment's rest wondering whether I will develop heart disease, liver disease or diverticulitis. I am truly free.
The other exciting thing about drugs in the water is that everyone I know who reads the multi-page package insert from front to back in two languages will have a lot more free time and save years of eye strain. No one will be burdened with reading the microscopic pale-shaded font of the package insert to determine the "Generic Name, Chemical Formula, Routes of Administration, Clinical Pharmacology, Indications and Dosage, Side Effects and Interactions, Warnings and Precautions, Overdosage and Contra-Indications, and Elimination Half-Life." No need to read since there's no way to know or control what I little wonder pill I'm digesting in my tap water, lemonade or Starbuck's coffee. Just drink a lot everyday and I should get a pretty well-balanced "diet," eh?
Best of all, I can just stop wasting money by medicinal remedies for my family. I cannot even believe that I once considered moving to a remote mountain cabin with water supplied by an unspoiled mountain stream freshly fed by melting ancient glaciers born about the time the dinosaurs began to disappear. Give up all this free medicine in the municipal drinking water? No way.
As for the fam, I'll just tell them: "Sick? In Pain? Infected? No worries, have a glass of water or two and call me in the morning."
In any case, I personally was relieved to hear that there are copious quantities of drugs dripping out of my faucet into our families meals and into my children's sippy cups. It's so cool that we can bath and shower in them, too. While I have dutifully been doing my fair share to boost the country's GNP by purchasing a wide variety of products of medicinal value, I can honestly and finally go along with Target's slogan: Get More. Pay Less.
Never again will I have to buy an OTC med. I won't be in pain ever again either, and neither will anyone in my family. What with aspirin, tylenol, ibuprofin, sodium naproxen, percocet, vicadin and the like lowing freely, we should be able to sustain some fairly serious injuries and not feel a thing. Even more exciting for me, is that I shall no longer experience depression. According to my calculations, there should be enough Prozac and Zoloft and Lithium washing over and through me that my mood should be pure sunshine, 365 days a year. What a relief.
I am also overjoyed to know that because of the free narcotics, antibiotics, antifungals, anticoagulants, anti-thrombotic, anti psychotic, psychotropic, antiarrhythmics, and the endless list of other "anti" medication, I can passively be "pro" just about anything and secure myself a place in the Guinness Book of World Records as "The Oldest Living Person in the World Who Avoided All Normal and Abnormal Medical Conditions and Disease by Drinking Tap Water." I will never again loose another moment's rest wondering whether I will develop heart disease, liver disease or diverticulitis. I am truly free.
The other exciting thing about drugs in the water is that everyone I know who reads the multi-page package insert from front to back in two languages will have a lot more free time and save years of eye strain. No one will be burdened with reading the microscopic pale-shaded font of the package insert to determine the "Generic Name, Chemical Formula, Routes of Administration, Clinical Pharmacology, Indications and Dosage, Side Effects and Interactions, Warnings and Precautions, Overdosage and Contra-Indications, and Elimination Half-Life." No need to read since there's no way to know or control what I little wonder pill I'm digesting in my tap water, lemonade or Starbuck's coffee. Just drink a lot everyday and I should get a pretty well-balanced "diet," eh?
Best of all, I can just stop wasting money by medicinal remedies for my family. I cannot even believe that I once considered moving to a remote mountain cabin with water supplied by an unspoiled mountain stream freshly fed by melting ancient glaciers born about the time the dinosaurs began to disappear. Give up all this free medicine in the municipal drinking water? No way.
As for the fam, I'll just tell them: "Sick? In Pain? Infected? No worries, have a glass of water or two and call me in the morning."
Monday, March 10, 2008
Oh, Fart! The Ped's Office was a bust!
Ah, woe is me! We have all been struggling with all the symptoms of a common cold for about the last 10 days, but one of my little guys, John, has really had a tough week with fever and persistent cough, not to mention the avulsion ("A type of wound where skin is "torn" partially or fully away. This type of wound tends to bleed a lot") on his right index finger which had necessitated a visit from Medic 102 and a visit of intermindable duration at the local ER.
I finally thought the cough, cold, wheezing, sneezing, febrile state had gone on long enough and called the pediatrician's office first thing and scheduled an appointment for 11:00 a.m. At 10:15, I finally went in to wake both boys, scrambled through the resistance of getting them dressed, and marched them out to the van. After several return trips back into the house (1 for Big City Engine and Mama Kitty, 1 for the little red car and the little green truck, 1 for two containers of yogurt milk and two breakfast bars, 1 to pick up a few extra diapers for my dear son who is regressing, and 1 for my coffee, which had already been reheated 6 times since 7:00 a.m.), we sailed off to the ped's office. I scored a premium parking space (i.e., one that empties onto a sidewalk) directly across from the fire station and secretly wished for a commotion in nearby 7 Corners which would require an all out 3 alarm response, so as to distract my children from the notion that we should race into the Pharmacy to get lollipops.
I loaded up one side of the double stroller with a huge purple backpack laden with the potty seat, clean clothes, diapers, first aid supplies (see avulsion, above) and snacks, and the other side of the double stroller with a huge bag of children's books and grown-up magazines to donate to the office. I stuffed the bottom of the sagging basket beneath with Mama Kitty, Big City Engine, the green car, the red car and a huge plate of freshly baked brownies for the pediatrician's office. Feeling quite clever and well-prepared, and satisfied to be pushing the big load of heavy crap in my stroller rather than schlepping it and pushing the children in the stroller, I was, to say the least, deflated when both boys insisted on riding in the stroller, the short 50 foot walk to get where we were going. Insisted, of course, means one of them falling to the cold cement and wailing, while the other one was angrily tries to hoist the aforementioned heavy objects out of the stroller and into the nearby tree box and suffering TFS (toddler frustration syndrome) as a result of his inability to do so.
We navigated the Doors that Wouldn't Open Completely, the "elevator button is too high for me would you please pick me up for God's sake don't touch it Mama" crisis and the unfortunately placed water fountain outside the ped's office and pushed our way (after rearranging the chairs within) into the "sick" side of the office at exactly 11:00 a.m.
I think I forgot to mention that at some point, David dumped an entire bottle of yogurt milk onto the floor of the van as he was getting out. Absent any rags or paper towels or dirty laundry or our dog to aid in cleaning the mess, I swept most of the thick, sticky stuff out into the parking lot with my bare hand and needed, upon entering the ped's office, to wash them before touching anything. Bravely, I dashed away from my two children while pleading with the front desk staff on (to whom I had just bequeathed the brownies, books and magazines) on my way by to Keep an Eye on Them! I was pleasantly surprised that the office was neither on fire nor tornado struck upon my return 14 seconds later.
