OCTOBER 2005

• Wanting A Girl -- Lizbeth Finn-Arnold
• Changing the Script -- Regina Walker
• Mighty Duck -- Gerry Di Gesu
• Night Time Parenting -- Stacey Greenberg

Wanting A Girl

In 1974, when my mother became pregnant with her eighth, and last baby, my siblings and became embroiled in a gender war. The five of us girls practically demanded a baby sister, even though our poor outnumbered brothers clearly needed another male on their side.

When my brother Paul was finally born, three days late and weighing in at a hefty ten pounds, my brothers rejoiced while my sisters and I pouted. But our disappointment was short-lived. We were immediately won over by the indisputable cuteness of our new brother.

While my sisters and I might have been the most vocal and honest "girl wishers" that ever lived, we clearly were not alone. Still, when I became pregnant myself, I discovered that it was "bad form" for expectant parents to express a gender preference. A mere eight years ago, before “high definition” sonograms and skilled technicians most of us were not aware of the sex of our unborn child.

And most of us were afraid to inquire about the sex of our baby because in the early days of ultrasounds, we knew of too many people who were told they were carrying a girl, only to discover after months of painting the nursery pink and searching for feminine names, that their Tiffany was in fact a Thomas.

Rather than risk the appearance of being shallow, ungracious, or just plain disappointed, I did my best to hide my own gender preference.

When my friends asked me whether I wanted a boy or a girl, I always stated quite discreetly that "I don’t care what the baby is, as long as it is healthy." Like some kind of political candidate hedging her bets, I knew that this "not-quite-so-honest" answer was the right answer.

My husband, on the other hand, would blatantly joke, "I don’t care what the baby is, as long as it has a penis."

This punchline received lots of laughs from those who understood my husband’s warped sense of humor. Needless to say, many shocked acquaintances looked to me and inquired, "He’s kidding, right?"

Within mere minutes of beginning the scheduled C-section surgical delivery of my first baby, Dr. M said the words I longed to hear – "It’s a girl!" These magical words were then directly followed by the not-so-grand declaration by my doctor that my newborn daughter was “peeing on her.”

In the midst of my surgery-induced haze I simply blurted out, "It’s Olivia! I knew it. Hello Olivia."

I was clearly overjoyed, as was my husband. And if he had any misgivings, about his firstborn not being a son, he never showed them. In those first few magical moments of parenthood, we found ourselves completely in awe of this beautiful and perfect human being that we had created.

And a couple weeks later, my sarcastic husband who had brazenly wished for a son, would say of our daughter, that "It was love at first sight."

In the first months of parenthood, gender really became even less of an issue. My husband and I were both so overwhelmed by our tiny baby’s basic and neverending needs that we had little time to care about whether the baby’s stuff was pastel pink or sky blue. And it may sound corny, but it was true: we really were just happy to have a healthy baby.

Besides, when it came right down to it, our newborn was rather gender-less in her needs and looks. Even when dressed in pink ultra-frilly feminine outfits with bows in her hair, our daughter was still mistaken for a "cute little boy" in public. Clearly, strangers could not tell if I had a boy or a girl. And in a way, I too became gender-blind in that first year.

As our baby morphed into a toddler, I happily immersed myself in a girly-girly world, and couldn't help but dress my "mini-me" just like me. Meanwhile, my athletic husband taught our one-year-old daughter how to throw and kick a ball better than most boys twice her age. I couldn't help but wonder if my husband would have treated our daughter differently, more like "a girl," if we had a son first.

When I became pregnant a second time, my husband no longer made "penis" jokes about the possible gender of our child. He bravely stated that two girls would be great, even though I knew he secretly wished for a boy.

For me, the pressure was off. I had "my girl" and truly no longer had a gender preference. I would love to have another girl, a sister for Olivia, but a boy would be something completely new and special too. Either way, my husband and I agreed that two children were probably our limit. There would be no "trying for a boy" if we had another girl.

