- March and Madness -- Lizbeth Finn-Arnold
- The Boobie Tube -- Lizbeth Finn-Arnold
- Fear and Loathing in Gymboree -- Regina Walker
- Different Theories -- Regina Walker
- Dissertation Distress -- Joanne Detore-Nakamura, Ph.d
- Cracking The Snow-Globe -- Karin M. Round
- The Scarf -- Maureen Reed
- Frat Boys -- Julia Watts
- No Hassle Child-Rearing -- Cathy James
- Mid-Life Crisis -- Joanne Richards
- Magic Mountain -- Carol Zapata-Whelan
- Past Counting -- Mary B. Johnston
Showing posts with label March 2003. Show all posts
Showing posts with label March 2003. Show all posts
MARCH 2003
The MARCH MADNESS Issue:
Magic Mountain
By Carol Zapata-Whelan
Our life is a Magic Mountain. I realized this the day I was in the California theme park's Gotham City, strapped to a giant wheel -- THE GRINDER -- revolving at atomic, perpendicular, and paralyzing speeds. My then 13-year-old son, Vincent, was enjoying the ride, while I kept my eyes shut. "Are you okay, Mom?" he yelled into space. All I could answer -- after we had stopped spinning -- was that I had been thinking about fainting. "Don't worry, Mom," Vincent told me. "If you had passed out, the centrifugal force would have kept you standing." This is the same force that operates in our home.
My husband, Walt, and I have five children. Life is a white-knuckled revolution around conflicting events, sudden trips to the doctor, lost homework, disappearing shoes, report cards signed at red lights, and backseat fights. I know of other mothers whose children never arrive anywhere short of breath, whose sons wear the same brand of shoe on each foot, whose daughters have real parts in their hair. Some might say I have a good excuse for the dizzied orbit of our life, but I know better. It has always been this way -- even before everything got harder nine years ago.
Nine years ago, our perfectly healthy son, Vincent, started limping. The limp persisted, confounding the finest doctors, white tunnels and bone scans. Vincent was diagnosed with Fibrodysplasia Ossificans Progressiva, FOP for short, a rare genetic disorder that turns muscle and connective tissues into bone, building a second skeleton that completely immobilizes the body over time.
Nine years ago, Vincent played soccer and baseball like his brothers Brian and Lucas; today, he cannot raise his arms high enough to comb his hair; he is unable to bend down low enough to tie his shoes. FOP is a monumental force that harrows the muscles at random with painful tumor-like swellings that rise, shift and fall, leaving ridges of bone in their wake. And because even slight trauma can accelerate FOP's progress, Vincent must no longer play organized sports. A minor fall can have the consequences of a car accident.
Vincent has raged against FOP, but he adjusts to its sudden shifts with a determination and grace that catch me by the throat. For four years, he strove mightily in his high school marching band, and in his first year of high school won the title of "Most Courageous" as his band, combined with five other Central California ensembles, won first place in a competition-parade in Hawaii. His courage is evident in an unusually generous spirit: Vincent is usually the one in the family who will patiently help friends with math or follow our youngest around a playground. Though sidelined, he has rooted or played trumpet in band at his brothers' basketball games. And I have learned something vital, essential, in witnessing my son’s spirit, in following this spirit to the small footholds of grace that appear along the way to right us.
In this column I will be writing about those footholds: what I’ve learned about struggle, light, faith, good days and bad. I will be writing what I've learned from my brave son Vincent, but also from his older brother Brian, his younger brother, Lucas, and his little sisters, Celine and Isabel. I have learned more from my family, from the paths each member takes and crosses, than from the all the books I’ve read for a Ph.D. in Comparative Literature. And really, it's all of us who follow the hidden path of FOP, though it is Vincent who lives with it in his bones with fortitude and grace.
Vincent’s FOP may be a catastrophe that strikes one in two million, but my son’s struggle, our struggle, is not especially different from anyone else’s efforts to stay standing despite the twists, turns, and breakneck falls that life can spring on us. Our family’s particulars may be unique, but -- as the truism goes -- struggle is universal. And I think that when we see someone like Vincent move gracefully with a great burden, we take heart.
I believe in a Divine Plan. I believe that part of this Plan is that my husband and I must guide our children through what I can only call "Magic Mountain," a dizzying, exhilarating, white-knuckling life. It did not take me long to realize, the day I accompanied Vincent to the roller coaster park called Magic Mountain -- on an eighth grade graduation trip -- why I felt no more fatigue than at the end of our "normal" days. I knew why my eager son never once blanched or balked on the harrowing roll of the tracks. It was because it all felt hauntingly familiar. And surmountable.
*******
The above essay is excerpted from Finding Magic Mountain: Life with Five Glorious Kids and a Rogue Gene Called FOP. This essay was first published in Rotary International's The Rotarian Magazine in March 2002. Permission granted by Rotary International. A version was also published in Hispanic Link News Service in August 2001.
Our life is a Magic Mountain. I realized this the day I was in the California theme park's Gotham City, strapped to a giant wheel -- THE GRINDER -- revolving at atomic, perpendicular, and paralyzing speeds. My then 13-year-old son, Vincent, was enjoying the ride, while I kept my eyes shut. "Are you okay, Mom?" he yelled into space. All I could answer -- after we had stopped spinning -- was that I had been thinking about fainting. "Don't worry, Mom," Vincent told me. "If you had passed out, the centrifugal force would have kept you standing." This is the same force that operates in our home.
My husband, Walt, and I have five children. Life is a white-knuckled revolution around conflicting events, sudden trips to the doctor, lost homework, disappearing shoes, report cards signed at red lights, and backseat fights. I know of other mothers whose children never arrive anywhere short of breath, whose sons wear the same brand of shoe on each foot, whose daughters have real parts in their hair. Some might say I have a good excuse for the dizzied orbit of our life, but I know better. It has always been this way -- even before everything got harder nine years ago.