After a few minutes in the waiting room, punctuated by 3 year old questions, (like Where is the Truck Book from Last Time? Is that fat lady with the long hair a nurse or a mama? Is that man with the baby a papa or a doctor? Why is that girl's skin yellow? What's wrong with that baby? He's too loud! ), we were invited into the exam room, which turned out to be on the opposite side of the office building as the entrance to the sick room, and through a narrow doorway which would not allow the double stroller to pass. Forced to abandon one of my Primary Containment Devices, we set out on foot for the rest of the journey.
How pleased we were to see that there was not one, but two tables covered in crinkly white paper to climb on, courtesy of the not one, not two, but three hard plastic chairs in the exam room which slid effortlessly across the floor to allow convenient access to everything except the fluorescent lights affixed to the ceiling. We settled in, so to speak, for our turn with the doctor and waited.
And waited and waited and waited. It finally occurred to me that there was no clock in the exam room because they probably don't want you to know how long you've actually had to wait, lest your complaint about waiting be too specific, rather than an expression of general dissatisfaction.
During what turned out to be a 25 minute wait for nothing, I "examined" both boys, they "examined" me, jointly and individually. We washed David's hands several times, filled the sink with bubbles, and we learned that the spinny top on the trash can goes around and around and around, pretty fast and that if you stick your hand in there, your finger will get pinched. We determined that one of the exam tables was, in fact, a table, with four legs (which we counted while crawling around on the examination room floor on our hands and knees), and could readily be used to pull the calendar off the wall and send the solitary clear push pin flying to an undisclosed location to be found at a later date by an unsuspecting child who previously had not been impaled by or swallowed a push pin.
We verified, again on hands and knees through the cumulative germs of the current cold and flu season, that all three of the handy chairs also had four legs. The other table, however, was a counterfeit table and was in fact a defunct infant scale with a measuring device that if you laid flat on top, would tell you how tall you are. We determined how tall each child was, although David declared, that he is Zero and is, in fact, very, very tiny, like a baby who is zero years old..
"We" counted the stripes on the wall - orange, yellow and white, and the beach umbrellas on the lovely border near the ceiling. With the help of the handy chairs, we found the Foaming Alcohol Based Disinfectant Antibacterial Requires No Rinsing Soap on the counter and learned that with the right amount of pressure, you can squeeze out a dollop in the shape of a penis. We also learned that you most certainly do need to rinse the goopus off of your hands.
"We" found the Poison Control magnets (about 50) on the counter, read the letters and numbers over and over again out loud, stacked the magnets up, then laid them out all over the exam table count them. "We" also found the wooden tongue depressors and the scotch tape dispenser and were entirely dismayed that that these items could, in fact, be placed out of reach, but not before securely scoth-taping the exam table to itself and hurling a few tongue depressors across the room to observe their aerodynamic properties.
"We " found that the light switch, readily accessed by the handy chairs, went off and on really, really fast, and that both boys could fit comfortably in the nook under the faux table if you emptied all the books and magazines onto the floor with gusto. Sadly, the nook under the table was our demise, as an ill-placed foot and forehead collision set off a bite and hit sequence, which was followed by a That's Enough! and a visit back to the waiting room determine whether the doctor had left for lunch, had been eaten by a creature or was actually an invisible practitioner who had slipped into and out of the examination room unnoticed.
As we navigated our entourage back to the sick room out front, I curtly mentioned to the back office staff that it was wrong, just plain wrong, to leave a woman alone in an examination room for 25 minutes with 3 year old twin boys.
At 11:40, we were welcomed with open arms by our brownie pals at the front desk, and after explaining our dismay at the predicament in which we had found ourselves and that we had pretty much torn the place up, we were invited to again join the infirm in the waiting area. We were assured that the doctor would be ready soon, and to prove it, the nice lady at the desk called the doctor's nurse to inquire: "What gives back there?"
Before we had actually crossed the threshold of purgatory, my little darlings found a 5 month old baby trapped inside of his own Primary Restraining Device. Cute fellow, he was. Cute enough to draw loud, ferocious Diesel 10and Big Bad Wolf growls from my two terrorists, interspersed with exclamations of "You're Gonna Get A Shot Today, Baby!" While his bedraggled, exhausted and perfectly mortified mother looked on (as she managed her incredibly beautiful, obviously ill, highly irritable two-yeard old child), I quickly and vigoursly re-restrained the boys with a stern admonition: Keep it up, and I'll take you home! Hmmmf. Not my most effective parenting moment of the day, I'd say.
After ten whole minutes of fussing and squirming in the Primary Restraining Device, and while watching a veritable parade of wheezing, sneezing, hacking, coughing, febrile children being called back for their roll of the dice with the other doctors on staff, the nice nurse again ushered we three musketeers back to the same exam room we had previously disassembled to wait for our doc. It only took a minute or two for the hurling of unsafe objects from the perch of a handy chair to begin anew. While I was hissing and trying to keep pace with the madness, my two fine young men grabbed the entire roll of very cool, very loud, crinkly white paper and began unrolling as fast as they could. Guessing it would be unsanitary to roll back up the paper on which they had done an Irish Jig, I instead fashioned several delightful balls of crinkly paper, with the hopes that other objects, not meant to fly, would be left alone. Shortsighted, it turned out, since David needed a lot of consolation after smashing his head on the underside of the table while trying to retrieve the Biggest Ball of Paper underneath the four-legged table. Imagine my surprise when I turned around to find poor, sick, John, high aloft the counter top, having elevated himself from a handy chair, clutching the entire box of latex examination gloves (which were, as it turned out, no good for inflating at all). After agreeing to don a single pair and put the rest back, Mama the giant super crane removed poor sick John from the counter top and assisted him in getting his medical gloves on properly. No sooner had this been accomplished when the first blow was struck by one to another, for no apparent reason other than there was someone available to sucker punch. At that moment, I declared defeat and retreated to the waiting room for the pediatric infirm, loaded the rascals back into the double stroller and backed my way out of the same narrow doorway through which we had entered, just as the clock struck 12:00 noon. All the while the front desk staff was politely and abashedly encouraging me not to take my ball and go home.
But after the previous hour of chaos and destruction, I felt reasonably certain of two things: John was well into his recovery and there wasn't a damn thing wrong with David, unless you consider being three a condition in itself.
I finally thought the cough, cold, wheezing, sneezing, febrile state had gone on long enough and called the pediatrician's office first thing and scheduled an appointment for 11:00 a.m. At 10:15, I finally went in to wake both boys, scrambled through the resistance of getting them dressed, and marched them out to the van. After several return trips back into the house (1 for Big City Engine and Mama Kitty, 1 for the little red car and the little green truck, 1 for two containers of yogurt milk and two breakfast bars, 1 to pick up a few extra diapers for my dear son who is regressing, and 1 for my coffee, which had already been reheated 6 times since 7:00 a.m.), we sailed off to the ped's office. I scored a premium parking space (i.e., one that empties onto a sidewalk) directly across from the fire station and secretly wished for a commotion in nearby 7 Corners which would require an all out 3 alarm response, so as to distract my children from the notion that we should race into the Pharmacy to get lollipops.