After two exhausting hours of agonizing pushing, my son was born. With much relief my husband declared that our family was officially complete, and he jokingly asked the doctor to "tie my tubes" while she had me on the table. I gave my husband a dirty look, and then bragged that I "knew it would be a boy all along," even though we still hadn’t come to a consensus on a boy’s name, and wouldn’t until the next morning when well-wishers started calling the hospital.

Years later, and in hindsight, I can finally be honest and admit freely that when I was pregnant with my first child, I really, truly, deeply, madly wanted a girl. During my pregnancy I dreamed about my baby girl and even wrote in my pregnancy journal that I suspected, no, I KNEW, that I was carrying a girl. I could see her when I closed my eyes and imagined the future.

Before becoming a mom, I feared that I would give birth to one boy, followed by another, and then come to that point where I was so afraid of even trying again. But without trying I would never have “my daughter.” And I would go through life with regret and "what ifs."

I sensed that in some way, without a daughter that I would always feel incomplete. I thought that I wouldn’t know anything about raising a boy since I didn’t really like “boy stuff.” And I think I truly believed that a daughter would be easier, as if she would be a mere extension of myself -- the part that made me whole.

I can’t believe how naive I was to think that a daughter would be easier. Don’t get me wrong, I love my children both the same. But somehow my son just seems to adore me no matter what, while my daughter and I seem to have far greater expectations of each other. And we tend to clash on just about everything.

But things are the way they are, and it seems strange that I once wondered, wished, and worried about the gender of my children. I simply cannot remember a time before Olivia and Jared were a part of my life and family. And I now find it difficult to imagine that I would have ever wanted things any other way.

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Copyright 2005 Lizbeth Finn-Arnold

Changing the Script

Life is a game where the rules change as you play.

I have recently returned to work. I am again busily involved in managing schedules so that childcare and school and work all exist in a perfect harmony.

Organization and order have usually been my strong points. I loved doing puzzles when I was a kid and the sense of relief and accomplishment that came with fitting the last piece of the puzzle in its place was worth all the effort and time that came before.

Before I had children, I assumed they would be like puzzles. I would put the time and work in and by the time I sent them away to college, the last piece would be carefully and lovingly put in it’s place. They would be complete and whole and ready to conquer the world. And I would have succeeded.

Like most parents, I had a script, which included hopes and expectations for both of my sons. Zachary is incredibly smart. He is in a gifted school program and is an avid and talented chess player. He loves to read and has a wonderful sense of humor. I read every article and did all the things I thought a parent was supposed to do to nurture and support his development. I have even taken a bit of credit for his achievements and allowed myself to indulge in pride.

I, of course, did the same for Sam. We own every Baby Einstein dvd and I even had a whacko bassinet that pumped in the sound of a heart beat and electronically rocked at precise intervals when he was an infant. But Sam has taught me an enormous amount. He can't follow my script. The pieces don’t quite fit. I have to either abandon my hopes and expectations for him or change them.

I have decided to follow his script. Each day begins a new chapter that ends with a new cliffhanger. We are writing it as we go along. His developmental delays are our outline but he fills in the rest. I do things differently with Sam. I have to. I follow his lead and he leads me into the unknown most of the time. And often times I must remind myself that the story of Sam's life that I had written before there even was a Sam separate in body from me is actually fiction. It was not the story that was meant to be.

I had already experienced the disappointment of my discarded expectations when I was presented with his diagnosis and truly, and as best I could, accepted his uniqueness. I still struggle though with a sense of sadness and grief that I allow myself to occasionally indulge. But it has been like building up muscles I never realized I had.

Zachary poses his own challenges but on many levels he has embraced my 'parent wish list' for the time being, at least. Sam makes me work. I have to think outside the box. He makes me face my fears and come up with new solutions. I must travel streets and roads without a map. Sam takes me to places where no roads exist so we build them together. We are drafting our own map; composing our own story. And he has made me stronger. Because other disappointments and challenges can’t compare.

I have also learned that I can be dealt some bad stuff and be able to deal with it. I didn't always think I could. I used to feel I had to keep myself safe. That I wouldn't be able to deal with truly difficult situations. But now I think I can because I have to. I may not be great at it but I get by. I guess that is all I can hope for. One page at a time.

