Guinea Pig

I’ve been reading and listening to a lot of materials on disciplining and setting limits for babies and toddlers. I’ve discovered that we’re already behind with our 21-month-old. Who knew? Now, I’m not saying that we let him run amuck by any means, but according to a few sources, we were supposed to start being firm with limits when he was nine months. Seriously? Nine months? How was I supposed to know that? To me he still seemed like a helpless thing that needed me when he cried. So it seems these books are telling me that he was a little faker. I didn’t necessarily go running to him with every whimper, but I’m not sure that I totally “set limits” either. So does this mean my child is already messed up for life? Did my parental ignorance already create a monster before his second birthday? I highly doubt it. Thankfully he is a good kid and we do have limits for him, but what I’m wondering is how we new parents are to have any clue whatsoever as to what to do with our first child.

Unfortunately for them, they are the test subjects, the guinea pigs of the family. You try, you read, you learn, you discover and then you make adjustments for subsequent kids. That seems to be the typical pattern. And for the most part, there are firstborns who turn out all right, but when reading some books I wonder how that would be possible unless the parent has a PhD in child development when starting this gig. It just seems to me that what should be a natural process (raising, rearing and nurturing your child) has become the exact opposite in our culture—unnatural. Perhaps some of that has to do with our society of individuals. Villages no longer raise children, so many of us are not exposed to the different developmental stages once we pass through them unless we intentionally work with children later in our lives.

Just after Jonas was born, his doctor visited us in the hospital and asked if we had any questions. I looked at the little foreigner in my arms and said, “Yeah. Are we supposed to take him home with us?” I have friends whose first child was two-and-a-half months premature. Thankfully he developed just fine. They tell how it was actually nice having him in the hospital for so long because it gave them time to learn and ask questions. When they took him home, they knew and understood what to do. And yet for full-termers, we are handed a swaddled thing moments after birth and told “congratulations.” Congratulations? Am I really responsible for this? How can I be? What do I know about child development, psychology, disciplining, educating…? Give me a cat and I’m fine, but a human baby? Due to my preference for animals, my mom always told me when I was younger that I would make a great mom as long as I gave birth to an animal. I now understand how full of wisdom those words were.

And so each day is a learning experience, for us both. I just hope and pray I don’t make any lasting negative impressions on him, but what parent doesn’t do that to their child? Would psychologists exist if they didn’t? I am grateful for the fact that memories don’t develop right away and that basic human needs come before sarcasm and judgment. But on some days, when I read some books or when I just don’t understand what to do next, how I long for my biggest worry to be about keeping him from digging and squatting in the potted plants.

Roses

What is in a name? Juliet begged to ask this question of Romeo by saying, “That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.” That may be true, but I think I have the real answer to the question. Everything is in a name. In this world where we attempt to quickly pass judgment, a name is the first label and indication we have as to what the person might be like. Is that right? Of course not, but look at the parents naming their children Apple and Moonbeam. If it weren’t the case, would we balk and wonder what those children’s psychiatric bills will be later in life?

So knowing the importance of a good name puts a parent-to-be under quite a lot of pressure. As much as I’d love to pay homage to my favorite movie It’s a Wonderful Life, I know that I cannot send my child into the world with a nametag that reads “ZuZu.” Sure, I think the name is sweet, but clearly I am in the minority there—trust me, I’ve asked and people have assured me that therapists would be necessary for precious little ZuZu. So again, back to the drawing board we go. With our first son, the name came so easily. We loved the sound, origin and meaning. Likewise other boy names naturally followed (we have a few in reserve…just in case), but now with this 99 percent chance of having a girl, we are stumped. Our creative juices have halted. The natural current of thoughts suddenly changed and reversed their flow. We have read name books and websites. We have listened for girl names in stores, on TV, in news articles (no, we will not be going with Hillary) and we are still stumped. Is this a forecast of how this child will be for us? Challenging us from the get go? Or is it that we have put too much pressure on ourselves? All we want is a simple, not too long, not too short, not too common, not too strange name that has a good meaning (no offense to my mother-in-law, but we prefer something with a bit more meaning than “of Beavers” as her name implies). Is that too much to ask? Apparently so. Thankfully we still have a few months to search and test because the last thing we want to do is send our child into the world with a label she must explain or defend every time she meets someone new. Even if the name sounded fine for a precious little baby, somehow I don’t see our country’s first woman president being named Moonbeam and sadly not ZuZu either…no matter how sweet that rose smells.