Nine years ago, our perfectly healthy son, Vincent, started limping. The limp persisted, confounding the finest doctors, white tunnels and bone scans. Vincent was diagnosed with Fibrodysplasia Ossificans Progressiva, FOP for short, a rare genetic disorder that turns muscle and connective tissues into bone, building a second skeleton that completely immobilizes the body over time.
Nine years ago, Vincent played soccer and baseball like his brothers Brian and Lucas; today, he cannot raise his arms high enough to comb his hair; he is unable to bend down low enough to tie his shoes. FOP is a monumental force that harrows the muscles at random with painful tumor-like swellings that rise, shift and fall, leaving ridges of bone in their wake. And because even slight trauma can accelerate FOP's progress, Vincent must no longer play organized sports. A minor fall can have the consequences of a car accident.
Vincent has raged against FOP, but he adjusts to its sudden shifts with a determination and grace that catch me by the throat. For four years, he strove mightily in his high school marching band, and in his first year of high school won the title of "Most Courageous" as his band, combined with five other Central California ensembles, won first place in a competition-parade in Hawaii. His courage is evident in an unusually generous spirit: Vincent is usually the one in the family who will patiently help friends with math or follow our youngest around a playground. Though sidelined, he has rooted or played trumpet in band at his brothers' basketball games. And I have learned something vital, essential, in witnessing my son’s spirit, in following this spirit to the small footholds of grace that appear along the way to right us.
In this column I will be writing about those footholds: what I’ve learned about struggle, light, faith, good days and bad. I will be writing what I've learned from my brave son Vincent, but also from his older brother Brian, his younger brother, Lucas, and his little sisters, Celine and Isabel. I have learned more from my family, from the paths each member takes and crosses, than from the all the books I’ve read for a Ph.D. in Comparative Literature. And really, it's all of us who follow the hidden path of FOP, though it is Vincent who lives with it in his bones with fortitude and grace.
Vincent’s FOP may be a catastrophe that strikes one in two million, but my son’s struggle, our struggle, is not especially different from anyone else’s efforts to stay standing despite the twists, turns, and breakneck falls that life can spring on us. Our family’s particulars may be unique, but -- as the truism goes -- struggle is universal. And I think that when we see someone like Vincent move gracefully with a great burden, we take heart.
I believe in a Divine Plan. I believe that part of this Plan is that my husband and I must guide our children through what I can only call "Magic Mountain," a dizzying, exhilarating, white-knuckling life. It did not take me long to realize, the day I accompanied Vincent to the roller coaster park called Magic Mountain -- on an eighth grade graduation trip -- why I felt no more fatigue than at the end of our "normal" days. I knew why my eager son never once blanched or balked on the harrowing roll of the tracks. It was because it all felt hauntingly familiar. And surmountable.
*******
The above essay is excerpted from Finding Magic Mountain: Life with Five Glorious Kids and a Rogue Gene Called FOP. This essay was first published in Rotary International's The Rotarian Magazine in March 2002. Permission granted by Rotary International. A version was also published in Hispanic Link News Service in August 2001.
Mid-Life Crisis
By Jo Richards
There's a lot to be said for living your youth at the right time of your life. I think I was middle-aged in my teens, and that might be how I ended up a divorcee, welfare mother to a 16-month-old daughter, by the ripe age of 24. I had no concept of the youthful experience that many of my friends spoke about. Thus, by the time my daughter was three, and I was suffering the grief of losing my father, I was ready for something along the lines of a mid-life crisis,
My circle of friends became much younger, and rougher. I dated a 19-year-old boy, and when I was a 27-year-old woman, I got my nose pierced, and dyed my hair with red stripes. All pretty innocent as far as my daughter's upbringing is concerned. That was unless you looked deeper into my world. There I was with a group of teenagers, driving around the streets at high speeds and erratically, while my daughter tagged along. She was strapped into the carseat, way past anyone's definition of a three-year-old's bedtime.
Some nights, I put her to sleep on a teenager's grotty sofa while up to 15 people smoked cigarettes around her in a poorly-ventilated one room flat. She suffered the uncertainty of what each day held, and slept through a 10-hour drive half way acros the state with that 19-year-old and myself taking turns driving, feeling fatigued, and not realizing how careless we were being to her, and the others we had packed into the car. We didn't need to go anywhere -- we just wanted to go for amusement.
She got to watch my elder cousin overdose on prescription drugs and alcohol in our lounge room, and see me call the ambulance, and cry as they took him away, not knowing if he'd live or die. She had the experience of being taken to a wild party, where she lapped up the cuddles of my 15-year-old cousin who handed her back to me just in time to see that cousin, the one my daughter called 'the nice girl,' physically assault three drunken males that were looking for someone to fight.
Looking back, it was a pretty scary existence for me, which makes me wonder how scary it was for her. I'm not proud of it, or that I was always angry from lack of sleep. There was more than one occasion that it manifested itself in violence -- resulting in me hitting one of the teenagers because they woke my daughter up at night, or in me hitting my daughter because things just weren't working with me playing mama, while trying to have a "misspent youth" at that stage of my life.
Finally, my mother and sister intervened. And I'm glad they did before child protective services were called. They took my daughter for a sleepover, and by night two, the little voice on the phone said, "I wanna stay here, if you're still mad." I realized I might never get my child back if I didn't change my ways very quickly.
I had already bid the 19-year-old boy goodbye. I posted a notice on my front door that read: THIS IS NOT A DROP-IN CENTRE. NO VISITORS AFTER 9 PM.
It was weird trying to readjust my life, and focus it back on my daughter's well being, and my own. But I did it. The temper tantrums from me stopped. Food was served on time once more, and my daughter stopped going for days without a bath. I ironed clothes for the first time in months, and I dusted.
I think I morphed back into an adult, which is what I should have been all along.