I loaded up one side of the double stroller with a huge purple backpack laden with the potty seat, clean clothes, diapers, first aid supplies (see avulsion, above) and snacks, and the other side of the double stroller with a huge bag of children's books and grown-up magazines to donate to the office. I stuffed the bottom of the sagging basket beneath with Mama Kitty, Big City Engine, the green car, the red car and a huge plate of freshly baked brownies for the pediatrician's office. Feeling quite clever and well-prepared, and satisfied to be pushing the big load of heavy crap in my stroller rather than schlepping it and pushing the children in the stroller, I was, to say the least, deflated when both boys insisted on riding in the stroller, the short 50 foot walk to get where we were going. Insisted, of course, means one of them falling to the cold cement and wailing, while the other one was angrily tries to hoist the aforementioned heavy objects out of the stroller and into the nearby tree box and suffering TFS (toddler frustration syndrome) as a result of his inability to do so.
We navigated the Doors that Wouldn't Open Completely, the "elevator button is too high for me would you please pick me up for God's sake don't touch it Mama" crisis and the unfortunately placed water fountain outside the ped's office and pushed our way (after rearranging the chairs within) into the "sick" side of the office at exactly 11:00 a.m.
I think I forgot to mention that at some point, David dumped an entire bottle of yogurt milk onto the floor of the van as he was getting out. Absent any rags or paper towels or dirty laundry or our dog to aid in cleaning the mess, I swept most of the thick, sticky stuff out into the parking lot with my bare hand and needed, upon entering the ped's office, to wash them before touching anything. Bravely, I dashed away from my two children while pleading with the front desk staff on (to whom I had just bequeathed the brownies, books and magazines) on my way by to Keep an Eye on Them! I was pleasantly surprised that the office was neither on fire nor tornado struck upon my return 14 seconds later.
After a few minutes in the waiting room, punctuated by 3 year old questions, (like Where is the Truck Book from Last Time? Is that fat lady with the long hair a nurse or a mama? Is that man with the baby a papa or a doctor? Why is that girl's skin yellow? What's wrong with that baby? He's too loud! ), we were invited into the exam room, which turned out to be on the opposite side of the office building as the entrance to the sick room, and through a narrow doorway which would not allow the double stroller to pass. Forced to abandon one of my Primary Containment Devices, we set out on foot for the rest of the journey.
How pleased we were to see that there was not one, but two tables covered in crinkly white paper to climb on, courtesy of the not one, not two, but three hard plastic chairs in the exam room which slid effortlessly across the floor to allow convenient access to everything except the fluorescent lights affixed to the ceiling. We settled in, so to speak, for our turn with the doctor and waited.
And waited and waited and waited. It finally occurred to me that there was no clock in the exam room because they probably don't want you to know how long you've actually had to wait, lest your complaint about waiting be too specific, rather than an expression of general dissatisfaction.
During what turned out to be a 25 minute wait for nothing, I "examined" both boys, they "examined" me, jointly and individually. We washed David's hands several times, filled the sink with bubbles, and we learned that the spinny top on the trash can goes around and around and around, pretty fast and that if you stick your hand in there, your finger will get pinched. We determined that one of the exam tables was, in fact, a table, with four legs (which we counted while crawling around on the examination room floor on our hands and knees), and could readily be used to pull the calendar off the wall and send the solitary clear push pin flying to an undisclosed location to be found at a later date by an unsuspecting child who previously had not been impaled by or swallowed a push pin.
We verified, again on hands and knees through the cumulative germs of the current cold and flu season, that all three of the handy chairs also had four legs. The other table, however, was a counterfeit table and was in fact a defunct infant scale with a measuring device that if you laid flat on top, would tell you how tall you are. We determined how tall each child was, although David declared, that he is Zero and is, in fact, very, very tiny, like a baby who is zero years old..
"We" counted the stripes on the wall - orange, yellow and white, and the beach umbrellas on the lovely border near the ceiling. With the help of the handy chairs, we found the Foaming Alcohol Based Disinfectant Antibacterial Requires No Rinsing Soap on the counter and learned that with the right amount of pressure, you can squeeze out a dollop in the shape of a penis. We also learned that you most certainly do need to rinse the goopus off of your hands.
"We" found the Poison Control magnets (about 50) on the counter, read the letters and numbers over and over again out loud, stacked the magnets up, then laid them out all over the exam table count them. "We" also found the wooden tongue depressors and the scotch tape dispenser and were entirely dismayed that that these items could, in fact, be placed out of reach, but not before securely scoth-taping the exam table to itself and hurling a few tongue depressors across the room to observe their aerodynamic properties.
"We " found that the light switch, readily accessed by the handy chairs, went off and on really, really fast, and that both boys could fit comfortably in the nook under the faux table if you emptied all the books and magazines onto the floor with gusto. Sadly, the nook under the table was our demise, as an ill-placed foot and forehead collision set off a bite and hit sequence, which was followed by a That's Enough! and a visit back to the waiting room determine whether the doctor had left for lunch, had been eaten by a creature or was actually an invisible practitioner who had slipped into and out of the examination room unnoticed.
As we navigated our entourage back to the sick room out front, I curtly mentioned to the back office staff that it was wrong, just plain wrong, to leave a woman alone in an examination room for 25 minutes with 3 year old twin boys.
At 11:40, we were welcomed with open arms by our brownie pals at the front desk, and after explaining our dismay at the predicament in which we had found ourselves and that we had pretty much torn the place up, we were invited to again join the infirm in the waiting area. We were assured that the doctor would be ready soon, and to prove it, the nice lady at the desk called the doctor's nurse to inquire: "What gives back there?"
Before we had actually crossed the threshold of purgatory, my little darlings found a 5 month old baby trapped inside of his own Primary Restraining Device. Cute fellow, he was. Cute enough to draw loud, ferocious Diesel 10and Big Bad Wolf growls from my two terrorists, interspersed with exclamations of "You're Gonna Get A Shot Today, Baby!" While his bedraggled, exhausted and perfectly mortified mother looked on (as she managed her incredibly beautiful, obviously ill, highly irritable two-yeard old child), I quickly and vigoursly re-restrained the boys with a stern admonition: Keep it up, and I'll take you home! Hmmmf. Not my most effective parenting moment of the day, I'd say.