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Copyright 2005 Regina Walker

Regina Walker is a writer and psychotherapist in NYC. Her work has appeared in Hip Mama, Mamaphiles 2, widdershins, Moondance, and Literary Vision. She can be reached at cswcasac@aol.com

Mighty Duck

Mighty Duck is flying in two directions as he always does. It’s not easy. I’ve tried it for ages and it just doesn’t work.

Years ago my husband’s friend presented him with a duck for our home on Cape Cod. This is a special species of duck, able to flap separate wings in opposite directions at the same time. I don’t understand the mechanics, but however the metal wings are attached to the gray and white wooden body. It allows the unique creature to fly in two directions at once.

My husband couldn’t wait to give the duck a home and wanted him to fly high atop a pole attached to the fence on our front lawn. Totally tacky, I protested. He wasn’t amused and consigned the poor bird to the garage for years.

This summer, however, I was surprised to see him (the duck) flying atop a small metal pole attached to the top of the arbor in our backyard. He flew valiantly in the every-present breeze, oblivious to the brilliant morning glories which danced on the arbor beneath him.

I pretty much ignored the bird’s flight until one cool morning this summer as I sat on the deck having a cup of coffee after breakfast. I was in a funk and having a hard time shaking it. The bright sunshine, flowers and birds at the feeder did not lift my mood. Then I saw the duck whirling away and started to laugh. I saw my life.

The poised duck awaits flight, brown-spotted wings lined up evenly. One wing starts spinning slowly while the other remains motionless. Then it stops and reverses. The pole moves slightly and both wings spin wildly in the breeze — in opposite directions. The pole shifts again; one wing slows to a stop as the other increases its speed. Slowly, it continues to travel in circles.

On rare occasions both wings will line up exactly and even start to spin in the same direction, but only for a few seconds. Sometimes both wings are tilted forward, other times both tilt backward. Which way am I going?

I live on Cape Cod; I live in New Jersey. Health is good; health is poor. Family is happy; family’s a disaster. Plans are made for a day, a week, a month. Then life intrudes and plans, hopes, and dreams are changed or set aside.

The longer I watch the duck flapping away, the harder I laugh. “Going in circles, which end is up, pulled in two directions” — how many more clichés describe my feathered friend and me?

I’ve often described much of my life as controlled chaos and although I laugh as often as I can, I don’t always think it’s funny. But my duck brilliantly reminds me that emotional ventures in many directions - travels throughout a lifetime - are a fate which I share with everyone.

Today — another funk. Having friends for dinner and I’ve lost the tablecloth. Can’t find it anywhere. How do you lose a tablecloth? I need a haircut and my toenail polish is chipped beyond repair. Really important problems.

Then my son calls to say a promised loan to expand his business is now in jeopardy. My daughter flies out of the house to drive a friend to Cape Cod Hospital to be with her child who has just attempted suicide. I learn a friend is scheduled for immediate cancer surgery.

Upset and despondent, I step onto the deck to search the sky for Mighty Duck. For I am sure that as he flies to far destinations, he will be able to provide balance, perspective and remind me once again that life will be okay.

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Copyright 2005 Gerry Di Gesu

Gerry is a retired school secretary whose joy is her husband, three children and four grandchildren. Her essays and poems have appeared in a variety of publications, journals and anthologies including The New York Times, Catholic Digest and Cape Women Magazine. Her recently published collection of essays – “Keep Quiet, You’re Only A Girl” – is available on the web from iUniverse.com, amazon.com and barnesandnoble.com. E-mail Gerry at digesu7@comcast.net.

Nighttime Parenting

I was exhausted and up way past my bedtime. Midnight—what was I thinking?

I buried myself in the covers that had been kicked to the bottom of the family bed. My one-year-old and my three-year-old were occupying the entire top half—each had his arms and legs outstretched as if he had fallen asleep while making a snow angel. I desperately hoped I might go unnoticed for a few hours before one of them woke up and I had to start my nighttime parenting shift.