There's a lot to be said for living your youth at the right time of your life. I think I was middle-aged in my teens, and that might be how I ended up a divorcee, welfare mother to a 16-month-old daughter, by the ripe age of 24. I had no concept of the youthful experience that many of my friends spoke about. Thus, by the time my daughter was three, and I was suffering the grief of losing my father, I was ready for something along the lines of a mid-life crisis,
My circle of friends became much younger, and rougher. I dated a 19-year-old boy, and when I was a 27-year-old woman, I got my nose pierced, and dyed my hair with red stripes. All pretty innocent as far as my daughter's upbringing is concerned. That was unless you looked deeper into my world. There I was with a group of teenagers, driving around the streets at high speeds and erratically, while my daughter tagged along. She was strapped into the carseat, way past anyone's definition of a three-year-old's bedtime.
Some nights, I put her to sleep on a teenager's grotty sofa while up to 15 people smoked cigarettes around her in a poorly-ventilated one room flat. She suffered the uncertainty of what each day held, and slept through a 10-hour drive half way acros the state with that 19-year-old and myself taking turns driving, feeling fatigued, and not realizing how careless we were being to her, and the others we had packed into the car. We didn't need to go anywhere -- we just wanted to go for amusement.
She got to watch my elder cousin overdose on prescription drugs and alcohol in our lounge room, and see me call the ambulance, and cry as they took him away, not knowing if he'd live or die. She had the experience of being taken to a wild party, where she lapped up the cuddles of my 15-year-old cousin who handed her back to me just in time to see that cousin, the one my daughter called 'the nice girl,' physically assault three drunken males that were looking for someone to fight.
Looking back, it was a pretty scary existence for me, which makes me wonder how scary it was for her. I'm not proud of it, or that I was always angry from lack of sleep. There was more than one occasion that it manifested itself in violence -- resulting in me hitting one of the teenagers because they woke my daughter up at night, or in me hitting my daughter because things just weren't working with me playing mama, while trying to have a "misspent youth" at that stage of my life.
Finally, my mother and sister intervened. And I'm glad they did before child protective services were called. They took my daughter for a sleepover, and by night two, the little voice on the phone said, "I wanna stay here, if you're still mad." I realized I might never get my child back if I didn't change my ways very quickly.
I had already bid the 19-year-old boy goodbye. I posted a notice on my front door that read: THIS IS NOT A DROP-IN CENTRE. NO VISITORS AFTER 9 PM.
It was weird trying to readjust my life, and focus it back on my daughter's well being, and my own. But I did it. The temper tantrums from me stopped. Food was served on time once more, and my daughter stopped going for days without a bath. I ironed clothes for the first time in months, and I dusted.
I think I morphed back into an adult, which is what I should have been all along.
No Hassle Child-Rearing
By Cathy James
When my niece gave birth to her third baby in nearly as many years, I decided to send her some sage advice on child-rearing. I can only hope that she's smart enough to follow it. I wanted to share it with others, so use what works for you. It's free.
When your oldest reaches the age of about eight, you should teach him to cook pizza in the oven and pour milk. He will already be able to pour cereal and fix bologna sandwiches. With these three food sources at his disposal, you should never be forced to cook another meal for your children until they reach college, and then it had better be a holiday.
At about age ten, they should be doing their own laundry and minor medical procedures. Don't waste money on trips to the emergency room when they can treat one another. Kids love to play doctor and nurse anyway. As long as there are Popsicle sticks, gauze, pants rods from hangers, and Duct tape, there's no need to pay some ER physician an outrageous fee to do what your kids can do for one another. And you can call it a science project.
Even the youngest child can perform yard work. Safety scissors are available at any discount store and it doesn't matter how she butchers the grass. It always grows back. Older children can use a weedwacker and lawnmower. Refer back to medical procedures in the event of an emergency. Just put some safety glasses on them and set out a jug of water. Ignore your neighbors who think you are being cruel. They're just jealous that they don't have their own yard crew.
Automotive repairs are a cinch with children. They are small and can crawl around an engine quite easily. Have an older child read instructions from a manual. Be sure the hood is securely up. Otherwise, you will have to refer to the medical section again.
Children are especially useful in house cleaning. Wrap your youngest child in a clean towel and let older children shove him all over a floor that has been treated with mild soap. Your floor will be clean and they will be under the illusion that they are playing. Exercise care when squeezing towel out, if child is still inside.
If your children are under the silly notion that you should be driving them to time-wasting activities (such as, soccer or dance classes), these issues can be addressed at home at no cost. Paint a pumpkin black and white and let them kick it around the yard awhile. It will be hard and messy and they will never want to play sports again. If they want dance lessons, turn on your favorite public radio station during the classical show, and tell them to let their bodies be free. As an added bonus, you can tie kitchen towels to their feet and get your floor cleaned at the same time.
Washing clothes and bathtime can be facilitated in one easy maneuver. Most washers can easily hold two standing children. Put them inside fully dressed in their dirty clothes, and put it on the permanent press cycle. This agitation serves as an amusement park ride to occupy your children at least twenty minutes. It is recommended that you remove them before the spin cycle, otherwise motion sickness can be a problem.
Lastly, don't fall prey to the mega-conglomerate marketing of companies trying to convince your children that they need fancy toys in order to be fulfilled and educated. If God wanted children to have toys like that, he wouldn't have invented refrigerator boxes and that glorious stuff called "bubble wrap." Any child would be thrilled to create things out of a box and pop all those little air bubbles. Give them some colored markers to decorate his box and he's in his very own arts and crafts class.
Raising kids can be easy and carefree. The choices are yours.
****************
Copyright 2003 Cathy James
When my niece gave birth to her third baby in nearly as many years, I decided to send her some sage advice on child-rearing. I can only hope that she's smart enough to follow it. I wanted to share it with others, so use what works for you. It's free.