After ten whole minutes of fussing and squirming in the Primary Restraining Device, and while watching a veritable parade of wheezing, sneezing, hacking, coughing, febrile children being called back for their roll of the dice with the other doctors on staff, the nice nurse again ushered we three musketeers back to the same exam room we had previously disassembled to wait for our doc. It only took a minute or two for the hurling of unsafe objects from the perch of a handy chair to begin anew. While I was hissing and trying to keep pace with the madness, my two fine young men grabbed the entire roll of very cool, very loud, crinkly white paper and began unrolling as fast as they could. Guessing it would be unsanitary to roll back up the paper on which they had done an Irish Jig, I instead fashioned several delightful balls of crinkly paper, with the hopes that other objects, not meant to fly, would be left alone. Shortsighted, it turned out, since David needed a lot of consolation after smashing his head on the underside of the table while trying to retrieve the Biggest Ball of Paper underneath the four-legged table. Imagine my surprise when I turned around to find poor, sick, John, high aloft the counter top, having elevated himself from a handy chair, clutching the entire box of latex examination gloves (which were, as it turned out, no good for inflating at all). After agreeing to don a single pair and put the rest back, Mama the giant super crane removed poor sick John from the counter top and assisted him in getting his medical gloves on properly. No sooner had this been accomplished when the first blow was struck by one to another, for no apparent reason other than there was someone available to sucker punch. At that moment, I declared defeat and retreated to the waiting room for the pediatric infirm, loaded the rascals back into the double stroller and backed my way out of the same narrow doorway through which we had entered, just as the clock struck 12:00 noon. All the while the front desk staff was politely and abashedly encouraging me not to take my ball and go home.
But after the previous hour of chaos and destruction, I felt reasonably certain of two things: John was well into his recovery and there wasn't a damn thing wrong with David, unless you consider being three a condition in itself.
Past lives - Candy Apple Red
Sometimes at the most random times, I think of people and places and things from my past lives. I often think about the 1974 Dodge Dart that I bought in 1991, shortly after divorcing my 1st husband, who always categorized as "ridiculous" any dream I articulated , and in particular, any vision that involved restoring an a old car. So purchasing it was one of my first acts of freedom.
The car had been a DC Cab for it's whole life, and although it had a gazillion hard miles on it, I am sure, it also had a really powerful, healthy slant 6 engine. The fact that neither the speedometer nor the odometer worked was of little consequence as far as I was concerned, what mattered was that it was mine (for $300) and I could do with it what I pleased.
For weeks, I really felt "important," since people everywhere I drove were waving at me. Took me a few days to realize that the cabbie paint job made a lot of people want to say "hello."
The first order of business was handling the interior of the car. The headliner hung from a thread, so I just ripped it down and enjoyed the hollow metallic sound of the steel top for a while. This did not seem to be a problem until I tried to transport a large bunch of helium filled balloons on a hot summer day in the car. It only took a minute or two for all of them to burst upon touching the hot roof. I ducked for cover, as I honestly thought the car might be exploding. When it was over, all that was left was a handful of colorful ribbons with these pathetic little scraps of the latex balloons. Wherever I was headed that day, I did not arrive with balloons.
So, I picked a shop that did interior work and had them replace the entire interior of the car in black, and then dropped the car off for a stop at an audio store and had them install a killer stereo. Next stop was Macco for a paint job - a beautiful, candy apple, metallic finish. Next was new tire (although there was nothing wrong with the existing tires). I wanted a set with big, fat white walls. Finally, I had the windows tinted a very dark (actually illegal, I later learned) shade of gray. I became accustomed to being stopped by the local police for a while, since my car really did look like a "hoopdie," i.e., a beat up old car commonly driven by a member of the criminal element.
The one thing that I didn't account for in the car was a leak through the grill beneath the windshield, which flowed steadily through the glove box (which I often stuffed with a huge, absorbent sponge) and pooled onto the passenger floorboard and occasionally short-circuited the very fine stereo. I never did figure out how to either fix the leak or live with it - although covering the windshield and grill with a huge plastic door mat helped a lot when I was parked in the driveway, it just didn't seem like a feasible option for the highway.
I used to say that I don't define myself byt the type of car I drive, but I realize now, that's simply a fantasy. I do. We all do - whatever you drive - or that you don't at all - defines some part of you. I remember well the evening that I enjoyed a very fine dinner date with an accomplished and amiable thorasic surgeon. He spent the first 15 minutes belly-aching about how the valet service at the hospital had put a mark on his leather seat in his very expensive and totally tricked out european sports car. Hmm, I thought, this acquaintance will never go beyond this evening. It was pure hilarity when he offered to walk me to my car and laid his surgical eyes for the first, last and only time on my candy apple red, nearly antique, behemoth. After a quick handshake, he scurried away. Poor fellow.
I have such fond memories of that car. Shortly after I bought it, I traveled to southern Maryland on a beautiful spring day to pick up a long legged, big footed, floopy eared puppy who was bein given up by an overtired mom with a toddler and an infant. I named him Striker, after a victim in one of my vehicular homicide cases. Turned out that his name portended his untimely death, as the first time he ever did anything wrong, he dug out of the back yard and was hit by a car. After grieveing and healing a bit, I adopted Buddy to keep my aging dog, Alaska company during my long hours away at the office.
Often in the evenings after a long day at the office, I would take Alaska and Buddy out for a ride and revel in the joy that they took in sticking their large heads out the window to catch the breeze in their flaring nostrils and floppy ears. Satiated, they always returned home happy and refreshed, just as I was, everytime I drove my dream car. I loved taking my nephew Michael for a ride in "that thing" (as my one sister called it, and allowing him to eat and drink whatever he pleased in the back seat - something he was never allowed to do in his mom's car. With a vinyl seat and no carpeting to cover the floorboards, there was nothing that he could spill that could not eaily be removed with a broom or a power wash. And then there were the road trips. My friend Alma, a young Albanian immigrant who knew little of Bruce Springsteen, and I took a fabulous road trip to the beach one fine day. Since the stereo worked much better than the odometer, it was no surpise when we were tagged for speeding as we sailed east on Route 50 through rural Maryland with Thunder Road blasting through the car. Alma was so beautiful, so extraordinarily beatiful, I am convinced that the officer was was too dumbstruck to give me a ticket.
In any case, the leak in the grill was eventually the car's death knell, since the cost of re-wiring the stereo after each heavy rain became oppressive. My regular mechanic coveted the car, as most mechanics did - and I traded it to him for work he was to do on a new/used SUV I had acquired.
Turned out to be a bad deal for me, since the SUV was shortly therafter destroyed from the inside out by Alma's retired police drug dog, Robbie, one evening while she and I had dinner at Chevy's. I'm not sure whether Robbie ever found what he was looking for that night in that truck, but I was sure glad the folks at Carmax never looked inside of it the next day when I traded it in for some nondescript car, now long forgotten, that ran well, but was neither a fulmillment of my dreams nor candy apple red.
The car had been a DC Cab for it's whole life, and although it had a gazillion hard miles on it, I am sure, it also had a really powerful, healthy slant 6 engine. The fact that neither the speedometer nor the odometer worked was of little consequence as far as I was concerned, what mattered was that it was mine (for $300) and I could do with it what I pleased.
For weeks, I really felt "important," since people everywhere I drove were waving at me. Took me a few days to realize that the cabbie paint job made a lot of people want to say "hello."