Itsagirl

A few months ago, my husband and I heard some words we weren’t expecting. They were the type that could knock you over, take the wind out of you, make you question the world and your place in it. You see, since we met over a decade ago, we always planned on having three boys. Their names would be Jonas Elijah, Noah Matthew and Gabriel Ethan (after convincing Matt that Mark, Luke and John were not options). This plan was set in place before we married and it became an assumption for us. Our first child seemed privy to the plan as he entered the world and became Jonas Elijah. Now, as he also began his existence by screaming for the first hour of his life and refusing to sleep for the first year, we began to rethink our plan of having three. Maybe two would be enough. But still, regardless of the number, they would be boys.

Then one spring Wednesday, as I lay on the examining table, stomach covered in gelatinous goop, we heard some words that our minds could not quite comprehend, “From this angle, I’m 99 percent certain it’s a girl.” Excuse me? I wanted to ask the ultrasound tech to check again, but in that moment no words would come. I lay there, looking at my husband with confusion and fear. What did she just say? The only things to escape my lips were “uh oh” and awkward laughter. In the darkness of that room our plan began to crumble around us. How could this be? We have no girl names picked out. We have no girl clothes, girl accessories, ribbons, bows, Barbies. And I don’t want any. I have a fear of the color pink. I cannot stand princesses (what, are girls not good enough to be queens?). In that moment, my world turned upside down. I spent the rest of the day attempting to adjust. Of course I would love this child regardless of gender, but you see, nowhere in the plan of my life did I intend to explain puberty and menstrual flows to an adolescent girl. I had no intention of learning to French braid or pick out a prom dress. I had no problem with shopping for cleats and supportive athletic undergarments, but gowns. Really?

Over the past few months we have adjusted to the news though a part of me still doesn’t totally believe it. Certainty will come only when the midwife announces “itsaboy” or “itsagirl” in the delivery room. Until that time comes, I am preparing as best I can, purchasing pink clothes and investigating chastity belts. But as we wait, one quote keeps playing over and over in my mind, “People plan. God laughs.” I believe that. And I believe on that spring day God had quite a good chuckle. And he’s still laughing now as we fumble through baby names and learn new folds for cloth diapering a girl. And he’ll laugh even harder when our little girl says those words we already dread, “There’s this boy….”

Leash

Since birth and perhaps even before that, Jonas has been infatuated with our decade-old golden retriever, Brinkley. He loves petting him, laying on him, and even saddling him with cloth diapers and riding him like a horse. Thankfully Brinkley has the most laid back disposition of any dog I’ve ever seen, but perhaps he’s just giving up in his old age. Currently one of Jonas’ favorite activities is running track-star like through our house, chasing his father and of course, the dog. If the dog doesn’t want to participate, Jonas stops and yells “Ba-Boo” (toddler-speak for Brinkely) until Matt coaxes the poor K-9 into joining the fun. Jonas even enjoys feeding Brink and has occasionally attempted to lap up water alongside him. With such a deep appreciation for and desire to sometimes be like his furry friend, perhaps I shouldn’t worry about treating them somewhat similarly. After all, if it worked for the dog, maybe it would work for him.

On our shopping trip last night, we decided to try a new device with our son: a leash…I mean a child harness (the really ironic thing is that we did this at PetSmart of all places). I had been mulling over the possibility of using a harness for a bit. Part of me thinks it’s a good idea for safety reasons…the kid does have a tendency to run in any direction at any given time. But the other part of me thinks it is just a failure on my part to properly teach him to listen and wait for our cues before taking off. Regardless, a friend lent us a cute little stuffed dog harness that Jonas could wear as a backpack. So off we went into the pet store, treating our child as others were treating their dogs (all except the lady who was actually using the child seat in the shopping cart for her dog…that was an interesting juxtaposition…seated dog, leashed toddler). Jonas didn’t seem to mind the leash too much, but I must say that I was very conscious of it. Of course it was our first attempt, but still, I wondered, do I really want to train my child the same way I trained my dog? But when I really think about it, Brinkley is a well-behaved dog. He comes on command, sits and stays, lays down until released and walks beside us on a leash. This dog knows who the pack leader is. He listens for our commands and acts accordingly. So what is wrong with teaching my child those same things? Don’t I want him to listen to me just as well? To come when I call him? To not run out in front of a car when a rabbit crosses the street? Of course. For Brinkley it took some hours in dog obedience class to get him to where he is now. I’m not saying I’m ready to fit Jonas with a prong collar and walk him in a circle for hours until he learns to stay beside us. But sometimes I think, along the lines of puppy kindergarten, I wouldn’t mind signing up for toddler obedience training, especially if they could help us with the housebreaking.