When your oldest reaches the age of about eight, you should teach him to cook pizza in the oven and pour milk. He will already be able to pour cereal and fix bologna sandwiches. With these three food sources at his disposal, you should never be forced to cook another meal for your children until they reach college, and then it had better be a holiday.
At about age ten, they should be doing their own laundry and minor medical procedures. Don't waste money on trips to the emergency room when they can treat one another. Kids love to play doctor and nurse anyway. As long as there are Popsicle sticks, gauze, pants rods from hangers, and Duct tape, there's no need to pay some ER physician an outrageous fee to do what your kids can do for one another. And you can call it a science project.
Even the youngest child can perform yard work. Safety scissors are available at any discount store and it doesn't matter how she butchers the grass. It always grows back. Older children can use a weedwacker and lawnmower. Refer back to medical procedures in the event of an emergency. Just put some safety glasses on them and set out a jug of water. Ignore your neighbors who think you are being cruel. They're just jealous that they don't have their own yard crew.
Automotive repairs are a cinch with children. They are small and can crawl around an engine quite easily. Have an older child read instructions from a manual. Be sure the hood is securely up. Otherwise, you will have to refer to the medical section again.
Children are especially useful in house cleaning. Wrap your youngest child in a clean towel and let older children shove him all over a floor that has been treated with mild soap. Your floor will be clean and they will be under the illusion that they are playing. Exercise care when squeezing towel out, if child is still inside.
If your children are under the silly notion that you should be driving them to time-wasting activities (such as, soccer or dance classes), these issues can be addressed at home at no cost. Paint a pumpkin black and white and let them kick it around the yard awhile. It will be hard and messy and they will never want to play sports again. If they want dance lessons, turn on your favorite public radio station during the classical show, and tell them to let their bodies be free. As an added bonus, you can tie kitchen towels to their feet and get your floor cleaned at the same time.
Washing clothes and bathtime can be facilitated in one easy maneuver. Most washers can easily hold two standing children. Put them inside fully dressed in their dirty clothes, and put it on the permanent press cycle. This agitation serves as an amusement park ride to occupy your children at least twenty minutes. It is recommended that you remove them before the spin cycle, otherwise motion sickness can be a problem.
Lastly, don't fall prey to the mega-conglomerate marketing of companies trying to convince your children that they need fancy toys in order to be fulfilled and educated. If God wanted children to have toys like that, he wouldn't have invented refrigerator boxes and that glorious stuff called "bubble wrap." Any child would be thrilled to create things out of a box and pop all those little air bubbles. Give them some colored markers to decorate his box and he's in his very own arts and crafts class.
Raising kids can be easy and carefree. The choices are yours.
****************
Copyright 2003 Cathy James
Frat Boys
By Julia Watts
If you've spent enough time on a college campus, you know the type. He's the baseball cap-wearing fraternity-pledging good-time guy who spends his nights at keg parties and his days in just enough classrooms to squeak by with a "gentleman's C." In my college days, I hung out with the black-clad bohemian crowd, instead of the preppy party set. But since I attended a large Southern university, famed for its football team and fraternities, I had plenty of opportunity to observe the preppy party boy in his natural habitat.
So how do my keen, if somewhat jaded, observations about this particular species of make relate to the subject of motherhood? Well, after having spent six happy months in the role of "Alec's mommy," I have come to the conclusion that college fraternity boys and babies aren't all that different.
Consider the similarities:
1) The both go straight for the boobs. Any girl who's ever gone out with a handsy college boy with a few beers in his belly knows where those hands are going to wander first. Similarly, when I come home from work, and greet Alec, he doesn't make eye contact with me. Instead, he stares longingly at my chest. I know he's eyeing me hungrily instead of lustfully, but occasionally, I'm still tempted to say, "Hey, buddy, my eyes are up here!"
2) They both revel in body functions. You don't have to spend much time drinking with college boys to be treated to the dulcet tones of a belching contests. But fill his tummy with milk, and give him a few pats on the back, and I'd put my Alec up against any beer-addled college boy. On the less delicate end of gas expulsion, you no doubt know that drunken college boys find anything to do with flatulence unaccountably hilarious. Well, so so does Alec. When he passes gas after downing a jar of Gerber sweet potatoes, he laughs like a little lunatic.
3) They play with their food. Remember that famous food fight scene in Animal House? When John Belushi filled his cheeks with mashed potatoes and then spewed them out, he claimed to be impersonating a zit. But didn't it really look like your chubby baby spitting out the rice cereal you just spooned in his mouth?
4) They pass out wherever they feel like it. Visit a college party in the wee hours, and you're likely to see boys face down and snoring, not just on couches, but on any flat surface, from the secondhand coffee table to the mildewed linoleum next to the toilet. Likewise, when Alec feels the need to lose consciousness, he loses it -- whether he's face down on the floor or dangling limply from the doorway baby jumper.
With all the similarities, it's lucky that nature gives us clues, such as height, weight, amount of hair, and number of teeth, to help us distinguish the college boy from the infant. Otherwise, we might find ourselves diapering a nineteen-year-old, and sending a baby to Beer Bust.
But beyond the physical signifiers, there is one other difference. When you were in college, you might have experienced a college boy looking at you through "beer goggles," -- a romantic alcohol-induced haze that makes the sufferer idealize and adore you until the alcohol wears off. But your baby looks at you through "mommy goggles," quite rightly idealizing you because you carried him in your body until birth, and have cared for him every day since.
And that kind of adoration nevers wears off.
If you've spent enough time on a college campus, you know the type. He's the baseball cap-wearing fraternity-pledging good-time guy who spends his nights at keg parties and his days in just enough classrooms to squeak by with a "gentleman's C." In my college days, I hung out with the black-clad bohemian crowd, instead of the preppy party set. But since I attended a large Southern university, famed for its football team and fraternities, I had plenty of opportunity to observe the preppy party boy in his natural habitat.