The first order of business was handling the interior of the car. The headliner hung from a thread, so I just ripped it down and enjoyed the hollow metallic sound of the steel top for a while. This did not seem to be a problem until I tried to transport a large bunch of helium filled balloons on a hot summer day in the car. It only took a minute or two for all of them to burst upon touching the hot roof. I ducked for cover, as I honestly thought the car might be exploding. When it was over, all that was left was a handful of colorful ribbons with these pathetic little scraps of the latex balloons. Wherever I was headed that day, I did not arrive with balloons.
So, I picked a shop that did interior work and had them replace the entire interior of the car in black, and then dropped the car off for a stop at an audio store and had them install a killer stereo. Next stop was Macco for a paint job - a beautiful, candy apple, metallic finish. Next was new tire (although there was nothing wrong with the existing tires). I wanted a set with big, fat white walls. Finally, I had the windows tinted a very dark (actually illegal, I later learned) shade of gray. I became accustomed to being stopped by the local police for a while, since my car really did look like a "hoopdie," i.e., a beat up old car commonly driven by a member of the criminal element.
The one thing that I didn't account for in the car was a leak through the grill beneath the windshield, which flowed steadily through the glove box (which I often stuffed with a huge, absorbent sponge) and pooled onto the passenger floorboard and occasionally short-circuited the very fine stereo. I never did figure out how to either fix the leak or live with it - although covering the windshield and grill with a huge plastic door mat helped a lot when I was parked in the driveway, it just didn't seem like a feasible option for the highway.
I used to say that I don't define myself byt the type of car I drive, but I realize now, that's simply a fantasy. I do. We all do - whatever you drive - or that you don't at all - defines some part of you. I remember well the evening that I enjoyed a very fine dinner date with an accomplished and amiable thorasic surgeon. He spent the first 15 minutes belly-aching about how the valet service at the hospital had put a mark on his leather seat in his very expensive and totally tricked out european sports car. Hmm, I thought, this acquaintance will never go beyond this evening. It was pure hilarity when he offered to walk me to my car and laid his surgical eyes for the first, last and only time on my candy apple red, nearly antique, behemoth. After a quick handshake, he scurried away. Poor fellow.
I have such fond memories of that car. Shortly after I bought it, I traveled to southern Maryland on a beautiful spring day to pick up a long legged, big footed, floopy eared puppy who was bein given up by an overtired mom with a toddler and an infant. I named him Striker, after a victim in one of my vehicular homicide cases. Turned out that his name portended his untimely death, as the first time he ever did anything wrong, he dug out of the back yard and was hit by a car. After grieveing and healing a bit, I adopted Buddy to keep my aging dog, Alaska company during my long hours away at the office.
Often in the evenings after a long day at the office, I would take Alaska and Buddy out for a ride and revel in the joy that they took in sticking their large heads out the window to catch the breeze in their flaring nostrils and floppy ears. Satiated, they always returned home happy and refreshed, just as I was, everytime I drove my dream car. I loved taking my nephew Michael for a ride in "that thing" (as my one sister called it, and allowing him to eat and drink whatever he pleased in the back seat - something he was never allowed to do in his mom's car. With a vinyl seat and no carpeting to cover the floorboards, there was nothing that he could spill that could not eaily be removed with a broom or a power wash. And then there were the road trips. My friend Alma, a young Albanian immigrant who knew little of Bruce Springsteen, and I took a fabulous road trip to the beach one fine day. Since the stereo worked much better than the odometer, it was no surpise when we were tagged for speeding as we sailed east on Route 50 through rural Maryland with Thunder Road blasting through the car. Alma was so beautiful, so extraordinarily beatiful, I am convinced that the officer was was too dumbstruck to give me a ticket.
In any case, the leak in the grill was eventually the car's death knell, since the cost of re-wiring the stereo after each heavy rain became oppressive. My regular mechanic coveted the car, as most mechanics did - and I traded it to him for work he was to do on a new/used SUV I had acquired.
Turned out to be a bad deal for me, since the SUV was shortly therafter destroyed from the inside out by Alma's retired police drug dog, Robbie, one evening while she and I had dinner at Chevy's. I'm not sure whether Robbie ever found what he was looking for that night in that truck, but I was sure glad the folks at Carmax never looked inside of it the next day when I traded it in for some nondescript car, now long forgotten, that ran well, but was neither a fulmillment of my dreams nor candy apple red.
Sunday, March 9, 2008
Side by side at the graveside - on having twins as an older mom
I gave birth to my twin boys when I was 43 and while I was not depressed about having twins, I was very anxious about it and also very detached from them throughout my entire pregnancy, right up until the moment I delivered them. Wasn't convinced I was going to have them at all until I was 28 weeks along.
That said, I can tell you that having twins is a miraculous adventure - two babies to cuddle and kiss, two voices laughing, two little people toddling and now, for me, two voices saying, I love you, Mama.
Despite my age, I am without a doubt, one of the most active moms I know andam very engaged. I have two breasts to nurse them, two arms to hold them, two hands to hold onto them, two knees to bounce them and one voice to sing to them and comfort them and a bottomless vessel of love to pour upon them.
As an older mom, I am glad to know that when my day comes, my sons will stand side by side at my graveside to grieve their common loss and will go on for many years together as brothers, friends to one another, fathers to their own children, and uncles to one another's children.
Dysfunction: The only consistent feature of all your dissatisfying relationships is you.
My mom is deceased, but I nonetheless experienced a change in my relationship with her through the donor egg process process, but not until after the babies were born. Suddenly, I understood much better what she had gone through to raise six kids, have three miscarriages and give a child up for adoption when she was teenager. I understood how tough it must have been to prepare meals on a tight budget – and why she was always pouring the unconsumed milk back into the container (regardless of whether there were green beans stashed in the bottom).
Thousands of lunches, thousands of neatly pressed school uniforms, a thousand sleepless nights. I have, at times, been disappointed at my siblings' apparent lack of interest in my kids. Two of the four siblings have carved time out of their own hectic lives to see my boys at times other than holidays. What I found has worked pretty well for me is to recognize that what I may want from them is not something they are emotionally prepared/able to give. Sort of like dating a married man with the perpetual hope that he will wake up and leave his wife and children for a “better life.” 99 times out of a hundred, it just ain’t gonna happen. I've also come to understand that my siblings are busy - really busy, living their lives and doing the very best that they can (which is why I say "apparent lack of interest").
As women, we are often perpetually optimistic (and unrealistic) in our desire for true intimacy, no matter who it is in our lives that is not "doing enough" (or being eough) for us at any given moment.
The gap between expectation (and hope) and reality is often insurmountable – but we try again and again to close it. In letting go of my hopes and expectations about what my family might be to me, I have opened to what my brothers and sisters can give me - and to a greater universe of other people who really are what I need, what I want, and who are present with me in my journey.
From MVED: August 23, 2007
Suffering? I think not.
Before motherhood, I was a violent crimes prosecutor in DC. My
experience there informs me so much. I dealt with innocent
victims who, for no good reason, were shot, stabbed, set on fire,
thrown out of windows or moving cars, maimed, sexually assaulted, and
murdered. To me, that's .