Expectant Athlete

For the fourth year in a row, our good friends the Kaysers held their annual badminton tournament—a serious sporting event filled with competitor’s anxious to take down the competition, especially those who are previous winners. And for the second year in a row, I’m happy to announce that my husband and I took home the top honor. That’s right, six months pregnant and all, we stormed through the field of serious athletes (or at least dedicated trash talkers) to take home the first place trophies much to everyone’s surprise…including our own (but perhaps our sober minds helped attribute to our win and other teams’ demises). They also honored us with the MVP awards, I think more out of awe than anything else. One fellow competitor who caste her vote for me said, “If you can play when you’re six months pregnant and still win, you deserve to be MVP.”

A lot of people were surprised that I decided to play, after all, since I’m pregnant, shouldn’t I be sitting in the air conditioned house, relaxing in the recliner with my feet propped up, remote in one hand and Ben & Jerry’s in the other? Are you kidding me? Am I really that fragile and delicate? Will I break if a strong wind comes along? I don’t think so. Often we view pregnant women as suffering from some ailment, cautiously watching them for any signs of discomfort and possible tragedy. But really, this isn’t a disease that is out to take our lives. It’s a natural, healthy process. Now, I realize that not every woman has a pregnancy that would allow her to compete athletically (I use that term loosely in reference to my badminton play), but I have been blessed with the health to permit a certain degree of heart-pumping exercise. And I’m going to take advantage of it. Now, I must clarify that my husband is a stellar athlete, so he was able to cover much of the court that my limited mobility didn’t allow me to reach. Even so, why would I spend nine months with my feet propped up when I can stay active and keep moving, hopefully increasing my chances for a quicker, healthier, less painful delivery (hopefully). After all, delivery is a marathon in and of itself (a 16 hour one per my first child). So, no, I’m not going to sit on the sidelines and cheer for my husband to continue our winning streak. I’m going to be out there on the court with him serving up the birdie and blocking back returns. I am not going to use this pregnancy as an excuse to eat my weight in chocolate for months on end. Just imagine, there are women working in rice paddies up until and even during delivery (yes, I had to bring the rice paddies into it), so why not allow myself to stretch my legs every once in a while? To feel myself move? To enjoy a little bit of competition? And to take home some shiny trophies at the end of the day? After that I can kick back in the recliner with my chocolate chip cookies in hand.

Genes

We visited Matt’s grandma a while ago and, as always, she just gushed all over Jonas—he’s just so cute, precious, full of energy. And then she said something that took my breath away. She said, “I miss having little ones around the house. I just loved taking care of little kids. Oh, to have babies again.” We sort of laughed at first and said, “Oh, yeah. They grow so fast….” But she was steadfast in her opinion that having babies and small children to care for was perhaps the greatest season in her life. I should point out that Grandma has Alzheimer’s, but in this statement, she seemed completely coherent and certain of how she felt. And I suddenly felt grossly inferior. This was a woman who raised four children on a farm, while taking care of day-to-day tasks sans the modern conveniences of microwaves, pizza delivery and even in-door plumbing for a time. I wouldn’t doubt it if she walked up hill both ways in 10 feet of snow to get to the grocery store every week…even during the summer. At least in that moment, I felt this woman was invincible. This woman who repeatedly asked how old Jonas was, while sometimes struggling to remember her own age, suddenly seemed like Wonder Woman to me. I realize every age and stage has its ups and downs, but standing here, in the midst of Toddler-dom and awaiting Baby-dom Part 2, I have a hard time fathoming that I will someday miss having totally dependent creatures that scream because I chose to read Goodnight Moon instead of Green Eggs and Ham. I welcome a time free of diapers, limited vocabulary and spontaneous vomiting. So hearing Grandma’s desire to go through it again made me wonder: am I missing some sort of gene?

I’ve wondered about this gene thing for a while. Is it something we are naturally born with? The Mom Gene? Some genes determine eye color, height or disposition. The Mom Gene causes random cooing, sugary sweetness, and baby-dar that helps them locate and desire to hold all babies within a mile radius. Or is it how we are raised, taught, reared? Maybe I am just a part of a generation of whiners who complain about raising a kid in a time when we have more conveniences than ever before. Or perhaps it is just a memory thing. Maybe some day I will look back and wish to have a baby to hold in my arms, rock endlessly, nurse for months on end, spit up all over me, cry the moment I finally fall asleep. I suppose only time (or geneticists) will tell, but right now, I feel like I know the future.