So how do my keen, if somewhat jaded, observations about this particular species of make relate to the subject of motherhood? Well, after having spent six happy months in the role of "Alec's mommy," I have come to the conclusion that college fraternity boys and babies aren't all that different.
Consider the similarities:
1) The both go straight for the boobs. Any girl who's ever gone out with a handsy college boy with a few beers in his belly knows where those hands are going to wander first. Similarly, when I come home from work, and greet Alec, he doesn't make eye contact with me. Instead, he stares longingly at my chest. I know he's eyeing me hungrily instead of lustfully, but occasionally, I'm still tempted to say, "Hey, buddy, my eyes are up here!"
2) They both revel in body functions. You don't have to spend much time drinking with college boys to be treated to the dulcet tones of a belching contests. But fill his tummy with milk, and give him a few pats on the back, and I'd put my Alec up against any beer-addled college boy. On the less delicate end of gas expulsion, you no doubt know that drunken college boys find anything to do with flatulence unaccountably hilarious. Well, so so does Alec. When he passes gas after downing a jar of Gerber sweet potatoes, he laughs like a little lunatic.
3) They play with their food. Remember that famous food fight scene in Animal House? When John Belushi filled his cheeks with mashed potatoes and then spewed them out, he claimed to be impersonating a zit. But didn't it really look like your chubby baby spitting out the rice cereal you just spooned in his mouth?
4) They pass out wherever they feel like it. Visit a college party in the wee hours, and you're likely to see boys face down and snoring, not just on couches, but on any flat surface, from the secondhand coffee table to the mildewed linoleum next to the toilet. Likewise, when Alec feels the need to lose consciousness, he loses it -- whether he's face down on the floor or dangling limply from the doorway baby jumper.
With all the similarities, it's lucky that nature gives us clues, such as height, weight, amount of hair, and number of teeth, to help us distinguish the college boy from the infant. Otherwise, we might find ourselves diapering a nineteen-year-old, and sending a baby to Beer Bust.
But beyond the physical signifiers, there is one other difference. When you were in college, you might have experienced a college boy looking at you through "beer goggles," -- a romantic alcohol-induced haze that makes the sufferer idealize and adore you until the alcohol wears off. But your baby looks at you through "mommy goggles," quite rightly idealizing you because you carried him in your body until birth, and have cared for him every day since.
And that kind of adoration nevers wears off.
Dissertation Distress: A Room of One's Own With A Crib and Computer
I sit at my computer, typing away, trying desperately to come up with good, solid lines and unique metaphors for an article that I'm working on, while my toddler sleeps soundly in the bed in the same room -- which is also the office.I am afraid with every click of my keyboard, I might awaken her. My eyelids are heavy in need of sleep too, but I can't afford to nap. Once Emily wakes up, I will not have any time to myself. W e are tired from restless nights with nightmares filled with a loss of Mommy to business trips, not of the traditional monsters under the bed. Now with me home from my teaching job at a community college, I watch her as he sucks away earnestly on her binky, content that Mommy is where she should be. I have about one hour and fifteen minutes, give or take, to eek away at my latest short story.
When my two-year-old daughter, Emily, is awake, even checking e-mail is difficult. She climbs up on my lap or wedges herself into the back of my office chair, claiming to give me a neck massage in between "Peek-a-boo," her real game. When that doesn't work, she bounces on her bed, and makes another play for my attention.
"Mommy, let's be dinosaurs on the floor! Come on, Duckie (a dinosaur from Land Before Time)! I'm Little Foot," she pleads.
"In a minute, Em," I tell her, "give Mommy ten minutes and we'll play."
That seems to placate her temporarily, knowing that Mommy makes good on her promises. Even so, I feel guilt for my self-indulgence, and for my neglect of my daughter -- even if it is for ten minutes.
Virginia Woolf never had to contend with children who vied for her attention. Having a child was certainly my choice, but Woolf was only partially right when she determined that women writers needed a room of their own and 500 British pounds to write. Writing mothers also need time and freedom from guilt for that time away from our children. Even with her great insight into the human mind, Woolf could never quite understand how deep the guilt could run. I say that from experience.
Different Theories
When the sonographer kept rolling over the same area, I knew something was wrong. This being my second pregnancy, I was a veteran of such diagnostic procedures and I knew instinctively this was not going well.My feelings were confirmed, when she stood up and said "Excuse me for just one minute."
I lay in the darkened room, my enormous belly exposed and covered in gel. I felt vulnerable, afraid, and angry. I told myself over and over again that nothing could possibly be wrong. The sonographer returned fairly quickly with an older physician. She started up the machine and revisited the area she had been circling before. The doctor then took his turn and rolled the greasy ball over my abdomen.
"What is it?" I asked in a voice louder than I had expected.
"I'm not sure," the doctor responded, not looking at me. "I'm going to ask a colleague of mine to take a look. Just a minute." He left the room and I began to cry.
"What is it?" I asked again, this time of the sonographer.
She held my hand and said, "Don't worry honey. I'm sure it is fine."
I hated this kind of comment and I hated her for making it and for finding something wrong with my baby. And I hated myself for crying.
The first doctor returned with a second doctor who repeated the sonogram. When he was finished, the second doctor addressed me directly and said, "There appears to be a growth, possibly a cyst, near the baby's kidney. I would like to take some blood and have you return in a week for another sonogram."
"Is he okay?" By now I knew we were having a boy and we had decided his name was Sam. "It's not like cancer or anything, is it?" My voice sounded as desperate as I was feeling.
The doctor didn't directly respond and instead scheduled me to see a pediatric urologist who would review the sonogram films. Then the pediatric urologist would attend the sonogram next week and all the subsequent sonograms.
I left the medical center that day in a daze, and spoke to Sam most of the way home. "You are okay. You are going to be okay."
My anxiety grew as I thought more about my new situation and I wondered: "Am I growing a baby and a cancer? Am I growing a baby with cancer?"