I also experienced a life-changing injury to both arms, which left me
in chronic phyiscal pain.
Whether one continues to suffer the pain of infertility - or indeed,
whether one suffers during treatment, is not an absoulte given. At
the risk of being kicked in the teeth for saying this, , to
a large extent (IMHO), is a choice. What is is what is - the
comes (for me) in not accepting what is and dwelling it
what might have been or in the "unfairness" of it all. I think the
Buddists have alot to say on this topic...
Today, this day, is all I have. I will not suffer in it. I choose
not to define myself as a victim of chronic physical pain, of someone
who is less than because I am less than physically able or because
I "suffer" chronic physical pain. It is what it is, no more no
less. I will not define myself as an infertile woman, though I am -
it is what it is and in the grand scheme of my life, it is the least
of my worries. I will not lie, and hide and be ashamed for that
which I have no control and could give a chicken sneeze about what
anybody thinks about me or my fertility, or my lack thereof...When I
stand in judgment before God, I can ask him about the cruel joke he
played on me, just as he is kicking me in the pants for the lost
moments of my life, moments lost in .
I do not minimize what others feel - but as has been said many times
of late, we are all different - and it may be that you will feel
perfectly "normal" in the future, if you are free in your heart to
choose it.
Real is something else, entirely.
Great book, by the way - the Feeling Good Handbook - a primer in
cognitive behavioral therapy and how are thoughts create our feelings
(not the other way around).
experience there informs me so much. I dealt with innocent
victims who, for no good reason, were shot, stabbed, set on fire,
thrown out of windows or moving cars, maimed, sexually assaulted, and
murdered. To me, that's .
I also experienced a life-changing injury to both arms, which left me
in chronic phyiscal pain.
Whether one continues to suffer the pain of infertility - or indeed,
whether one suffers during treatment, is not an absoulte given. At
the risk of being kicked in the teeth for saying this, , to
a large extent (IMHO), is a choice. What is is what is - the
comes (for me) in not accepting what is and dwelling it
what might have been or in the "unfairness" of it all. I think the
Buddists have alot to say on this topic...
Today, this day, is all I have. I will not suffer in it. I choose
not to define myself as a victim of chronic physical pain, of someone
who is less than because I am less than physically able or because
I "suffer" chronic physical pain. It is what it is, no more no
less. I will not define myself as an infertile woman, though I am -
it is what it is and in the grand scheme of my life, it is the least
of my worries. I will not lie, and hide and be ashamed for that
which I have no control and could give a chicken sneeze about what
anybody thinks about me or my fertility, or my lack thereof...When I
stand in judgment before God, I can ask him about the cruel joke he
played on me, just as he is kicking me in the pants for the lost
moments of my life, moments lost in .
I do not minimize what others feel - but as has been said many times
of late, we are all different - and it may be that you will feel
perfectly "normal" in the future, if you are free in your heart to
choose it.
Real is something else, entirely.
Great book, by the way - the Feeling Good Handbook - a primer in
cognitive behavioral therapy and how are thoughts create our feelings
(not the other way around).
Suffering
Before motherhood, I was a violent crimes prosecutor in DC. My experience there informs me so much. I dealt with 100% innocent victims who, for no good reason, were shot, stabbed, set on fire, thrown out of windows or moving cars, maimed, sexually assaulted, and murdered. To me, that's suffering.
I also experienced a life-changing injury to both arms, which left me in chronic phyiscal pain. Whether one continues to suffer the pain of infertility - or indeed, whether one suffers during treatment, is not an absolute given. At the risk of being kicked in the teeth for saying this, suffering, to a large extent (imho), is a choice.
The suffering comes (for me) in not accepting what is and dwelling it what might have been or in the "unfairness" of it all. I think the Buddists have alot to say on this topic. It is, in all manner and measurement, so distinct from the true suffering of a malnourished child, a cancer patient holding onto to life in a winless battle, two parents grieving the loss of their only child.
Today, this day, is all I have. I will not suffer in it. I choose not to define myself as a victim of chronic physical pain, of someone who is less than because I am less than physically able or because I "suffer" chronic physical pain. It is what it is, no more no less.
Nor will I will not define myself as an infertile woman, though I am - it is what it is and in the grand scheme of my life, it is the least of my worries. I will not lie, and hide and be ashamed for that which I have no control and could give a chicken sneeze about what anybody thinks about me or my fertility, or my lack thereof. Had I been able to have "my own" children, I would never have the children I have. If requiring an egg donor to create our family is suffering, I say, bring it on.
When I stand in judgment before God, I can ask him about the cruel joke he played on me, just as he is kicking me in the pants for the lost moments of my life, moments lost in suffering. I do not minimize what others feel - but as has been said many times of late, we are all different - and it may be that an infertile woman who later give birth through the donor egg process will feel perfectly "normal" in the future, if one is free in one's heart to choose it. Great book, by the way - the Feeling Good Handbook - a primer in cognitive behavioral therapy and how are thoughts create our feelings (not the other way around).
Modified From MVED: July 20, 2007
I also experienced a life-changing injury to both arms, which left me in chronic phyiscal pain. Whether one continues to suffer the pain of infertility - or indeed, whether one suffers during treatment, is not an absolute given. At the risk of being kicked in the teeth for saying this, suffering, to a large extent (imho), is a choice.
The suffering comes (for me) in not accepting what is and dwelling it what might have been or in the "unfairness" of it all. I think the Buddists have alot to say on this topic. It is, in all manner and measurement, so distinct from the true suffering of a malnourished child, a cancer patient holding onto to life in a winless battle, two parents grieving the loss of their only child.
Today, this day, is all I have. I will not suffer in it. I choose not to define myself as a victim of chronic physical pain, of someone who is less than because I am less than physically able or because I "suffer" chronic physical pain. It is what it is, no more no less.
Nor will I will not define myself as an infertile woman, though I am - it is what it is and in the grand scheme of my life, it is the least of my worries. I will not lie, and hide and be ashamed for that which I have no control and could give a chicken sneeze about what anybody thinks about me or my fertility, or my lack thereof. Had I been able to have "my own" children, I would never have the children I have. If requiring an egg donor to create our family is suffering, I say, bring it on.
When I stand in judgment before God, I can ask him about the cruel joke he played on me, just as he is kicking me in the pants for the lost moments of my life, moments lost in suffering. I do not minimize what others feel - but as has been said many times of late, we are all different - and it may be that an infertile woman who later give birth through the donor egg process will feel perfectly "normal" in the future, if one is free in one's heart to choose it. Great book, by the way - the Feeling Good Handbook - a primer in cognitive behavioral therapy and how are thoughts create our feelings (not the other way around).
Modified From MVED: July 20, 2007
Eye on the Prize: No grief here
I think I am in a distinct minority of women who did not experience much heart ache or grieving about the process of choosing donor egg as a road to family building.