Precious

During one of our garage sale expeditions the other day, we purchased for our dear child a toy that he has absolutely fallen in love with. No, it wasn’t the just-his-size basketball hoop or the completely decked out plastic tool bench. From the moment he saw it at the sale, he ran to it, grabbed it and didn’t want to let it go. Being the generous parent I am, I decided that my son deserved this gift. So with great delight I conjured up the 50 cents that was required to purchase him a well-used, pink and purple shopping cart. He proudly pushed his cart along as we walked away from the sale, struggling to navigate the bumpy sidewalk terrain. I offered to lend him a hand a few times, but this prize being so precious to him, he refused my assistance and instead insisted on doing it himself. This was HIS shopping cart, HIS treasure. He wanted no one else to touch it. As we walked along, I noticed something I hadn’t before. The handle on the cart was cracked on one side and looked as though it would give way at any minute. I thought to myself, “Well, it was only 50 cents. At least it will keep him occupied for a few minutes until it finally breaks.”

For the past few days, he has been delighted every morning to rediscover this new treasure. He walks into the living room, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and lighting up as he sees the nearly broken cart sitting empty, waiting for the next journey around the house (much to the dog’s chagrin as he is often the target for the cart’s adventures). So far, the cheap plastic has withheld the use and abuse and has not given way. And much to my surprise, his excitement in the cart has not yet waned either.

So watching him with this cracked 50-cent toy makes me wonder: why is it we spend so much on filling our children’s lives and toy boxes with such expensive items that light up, make noise and julienne fries when something so simple often satisfies them? Of course all the baby stores and toy aisles tell parents differently, feeding on our emotions and trying to coax us into expensive purchases that will make our child the next Einstein. But I suppose that’s exactly the reason we want to give them the “best”—because in desiring to be good parents, we want to bless them and fill their lives with things that will make them happy. We often forget that happiness can come from those little, unexpected things like a cracked, pink and purple shopping cart with a 50-cent price tag. When will I learn from my little toddler that the simplest thing can be the most precious?

Rain

Last night we’re getting ready to set out on a bike ride—the little one safely secured in his trailer with us poised, ready to head down the driveway and set out on our journey. And then, out of nowhere, it begins to rain. I don’t mean just a sprinkle, but a full-fledged rain that turns into a momentary down pour. All the while, the sun brightly shines and the sky above is clear. Now sure it was hot and humid and we thought it had the potential to rain, but those ominous clouds had passed us and the sky overhead seemed to be giving us the okay. Nothing above indicated precipitation, yet there it was…above us, around us and on us. We just stood there in shock and awe. Where is this coming from? How can rain form out of nothing? And then as suddenly as the rain had begun, so did our laughter.

For nearly 10 minutes we stood there, watching this phenomenon, while laughing whole-heartedly. The natural laws did not seem to make sense. Rain must come from somewhere, right? A cloud should be present, shouldn’t it? But it didn’t really matter because for those brief minutes during that unexplained shower, everything else was forgotten and we just stood there enjoying the moment. I remember loving rainstorms as a kid, not minding getting wet and looking forward to the opportunity to walk barefoot through mud puddles. When was the last time that happened? And when was the last time I laughed, full out, from the gut, with no cares in the world, just as a child so freely does? Should it only take an atmospheric anomaly for that to happen? Perhaps not, but I am grateful one coaxed me into it.

Pain

My 20-month-old was pegged in the face with a golf ball. Sounds painful, right? Don’t worry, it didn’t bruise, but this was a moment when I wouldn’t have blamed him for crying and running to the comfort of his mother’s arms (unlike when he turns on the water works after stumbling onto the dog who breaks his fall and needs more comfort than the child does). Yet he did nothing. He stopped. He stood. He rubbed the spot a bit. And then he moved on. So this got me to thinking: is pain all relative? Does it have anything to actually do with receptors and synapses?

I was recently talking with a friend of mine who is pregnant with her first. Two months away from delivery, she wanted to know about my first delivery. I like being honest, but try to not scare first timers with exaggerated details of what 16 hours of natural labor actually feels like. But, I did make the comment that when real labor started, the pain of it caught me off guard. Was I not expecting pain? No, I was, but let’s just say the intensity was something I had never experienced, nor could I have imagined (like having your hand snapped in a rat trap repeatedly for hours on end). Yet, I went through hours of feeling that extreme discomfort and being present in every moment of it. I made it and will be going through it again in a few months (yes, yes, still planning the natural route). So why is it that I can get a paper cut or leg cramp and suddenly feel the world is coming to an end? Because of one word: attitude.