The weeks passed, and the sonograms persisted as did the visits with the specialists. They weren't exactly sure what it was. It was not exactly on the kidney. Did it have its own blood supply? What is it? "It could be a cyst, it could be a slowly resolving bleed, it could be a neuroblastoma, it could be, it could be, it could be..."
Samuel Morgan was born at 12:21 pm and twenty minutes after entering the world through an incision in my abdomen he was off to have his first solo sonogram. Blood tests and urine samples followed and were hurried off to various labs that performed various tests that would hopefully tell us what this thing was.
Weeks, then months passed with ongoing doctor visits and sonograms. The conclusion was that my son had a hemorrhagic cyst that was slow in resolving. No intervention was needed. It was getting smaller on its own. The pediatric urologist commented that had it not been for the sophistication of the diagnostic machinery, it never would have been identified. No symptoms ever presented.
"Of course, if it were my child, I would have wanted to know" she remarked.
Relief swept over me. She suggested we return in a year for hopefully a final sonogram. "It should be gone by then."
I thanked her and asked what could have caused this. She said it was unclear. It was thought to occur with stress or trauma. "There are different theories."
There are different theories.
As I bundled Sam up from his last visit to this specialist for a year, I agreed there are different theories. For months before I thought about Sam and wondered what was wrong with him. For his first few months of life, I would watch him, a seemingly perfect person but believing that some horrible volcano existed within him waiting to erupt.
There are different theories but many, it seems, are unclear.
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Copyright 2003 Regina Walker
Regina Walker is a graduate of Bennington College and Fordham University. She is a social worker in New York City. She is married and mama to Zachary and Samuel. Regina joins The Philosophical Mother as a regular contributing writer.
Fear and Loathing in Gymboree
Sam is twenty-two-months-old and a sweet, happy boy. I realized as he approached his second birthday that, unlike his older brother, Sam had never participated in any of the NYC requisite parent/child play classes. It seemed the time had come to allow Sam to enter the world of socialization and interact with his peers in a safe and stimulating environment. So one Saturday morning we set out to Sam's first Gymboree class.As soon as we arrived, Sam identified his sole purpose in this class -- to destroy this sanctuary of bright lights and primary colors. Sam entered the class like a madman. He grabbed balls out of the hands of other quieter, more obedient toddlers and found ways to approach the safe, soft gym equipment so that they posed an immediate threat to his safety and well being.
When the structured portion of the class commenced in earnest, Sam refused to sit on my lap for the songs.
Instead, he laid flat on his back kicking his legs (and anyone else unfortunate enough to be within his radius) and laughing maniacally as the teacher sang old favorites she had corrupted by inserting the word "Gymboree" in every verse.
When the bubbles made their appearance, Sam ran around with his face pointed skyward grabbing the elusive bubbles. He smashed into other toddlers but never deigned to lower his gaze. When I tried to intercede and provide damage control, he stiffened his body, let out a plaintive howl, and collapsed on the floor.
Unable to see anything through rose-colored glasses, I was horrified at the actions of my beloved, pot-bellied toddler. My mind wandered in a combination of embarrassment and bewilderment. I thought about Sam as a baby-- my sweet, smiling, agreeable, and rarely crying baby. But I've always been somewhat high-strung and anxious.
Did I turn him into this wild, feral creature? Did something I do change this once pleasant, easy going baby into an evil toddler?
I am quickly brought back to the present Gymboree situation by the sound of Sam spitting on the mirror. I quietly say "no" and lead him away from the mirror. I succeed in fueling his ire and he angrily protests until his attention is drawn to his own hair which I notice has grown into his eyes. He shakes his head back and forth wildly and his hair flips from side to side. He does this until he makes himself dizzy and dramatically falls to the ground.
When the class ends, I try to duck out unnoticed. I am shattered and Sam is crying. The teacher approaches. "Oh, I'm getting the sales pitch. He can't have been too bad" I think.
"I think you would enjoy the 11:00 class," she says. I'm puzzled. Isn't that for older children? "I really think Sam would enjoy it. That would be my recommendation."
I thank her, even though I suspect that she does not teach the 11:00 class.
When we get home, I retreat to the bathroom for a moment of peace and silence. "It's not that bad," I tell myself. "Mine is an exuberant boy filled with unbridled excitement that knows no limits."
"OUCH!" It is my six-year-old son I hear lamenting through the bathroom door. "MOM, SAM BIT ME!"
My untamed child continues his wild ways.
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Copyright 2003 Regina Walker
Regina Walker is a graduate of Bennington College and Fordham University. She is a social worker
in New York City. Regina joins The Philosophical Mother as a regular contributing writer.
The Boobie Tube
Will TV Ever Get It Right?I started viewing television a lot differently after becoming a mother. For one thing, I found it difficult to watch ER immediately after giving birth. The hormonal imbalance of my own body, coupled with the dramatic and emotional roller-coaster ride of the show was too much for me to handle.
Inevitably, I would sit down to feed a newborn and the current episode would feature a baby tragically dying or a pregnant woman going into an irreversible coma. Sometimes (i.e. during Sweeps Week) both newborn and mother would perish for optimal dramatic effect.
My husband and I joked that ER should carry the following warning: "Pregnant or nursing women are advised not to watch this program, as it has been proven to cause uncontrollable crying fits and may lead to severe melancholy."
Unlike ER, television sitcoms take a decidedly lighter approach to pregnancy and motherhood. There are jokes about weight gain, breastfeeding, sleep deprivation, and low sex drives. But rarely is our favorite pregnant sitcom character or her newborn put in any imminent danger or asked to face any real conflicts. In my opinion the sitcom world treats motherhood so lightly (and unrealistically) that it should come with its very own warning: "Pregnancy and Motherhood may appear to be a lot easier on TV than they are in real life. Do not attempt this at home, especially without proper training."