I was 40 when I married, and knew from my own life experience that the likelihood of birthing a healthy child was slim. We got pregnant on our own accidentally when I was 42, and dilly-dallied another 6 months (read that: "trying") before consulting an RE.
When he proposed DE, I had some of the following thoughts:Do I want a child, or do I want my own genetic child? Answer: Child. I was willing to consider adoption, surrogacy and baby theft ala "Raising Arizona," so why not consider "adopting" a cell from a willing donor. What's so great about my genes, that only they would create an "ideal" child for our family? Answer: Nothing. I am attractive and very smart and atheletic, but that fact alone did not gaurantee a "great" kid.. Nothing does.
My mother and grandmother were alcoholics, with manic depression, my dad and his sibs and parents were diabetic, my brother has schizophrenia, I have depression, blah, blah, blah...and everybody dies before they turn 70. I veiwed DE as a way of wiping the gentic slate clean, to some extent and significantly reducing the likelihood of my kids being burdened with all the crap that came withmy genes...
Why DE over adoption? I wanted to influence prenatal health. I didn't care whether I were "pregnant," since pregnancy is fleeting, but I wanted to influence diet, environmental factors, etc. to increase the likelihood of a baby being born healthy and full term.
What was important to me about choosing a donor? Did I need someonewho looks like me or shares by heritage?Answer: No. I wanted someone with a great genetic dossier and lotsof longevity - and blue eyes, since both DH and I come from blue-eyed families. I wanted her to be smart and I wanted her to be fertile.
Since having my kids, I often reflect on the fact that if I had not chosen this road, I would not have these kids. I would have others,and I am sure they would be lovely - but I would not hold my children's hands, hear my children's laughter, or kiss my children's cheeks. I am a highly sensitive and emotionally based person, but in this process, I stepped back and examined it with the same detachment Iwould any major life choice (choosing a spouse, changing careers, selecting a university), recognizing that the road that took me to motherhood was far less significant to me than the destination itself.
While many, if not most, women suffer and struggle with the process along the way, it is, imho, possible to proceed without suffering, especially that which is born of what others may think, or what others may have (i.e., fertility). When we were doing donor selction, my highly scientific husband downloaded many profiles from our clinic's website and created an excel spreadsheet which we sorted and re-sorted based on vairous criteria to see which women kept popping up at the top. We made alist of 12, and went in and sat down with the coordinator and went through in greater detail all of the profiles and medical backgrouonds. The fact that we had a broad fieldd of 12 tells you that we were not "picky" in the pool, but were selective in the end.
I kept my eye on the prize every step of the way and delivered healthy twin boys at 37 weeks (7 lbs and 7 lbs 5 oz). Whatever lingering doubt or sorrow of not being able to use my own eggs was washed down the drain in the operating room with all the other placenta schmutz and I have never looked back, not for a minute and have never felt that I am missing something that most other women I know have - their own genetic children. My love for my sons is absolutely intoxicating, utterly exhilerating and completely boundless. It could not be any greater if I had born them of my owneggs. There's just no way.
From MVED: July 20, 2007
I was 40 when I married, and knew from my own life experience that the likelihood of birthing a healthy child was slim. We got pregnant on our own accidentally when I was 42, and dilly-dallied another 6 months (read that: "trying") before consulting an RE.
When he proposed DE, I had some of the following thoughts:Do I want a child, or do I want my own genetic child? Answer: Child. I was willing to consider adoption, surrogacy and baby theft ala "Raising Arizona," so why not consider "adopting" a cell from a willing donor. What's so great about my genes, that only they would create an "ideal" child for our family? Answer: Nothing. I am attractive and very smart and atheletic, but that fact alone did not gaurantee a "great" kid.. Nothing does.
My mother and grandmother were alcoholics, with manic depression, my dad and his sibs and parents were diabetic, my brother has schizophrenia, I have depression, blah, blah, blah...and everybody dies before they turn 70. I veiwed DE as a way of wiping the gentic slate clean, to some extent and significantly reducing the likelihood of my kids being burdened with all the crap that came withmy genes...
Why DE over adoption? I wanted to influence prenatal health. I didn't care whether I were "pregnant," since pregnancy is fleeting, but I wanted to influence diet, environmental factors, etc. to increase the likelihood of a baby being born healthy and full term.
What was important to me about choosing a donor? Did I need someonewho looks like me or shares by heritage?Answer: No. I wanted someone with a great genetic dossier and lotsof longevity - and blue eyes, since both DH and I come from blue-eyed families. I wanted her to be smart and I wanted her to be fertile.
Since having my kids, I often reflect on the fact that if I had not chosen this road, I would not have these kids. I would have others,and I am sure they would be lovely - but I would not hold my children's hands, hear my children's laughter, or kiss my children's cheeks. I am a highly sensitive and emotionally based person, but in this process, I stepped back and examined it with the same detachment Iwould any major life choice (choosing a spouse, changing careers, selecting a university), recognizing that the road that took me to motherhood was far less significant to me than the destination itself.
While many, if not most, women suffer and struggle with the process along the way, it is, imho, possible to proceed without suffering, especially that which is born of what others may think, or what others may have (i.e., fertility). When we were doing donor selction, my highly scientific husband downloaded many profiles from our clinic's website and created an excel spreadsheet which we sorted and re-sorted based on vairous criteria to see which women kept popping up at the top. We made alist of 12, and went in and sat down with the coordinator and went through in greater detail all of the profiles and medical backgrouonds. The fact that we had a broad fieldd of 12 tells you that we were not "picky" in the pool, but were selective in the end.
I kept my eye on the prize every step of the way and delivered healthy twin boys at 37 weeks (7 lbs and 7 lbs 5 oz). Whatever lingering doubt or sorrow of not being able to use my own eggs was washed down the drain in the operating room with all the other placenta schmutz and I have never looked back, not for a minute and have never felt that I am missing something that most other women I know have - their own genetic children. My love for my sons is absolutely intoxicating, utterly exhilerating and completely boundless. It could not be any greater if I had born them of my owneggs. There's just no way.
From MVED: July 20, 2007
If we can only persevere
It is perfectly understandable to be deeply disappointed by your cancelled cycle.
Perhaps it might be helpful to consider the idea that there is a special child (or children) waiting for you - waiting for you to find them, waiting for you to carry them, waiting for you to birth them and waiting for you to hold and love them forever.
The road to motherhood for those of us with fertility issues is a twisted, bumpy road with lots of crazy circles and unexpected turns in it.
But it is a road with a special destination at which we arrive in due course if we can only persevere.
Perhaps it might be helpful to consider the idea that there is a special child (or children) waiting for you - waiting for you to find them, waiting for you to carry them, waiting for you to birth them and waiting for you to hold and love them forever.
The road to motherhood for those of us with fertility issues is a twisted, bumpy road with lots of crazy circles and unexpected turns in it.