I firmly believe that your attitude is your choice. It’s not something that just happens to you. You can choose to be sunny or stormy. When it came to labor, I had no choice. I did it to the best of my ability, knowing an end was in sight. I prepared mentally and physically as much as I could. So perhaps that is also why a slight stumble onto a cushioned surface can set my toddler into a tizzy on one day. Yet a golf ball near the eye at close range can be brushed aside and forgotten about in the matter of a few seconds. He chooses (though on a deeply subconscious level) to let some adversity sting and other just roll off him. Adults also have the power to make that choice though on more of a conscious level. But you know, on those days when it does sting, how I wish I had someone to pick me up, hold me close and reassure me. No judgment. No eye rolling. No I-told-you-so. Just unconditional comfort. That might just make the pain that much more bearable.

Maternity Clothes

The other day I saw a quite pregnant woman walking down the street. She was typical enough, heading towards her car, carrying her fast-food dinner in one hand and hiking up her pants with the other. Ah, the ever-familiar pants hike move. Step, step, tug, pull, step, straighten. I felt an instant camaraderie with her and not because we were both growing little people inside us, but because of the months-long struggle with our attire.

I think it’s true when people say mothers somehow forget the pain and annoyance that comes with pregnancy and delivery. If not, why else would we sign up for another tour of duty? When I think about pregnancy number one, I remember the good (the little kicks and gentle movements) and the not-so good (the inability to tie my own shoes). But long had I forgotten the seemingly never-ending struggle with maternity clothes. I must’ve sealed up that memory and packed it away in the Ziploc bag beneath my bed. Then, as I dusted off and unsealed that bag just a few months ago, I was rudely reminded of those trials and tribulations. I slipped on my old over-the-belly jeans and spent the rest of the day pulling them and my underwear back in place. And so the cycle has continued. I’ve tried it all…under, over and around this growing lump and yet nothing stays in place. And don’t get me started on the shirts. Is there a law written somewhere that says pregnant women must show off their ever-enlarging breasts?

So my question is: have designers yet to see a pregnant woman in real life? Or is the issue that no material known to man has the integrity to withstand such growth? At what point will designers find a way to keep pants from falling, shorts from riding and necklines from plunging without charging exorbitant prices for something that gets a few months use? Is this just a law of nature designed to prepare us for the upcoming annoyances and inconveniences that come with newborns? Perhaps this is the early birth pain God told Eve about. Or maybe Motherhood Maternity needs to start offering suspenders and turtlenecks. Until then, it’s step, step, tug, pull, step, straighten.

Motherhood

I once heard that you don’t love your children because they are yours. You love them because of the time and care you put into them. I suppose that goes along with the “love is an action, not a feeling” school of thought. Many times we assume you are suddenly filled with awe and wonder at the first sight of your child in that delivery room. You cry over the fingers and toes. You smell the head. You kiss the cheeks. That’s what they show in the movies, right? Then why was it that when I first saw my little boy, I didn’t cry with jubilation (though after four hours of pushing, I did sigh with relief) or mentally map out the landscape of his body. Instead, as we listened to him cry for the first hour of his life, Matt and I looked at each other wondering what we had gotten ourselves into. Sure, we were happy to finally meet him, to put a face with the name we had so carefully chosen months prior. But in that moment, we knew our lives were forever changed and the dichotomy of the relief in seeing a healthy baby and being faced with the inconsolable cries of a newborn, put us right in the middle of parenthood—the upsides and the downsides lay before us, swaddled in a blanket beneath a standard-issue pink and blue hat.

Some 20 months later, as each impending tantrum rears its ugly head, I am reminded of those first moments of his life. The last year and a half have been full of “character building” (a.k.a. pull-out-your-hair) moments, yet something deep inside prevents me from posting him on eBay (aside from the legal ramifications). It is that care and that time and that relationship that has formed because of all the sleepless nights, endless rocking, never-ending nursing and countless diaper changes that has brought us to this point. When that little guy calls for his Mama or wraps his little arms around me and lays his head on my shoulder, I catch a glimpse of why we put ourselves through this roller coaster experience. And the recognition of that is what keeps me going even when there is vomit to be cleaned.