Let's take a look at this year's hottest and most famous sitcom mother -- Rachel, on Friends. I watched Rachel's transformation into motherhood very closely, interested to see how one of the hippest shows on TV would handle this topic so close to my heart. I must admit, that the sitcom had its moments (although all too brief) at brilliantly capturing the madness, humor, complexity, and honesty of motherhood. There was that moment at the doctor's office when Rachel looked at the ultrasound, couldn't tell what she was looking at, and yet still pretended to be touched by the sight of her unborn baby. Another highlight came during Rachel's baby shower. Rachel opened baby gifts so alien and confusing to her that she suddenly realized she wasn't ready to be a mother. The moment captured a pure and universal feeling that almost every pregnant woman understands.
Finally, Rachel's long drawn out labor scene was also hilarious and true-to-life. Before Rachel, most sitcom moms-to-be humorously raced to the hospital and gave birth within minutes. But in reality, most labors are long, intensive, and involve a lot of waiting. Most real mothers do not give birth in taxis, or elevators, or stuck in snowstorms. And most babies are not delivered by (A) the baby's father or (B) the wacky best friend.
Besides those moments noted, there were a lot of things that Friends just got simply wrong. I mean, did Rachel have to look so gorgeous her entire pregnancy? Did she have to have the most fabulous wardrobe ever? Did she have to get Joey to fall in love with her? Since Rachel is so fashion-conscious and svelte, wouldn't it have been funny to see her dressed in the same oversized men's flannel shirt over black leggings for the last trimester of her pregnancy? And wouldn't it have been more realistic for Rachel to complain about swollen ankles, migraines, acne, indigestion, and fatigue instead of her inability to find a date for Saturday night (even though at least two men were in love with her at any given moment)?
And things became worse once the baby was actually born. Who can forget the moment in the hospital when Rachel began nursing her newborn girl? Kudos to the network for actually having the cojones to show a nursing mother (although very discreetly) on prime time. But I'm amazed by how easily Rachel learned to nurse the baby. As us real moms know, breastfeeding is actually difficult and takes a bit of practice, especially for a first-timer. It didn't help me that I had unsympathetic nurses who told me to "Just put the baby there and he'll know what to do." It also didn't help that just when I started to get the hang of it, my milk came in, my breasts became extremely engorged, and I was in tremendous pain.
Unlike Rachel, I wasn't sitting up in my bed graciously taking guests and looking like a movie star. In fact, I was in extreme pain from cramps (the uterus does contract following birth), and hemorrhoids (that's what happens when you push a nine-pound baby out for two hours), and begging for my Tylenol with codeine.
Back on Friends, Rachel and Ross brought their baby home and began to deal with the issues of finding a nanny, getting the baby to sleep, and coordinating their dating schedules. Baby Emma soon became a typical sitcom accessory -- like a chic lamp or cool belt. I still don't know exactly how Rachel nursed Emma, since I think she only held the baby twice. Meanwhile, I also became annoyed by the fact that Ross, a father of two, had an inordinate amount of free time to hang out in a coffee shop with a bunch of lazy friends and goofily hit on beautiful women.
Besides Ross, let's further discuss the real "Boobie Issue" or how Rachel handled breastfeeding. First of all, breastfeeding didn't cramp Rachel's fashion-style at all. In fact, this season Rachel seemed to buy only skimpy, low-cut, clingy blouses, with bras being totally optional. I find this funny, because unlike Rachel, most nursing moms wear super-duper/quadruple support nursing bras that make you feel (to paraphrase Austin Powers) "like a Fembot with machine gun jubblies." Those babies are fully loaded and ready to go at the beck and call of the demanding baby. For most new moms, it's a bit difficult to feel sexy in low-cut shirts when your breasts are swollen, leaking, and providing lunch for another human being.
Having a baby also didn't seem to cramp Rachel's social life one bit. I've been a mother for six years and I've had only a handful of nights out with my husband. After just a couple months of motherhood, Rachel already picked up a guy in bar, kissed her office mate, and turned down two marriage proposals. Now, there's nothing wrong with going out for "girls' night" or even on a date with your husband or boyfriend or whatever. But I'll just tell you that most nursing moms spend that first night out counting the minutes until they have to rush home and feed the baby lest their breasts explode. Also, many nursing moms find themselves too exhausted to flirt with their own husbands, let alone meet new guys. And while it's fine for nursing mothers to have a drink or two, their tolerance is extremely low. While I was still nursing, just one cocktail would wipe me out and make me ready for a deep, deep sleep.
Unlike Rachel, most working mothers on maternity leave have a precise attack plan for weaning the baby because they know you can't just cut them off cold turkey. The baby doesn't like that. But either do your poor breasts. Left with all that milk, and nowhere to go, your breasts are left with throbbing discomfort. Our friend Rachel abruptly cut her maternity leave short after feeling her job is threatened by a temporary employee. And in this case, Ross is justified in his response to Rachel's sudden change of plans: "Fine, just leave us your breasts and Emma and I will be fine."
If only it were all that simple. Truth is Ross, in the real world women can't remove their breasts at will. Once you make a commitment to nursing you have to stick with it until you've weaned the baby or figured out a system of pumping, nursing, supplemental bottle-feeding. In the real world, if Rachel did go back to work the next day she (1) Have to get up at 4:00 a.m. to feed Emma, (2) Make sure Emma has enough bottles to get her through the day, (3) Probably pump right before leaving for the office, (4)Continue to pump every couple of hours (5)Pray that her "big meeting" goes on as scheduled without delay or else she'll be stuck giving her presentation while her milk comes back in and without the chance to pump, (6) Race home as soon as she could to hold her baby and relieve her own breasts.