But it is a road with a special destination at which we arrive in due course if we can only persevere.
Envy of the pregnant ladies
On envy of the pregnant ladies:
I don't think you are wrong to feel this way. My DH and I would frequently joke about the "show offs" who were walking around pregnant and tease how we would like to break their legs, or some equally totally wrong thing.
I also have been frequently heard to say that it was a shame I wasn't 15 years old, still in school, unemployed and living withmy parents, because I would most assuredly have been pregnant if I'd had unprotected sex (or drank from the water fountain after a pregnantlady). So, I think envy is right in there with what's normal.
That said, I always reminded myself that pregnancy is not a zero sum game - more for you does not mean less for me. It just means that my time had not yet come. Perhaps the powers that be have a very special child just waiting for you.
From MVED: October 18, 2005
I don't think you are wrong to feel this way. My DH and I would frequently joke about the "show offs" who were walking around pregnant and tease how we would like to break their legs, or some equally totally wrong thing.
I also have been frequently heard to say that it was a shame I wasn't 15 years old, still in school, unemployed and living withmy parents, because I would most assuredly have been pregnant if I'd had unprotected sex (or drank from the water fountain after a pregnantlady). So, I think envy is right in there with what's normal.
That said, I always reminded myself that pregnancy is not a zero sum game - more for you does not mean less for me. It just means that my time had not yet come. Perhaps the powers that be have a very special child just waiting for you.
From MVED: October 18, 2005
They will have questions, as they grow
Here's my two cents: I grieve the loss of my miscarried child (my own eggs, naturally conceived) and will always wonder who that person would have been. I am somewhat comforted by my own notion that miscarried babies are angels called back to heaven. God takes the "best ones" back.
I mark the child's expected due date in my heart, and make time for myself to reflect on that child. I have two sons (twins), conceived using an anonymous donor. I love them more than life itself and cannot imagine that I could possibly love another baby more. When they were born, I frequently described the first month or two (when many moms say life is hell) as "heaven on earth." I recognize that these children do not share my genes - but I wanted a healthy child much, much more than I wanted a child to whom I was genetically related. Our RE put our chances of having a child using my eggs and IVF at 10%. At my age (43), there was a 1 in 30 chance that our child would be born with a major genetic defect. During my DE pregnancy, we chose not to do any pre-natal diagnostic testing (such as amnio or CVS) since we felt confident in the donor's good health. While I might have had wonderful, healthy, happy child using my own eggs- I would not have had my two sons. And I simply cannot imagine life without them.
They will have questions as they grow - and I will do my best to answer them.
from MVED: October 5, 2005
I mark the child's expected due date in my heart, and make time for myself to reflect on that child. I have two sons (twins), conceived using an anonymous donor. I love them more than life itself and cannot imagine that I could possibly love another baby more. When they were born, I frequently described the first month or two (when many moms say life is hell) as "heaven on earth." I recognize that these children do not share my genes - but I wanted a healthy child much, much more than I wanted a child to whom I was genetically related. Our RE put our chances of having a child using my eggs and IVF at 10%. At my age (43), there was a 1 in 30 chance that our child would be born with a major genetic defect. During my DE pregnancy, we chose not to do any pre-natal diagnostic testing (such as amnio or CVS) since we felt confident in the donor's good health. While I might have had wonderful, healthy, happy child using my own eggs- I would not have had my two sons. And I simply cannot imagine life without them.
They will have questions as they grow - and I will do my best to answer them.
from MVED: October 5, 2005
Please, proceed
A similar thing happened to me on the way to the C-Section. We had a C-section scheduled and I was all prepped for surgery (including the epidural). My twins had been breech and transverse for the entire pregnancy. The doctor did a last second ultrasound and found that both boys had turned head down. He peeped over the top of the curtain and said: "What do you want to do? We don't have to deliver today (at 37weeks, 1 day), we can induce and do a vaginal delivery later this week." I told him I had nothing else on my calendar but giving birth, so please, proceed.
from MVED, October 9, 2005
from MVED, October 9, 2005
Well, Why not?
I have been considering starting a blog for a while. Lots of my gal pals have them - and lots of my virtual friends have encouraged me to start one. So, why not?
Part of me has wondered over time, what exactly is a blog? I've never really grasped the concept of the "information superhighway." I've often wondered, WHERE is the internet, anyway? When I started looking into how to do do it, I realized there are about 42 million sites that one could chose from. Again, WHERE are these "sites"? Kentucky, Ohio, Australia, the North Pole?
If a site is a place, I'd like to imagine that this one is located somewhere in the West San Juan Mountains of southewest Colorado, or on the banks of Lake Louise, not far from the grand hotel that has a comfortable coffee shop, or maybe on the shore of the North Carolina Outer Banks, where sometimes the water is so rough, you can't safely dip your toe in it - and other times, so calm, you can paddle out a hundred yards on a cheap inflatable raft and see the fish swimming below you. Maybe, on the other hand, it's just here, with me, and my husband and my kids and my dog, in a cracker box sized house on a dead end street, where the sun pours into the living room each morning, and a brief walk down the street leads you to a bike path that winds east into our nation's capitol, or west to the small town of Purcellville. Or maybe it's nowhere, or everywhere, or anywhere I am.
In any case, I finally navigated my way through the "basic" startup process, figured out a name for the blog and decided that if people were interested in what happens in my little corner of this vast universe, they would come to this place, wherever it is. I figured, too, that I could use this as a way of recording the here and now, the memories of my former life, my hopes for the future, to save for my children, should they ever be so inclined to have a closer look into my mind and heart. "Someday" I hope to make a scrap book or two. Someday, I hope to print a couple hundred of the thousands of photographs I have taken of my family over the last few years, which now reside curiously in another virtual place. For now, I will collect my thoughts here.
I've decided to search some of the archives on the list serves that I belong to and reproduce some of my posts from the last few years. Is that cheating? Maybe. But like so many other things in my life, my thoughts are scattered - sprinkled in archives across the vast information superhighway, like dandelion puffs in the the wind. I want to put them in one place, as a start.
So, if you have found me, welcome.
In any case, I finally navigated my way through the "basic" startup process, figured out a name for the blog and decided that if people were interested in what happens in my little corner of this vast universe, they would come to this place, wherever it is. I figured, too, that I could use this as a way of recording the here and now, the memories of my former life, my hopes for the future, to save for my children, should they ever be so inclined to have a closer look into my mind and heart. "Someday" I hope to make a scrap book or two. Someday, I hope to print a couple hundred of the thousands of photographs I have taken of my family over the last few years, which now reside curiously in another virtual place. For now, I will collect my thoughts here.
I've decided to search some of the archives on the list serves that I belong to and reproduce some of my posts from the last few years. Is that cheating? Maybe. But like so many other things in my life, my thoughts are scattered - sprinkled in archives across the vast information superhighway, like dandelion puffs in the the wind. I want to put them in one place, as a start.
So, if you have found me, welcome.
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