Jiro must have smelled me because less than fifteen minutes passed before he was rooting around, his lips puckering up for my milk. I moved to the top of the bed and started nursing him. Usually a few minutes of nursing is all he needs, but he seemed restless. (I had thought he was so cute at dinner—stabbing beans with my fork and carefully placing them in his mouth one by one. Beans!)

By 1:30am, I was still awake, very much wanting to scream. My nipples were aching and I desperately wanted to sleep, but since I was contorted in a half-twist maneuver that allows me to nurse from both breasts without moving, 90% of my body weight was resting on my battered left butt cheek. The throbbing, a result of months of this maneuver, kept me from dozing off.

I should have known better than to stay up late in the first place. By the time I finally got out of the office, picked Jiro up at daycare, got Satchel from Montessori, cooked some pesto, cleaned the kitchen, played Legos and airplane, got them both clean and in their jammies, read books, and nursed and rubbed them to sleep, it was almost ten. I needed some time to myself. I needed to work on my zine. I needed to watch “Kept” on VH1.

As I nursed Jiro, I took deep breaths and tried to think of how far I had come. I was on week six of my husband’s eight-week archaeological dig in the tick-infested Mark Twain National Forest. I don’t know which of us had the harder job, but we each seemed to envy the other’s position. I dreamed of having a bed all to myself in a hotel room somewhere far away and he lamented missing Satchel’s swimming lessons and Jiro’s new tricks.

I listened to Satchel coughing in his sleep, wondering how long it would be before he was awake too. Having one baby awake in the middle of the night is annoying, having two is debilitating. Thankfully, Jiro released my nipple and I rolled over. I should have waited because my small movement was enough to rouse him again, and he started kicking his meaty little legs up and down—his prelude to a scream. I’m going to kick and scream too.

More nursing. More throbbing. More deep breaths.

Last summer my husband had a sixteen-week dig, and I had a newborn and a two-year-old. That’s when I really earned my stripes. Things are a little easier now—I have a routine in place and a cleaning woman who comes every other week—but not getting enough sleep throws me off course. Last summer I was on maternity leave and could nap during the day if I needed to. Now I have to use precious vacation time if I need to stay home and catch up on my sleep.

Besides how many times can you tell your sixty-five year old boss that you are sleep-deprived or that you had the worst night ever before she just thinks you are a complete slacker? At least the boys get to nap at school.

Despite the pain in my ass, I started to doze off. However, my slumber was quickly interrupted by a loud thud. I heard Satchel crying from the floor. I went around to pick him up and to try and soothe him. Of course, Jiro woke up the minute I moved and started crying. Crying in stereo. I’m the one who should be crying!

I got everyone back in bed and reluctantly nursed Jiro some more. I refused to look at the clock and I tried not to think about the day ahead. Usually I look forward to Fridays and my husband’s weekend visits, but he called at dinner to say he was coming down with something—maybe Strep, maybe Lyme’s disease. He had Strep in December (during my only vacation of the year) and was a wreck. For a week he walked around with his hand on his head, presumably to hold in his brains, and his throat looked like a musty cave lined with maggots feasting on raw, regurgitated meat. I was already feeling sorry for myself. I don’t want to take care of three people! I want someone to take care of me.

After a moment or two of silence, Satchel started whimpering. Dammit! I screamed inside my head. “I need to sleep!” I screamed outside my head. Insulted, Jiro started whimpering too. I jumped out of bed, banged my fists on the duvet, then stomped my feet up and down (picture Jennifer Beals in “Flashdance”) while half-yelling, half-grunting at the top of my lungs. I’m a maniac and it shows.

My tantrum was over before it started, and I felt both better and worse. Needless to say, I scared the crap out of the boys. There was a brief moment of silence as they watched me in horror, but now the speakers were threatening to blow.

Calm down, breathe, stop thinking about the time.

I had to pull myself together—my kids weren't purposely trying to make me a zombie. I’m sure they’d rather be asleep too. “I’m sorry,” I said in my most reassuring voice. A weekend of playing nurse, waitress, and cruise director won’t be the end of the world. “Shhh…Everything is okay…Shhh…How about some cough medicine?”