Meanwhile, Ross would be stuck home with a baby that has never been separated from its nursing mother and would probably be wailing most of the day. If the baby was used to bottle feedings of pumped milk, she might actually get some nourishment. But breastfeeding, in many cases, is not just a source of nourishment, but also a source of comfort for the child. And it would not have been so easy on Rachel either. She hadn't mentally prepared herself to go back to work. She might have felt a little guilty about cruelly cutting her baby off from her regular food supply. She might even have some difficulty finding a professional outfit to fit her postpartum body. I find it a bit insulting and cowardly that Friends ignored every single issue surrounding motherhood and work.
Over on HBO, Sex and the City took its own plunge into single motherhood. Miranda, the polished lawyer of the our big city girls, definitely did not embrace motherhood immediately. And her doubts, frustration, and fumbling were extremely refreshing and real. Like Miranda, many women in this generation are entering motherhood alone or later in life. They have had years of living independently and have enjoyed successful careers. And yet, regardless of education or career success, many women feel completely outmatched by a newborn. A woman, who is so confident and self-assured in the board room and bedroom, can suddenly find herself in an alien world of motherhood in which none of the answers seem comfortable or natural.
Unlike Friends, Sex and the City embraced breastfeeding in its usual visually honest and blunt way. While Carrie visited with Miranda, suddenly (and without warning) Miranda whipped out her rather large naked breasts to feed her screaming child. Meanwhile, a slightly embarrassed Carrie rambled on. Hilariously enough, Miranda remained in a realistic new mother brain-fog and barely heard her friend. Kudos to Sex and the City for portraying probably the most realistic "boobie" shot of all times. I'm sure it made lots of viewers uncomfortable. I'm sure that Ross is the only "boob" we'll see anytime soon over on Friends.
Also, unlike Rachel, Miranda looked like she just had a baby. She looked tired, overweight, and a general mess. Of course it helped that in real life, actress Cynthia Nixon was herself pregnant, and so her rounder features helped mimic a postpartum body. Her pregnancy exhaustion also matched her character's postpartum exhaustion. While not hailed as a natural mother, Miranda at least picked up her baby, Brady, and took him with her almost everywhere she went (much to Samantha's chagrin). Cynthia Nixon did a convincing job of showing Miranda's painful transition from single gal to single mom. One of the best moments of the season came when Miranda's sexual liaison was interrupted by her screaming, crying baby. It was a rare television moment - honest, heartbreaking, and funny. Miranda, like a real mother, realized that her life had changed and was never going to be the same. Yes, a TV show actually captured a genuine "Mommy Moment".
However, things were not completely realistic on Sex and the City either. Just like Rachel, Miranda's transition into single motherhood was made somewhat easier because: (A) She had a gaggle of friends willing to pitch in and help and (B) the father of her child was completely supportive (even though not technically in a relationship with the mother).
How many times does that situation happen in real life? Yes, I agree it certainly is easier to "get by with a little help from your friends." But I'm afraid that TV makes single motherhood appear much easier than it really is. How many of us have a gaggle of single friends willing to babysit at the drop of a hat? How many single moms get help and support from the man who simply donated the sperm in the procreation process? How many single moms (or married moms for that matter) are as obsessed with dating and sex as our girlfriends Rachel and Miranda?
Our friend Miranda got more sexual action than any new mother in the history of motherhood. She had a fling with the low-self-esteem guy from the Weight Watchers meeting; slept (or tried to sleep) with the yuppie ex-boyfriend; and even shacked up with the father of her baby. Meanwhile, in real life, new mothers everywhere are so overwhelmed by the changes of motherhood (hormonal, physical, mental, and motional) that they are dodging their husband's advances. Many moms also find themselves head-over-heels in love with their newborn and this becomes their primary love affair. And after being battered by the experiences of pregnancy, childbirth, and new motherhood, some moms even tearfully swear that they will never ever ever have sex again.
Will television ever get motherhood right? Probably not. Motherhood is such a complex and complicated state of being and television is -- well, NOT. And face it, babies are unreliable actors, especially in front of a live studio audience.
So sitcom moms will continue to give birth and then their sitcom babies will become secondary props, rather than the leading players and scene-stealers they are in real life.
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Copyright 2003 Lizbeth Finn-Arnold
March and Madness
Back in college, we celebrated "March Madness" in many different ways. First, we cheered for our basketball teams to make it into the NCAA tournament, the official start of "March Madness." Then, we took a much-needed vacation from studies and the long winter by heading south for the celebrated traditions of "Spring Break."The madness associated with that March tradition does not need any explanation. Saint Patrick's Day and Mardi Gras became two other reasons to give in to drunken, crazy, irresponsible partying associated with this long, cold month.
But as a mother, March and Madness mean other things. After a nasty freezing winter here in the Northeast, my family is going more than a bit stir-crazy. Just this past week, my three-year-old Jared shattered two glass candlesticks and then a miniature china teapot while playing football and golf in our livingroom. It seems you can only contain a little boy's physical needs for so long. Same goes for big boys. With football season long over, my husband has nothing to watch on TV and so he just paces on Sunday afternoons, counting the days until the excitement of the NCAA tournament begins. In fact, my husband has planned his own "mini-Spring Break" escaping to Vegas for three days (sans me and kids) to meet up with friends and enjoy college basketball while sitting poolside. Poor baby, how will he survive without us?
My own private mini-escapes during the month of March comes from the fact that as the Oscars approach, my local cinema actually plays movies that I want to see. Unfortunately, I've now viewed every kiddie movie showing (what else can you do in freezing weather), and I look forward to sneaking away to check out "The Hours" or "The Pianist" and enjoying a movie without singing bears or farting Kangaroos.
In this issue of The Philosophical Mother we have lots of essays that clearly capture the madness associated with motherhood. And what month, other than March, is better to highlight such madness? We have lots of great writers this month-- writers who understand motherhood, and have an amazing ability to put it all down in words.
So hang in there moms. Sit back and enjoy this issue and before you know it, Spring will be here.
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Copyright 2003 Lizbeth Finn-Arnold
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