To avoid more crying, I picked Jiro up and carried him to the linen closet to search for the medicine tote. I grabbed it with one hand and flung it on the bed before I could lose momentum and drop it. I gave Satchel the recommended two droppers full, and then gave one to Jiro for good measure. We crawled back in bed, but Satchel had already started up again. "My pee pee hurts!" he screeched.

I should have seen this one coming. Somehow he got three of the world's itchiest mosquito bites (chiggers?) on his testicles while playing outside. His testicles! I really did feel for the little guy. “You want some pink medicine for your pee pee?” I asked.

"Yes," he said between screeches and scratches.

I picked an increasingly cranky Jiro up again and went on a hunt for the Calamine lotion. I instinctively maneuvered around the toys scattered on the floor, and just missed bumping into an errant tricycle thanks to the light coming from the microwave clock. Two-thirty am! I remember when that meant last call. I was tempted to reach for a beer in the very back of the fridge, but saw the sought after pink bottle sitting on the kitchen counter.

"Ok sweetie, pull your pants down," I instructed as I came back in and reached for the light.

"Don't turn on the light!" he whined. Putting Calamine on a three-year-old's testicles in the dark while holding a pissed off one-year-old is not easy.

"You're spilling!" he cried. Deal with it kid.

"It's okay, that will make it feel extra better."

"No it won't!" Back to the reassuring voice.

“Do you need to go potty?” I’ve got to get ahead of the game.

"Yes," he said, sniffling. "But don't turn on the light!" Normally I wouldn’t trust Mr. Three to pee in the dark, but I was tired and I knew Selma was coming to clean in the morning.

Another reason I have to get up early.

I got everyone back in bed. More nursing. More throbbing. More deep breaths.

I needed to put everything in perspective. Worrying about a good night’s sleep is actually a luxury. I’m sure mothers in Iraq have much weightier concerns. For that matter, mothers on the other side of town have much weightier concerns—some of my clients have four, five, six or more kids they are raising on their own with just a SSI check. Get over it.

I heard a whisper, "Mommy...MOMMY...rub my back..."

Why didn't I Ferberize these children? Why am I still breastfeeding? What is wrong with me?

Satchel went back to sleep with minimal rubbing, but Jiro was still awake despite having access to the all night titty bar. I was ready to tear off my nipples and throw them across the room. When do I get to say “goodnight” and have the boys scamper off to their bedrooms, not to be seen again until morning?

Jiro, aware that he had center stage again, crawled on top of me and happily bounced up and down on my bladder. As mad as I was, I couldn’t help laughing. With his newly shaved head (don’t ask) and his big grin, he looked like a giant infant. How about some Orajel?

I took him to the back bedroom where he and I sleep when my husband is in town. Sometimes just a change of scenery will calm him down. I tried my best to rub the magic salve on his gums. He did not like this. I tried snuggling him, but he didn't like that either. Our bed is strategically placed in the corner, so I pretty much had him trapped. O.K. scream then. I'm going to sleep.

I rolled over and he screamed his lungs out for about two minutes. Then he grabbed his blankie and thrust his body toward mine and got very still. I readjusted a bit to give my ass a break and then he sat up, alert, like he was just humoring me. I pressed the indiglo button on my watch: 3:45am. Oh my god.

I wanted to cry. So I did. Right along with Jiro. Five minutes later we both fell asleep. Moments later Satchel came running in the room with his blankie. "Mommy..."

"Get in," I whispered.

Now the three of use were snuggled up together in the double bed, while the king-sized bed sat empty in the other room. I was pinned down with one boy in the crook of each arm.

Screw it, we’ll just sleep in.

And we did.

All the way to 7:00 am when my husband called six times on two different phones to let me know he was on his way home.

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Copyright 2005 Stacey Greenberg

Stacey Greenberg is an anthropologist, writer, and creator of the zine, Fertile Ground: For People who Dig Parenting. She lives in Memphis, Tennessee, with her husband and two young sons.