A Beautiful Day

State of the union

Have I mentioned lately that I'm still in therapy?  And that I'm making great strides in understanding what drives my mood and behavior?  The work we've been doing has been intense and, at times, very difficult, but I am quite better off for having processed it.  I have found a therapist who is truly an amazing, smart woman who is not only an accomplished professional but gets me (hell, she even sews and knits) and that really, really helps. She's opened my mind and encourages me to go deep - to really explore ideas and feelings - and also has me on a sort of 12-step program, only I don't drink or do drugs.  Instead, I am addicted to a semblance of control over things, and when there are things I can't "fix," I resort to my "original hurt."  Which, in short, means I can become super insecure and confused and feel unlovable when life forces me into situations where I'm not the one calling the shots or making things happen.  It has a lot to do with not being able to really trust people, which was hardwired into me when I was a little girl.

And I don't tell you this because I want you to feel sorry for me - oh no - I share rather because it may be helpful to some of you and I am quite happy that I'm making all these discoveries.  It's making me better...you can't change the past but you can change the way you deal with it.  This is long overdue.  

June is coming up in a few months and there is a small fear in me that the warmer weather - springtime - will trigger some postpartum PTSD flashbacks again, like last year.  These flashbacks are horrible - I can only liken them to perhaps a panic attack (which I've never had, but have witnessed and have several close friends who've suffered them) in that it really physically feels like I'm going through the delivery aftermath all over again.  The worst ones are ICU-related, though the one when I'm waking up from surgery too early runs a very close second.  Last week I had to have a CT scan for some shortness of breath (PNH makes me prone to clots so my hematologist errs on the side of caution whenever I have breathing complaints, especially to rule out a pulmonary embolism) - anyway, the scan itself mentally brought me back to THAT TIME, and I must say I did an excellent job of avoiding a meltdown.  I wanted to scream and resist but instead I breathed and thought of good things and made it through with a smile, and that says something because I frickin' HATE CT scans - if you've ever had to endure the dye, you know why ;-).  My lungs came back negative but sneaky Dr. Cutting Edge threw in a whole body scan while I was there and they found a softball-sized cyst on my ovary.  Long story short - one ultrasound later, the cyst was going down and is functional vs. complex, so it should go away on its own.  I feel better.  And I feel good knowing that I'm at the point where the smells/procedures/IVs/beeps of a hospital aren't freaking me out like they did perhaps less than a year ago.  I'm getting better.  

***

In other news, I received two orthopedic-related reports this week: one from Smacky's ortho who diagnosed the femoral anterversion, and the other from his physical therapist at the school.  It's amazing how differently two professionals can see the same situation, and, as far as I'm concerned, they're both on equal ground given the fact that the PT spends several hours a week with him and the doc, though more qualified to expound on medical issues, saw him once for a mere 15 minutes. 

In short, the doc mentioned autism three times in his report...though not all gloom and doom, he basically deferred the issue as one that needs the attention of developmental experts.  The PT, on the other hand, raved about how Smacky loves Gross Motor Group and is a quick study.  She clearly adores him and is very optimistic about his prognosis, even if he were to receive only minimal intervention.  She feels that he is the type of kid who, with the right attention, can easily overcome his developmental deficits.  She is so darn rosy about his future I sincerely want to HUG her and let her come live here and stay in the guest room.  I'd cook for her while she kept telling me how Smacky is usually the first to volunteer to try new therapy activities and I'd bake her her favorite cake as she raved about his remarkable ability to JUMP (with two feet! at the same time!) on his own or how he's THIS CLOSE to alternating feet while descending stairs. This PT has done wonders for him in a relatively short time and therefore, she's got some street cred with me.  I'm learning that the school, for legal and financial reasons, certainly leans toward minimalizing developmental issues so I need to take what she says with some salt, but damn if Ms. PT isn't the bright spot in my day lately.  She's got me so pumped that I up and signed Mr. Smacky up for some swimming lessons.  And before you think I'm dumber than a bag of hammers, know that long ago I nominated the hubs to be The One in Charge of Teaching the Boys to Swim...what better way to indoctrinate him than with sensory-challenged Mr. Smacky?  Heh.  I'm kidding...they'll have a ball (I hope).

***

J now says "butterfly" and "go downstairs."  Z has been throwing A LOT of hissy fits involving purple-faced screaming when he doesn't get his way.  And Smacky is urgently trying to master the art of the knock knock joke.  If you have any good ones, please leave a comment!

Happy weekend!

He's all growns up

He's 20 months old. Can you believe it?

First Haircut!

Simon's crazy-old-Sicilian-man hair had just gotten out of hand. Yes, we are encouraging the sweet little curleycues to spring forward, but they were quite uneven and at times, looked a bit odd, even on Sir Cuteness himself.

And so a trip to cousin Lisa's shop was in order for The First Haircut. Yes, we took video and stills and Simon was a champion, curious and smiling the entire time. Lisa just trimmed the edges and clipped a few of the especially unruly wisps. My boy looks clean and handsome and, well, like a BOY. I see his babiness slipping away day by day...oh how they do indeed grow up so fast!

Cousin Steven prepared a banner to mark the special occasion.

  Happy guy.

The cut was awesome!  Smacky seems pretty pleased.

While I'm doing photos, thought I'd share one of the Tigger Doorway Jumper, the evil little contraption which rendered me on narcotics.  The shoulder, by the way, is healing somewhat.  As I have to go to the office tomorrow, I'm hoping to at least be able to do my hair.

Ciao!

Behaving in Public

The other night I met some friends for dinner and took Simon along. We ate at a great local Asian restaurant which offers Japanese and Mandarin and Szechwan cuisine on the same menu – a hard-to-find luxury in these parts.

Because there were 12 of us, we took up a big circle table with a few squares attached at the end in a room off to the side of the main restaurant. In this well-lit and very pleasant room were about 5 or 6 more tables where other patrons sat.

Smacky was his usual laid-back and curious self for most of the night, content to being passed around and ogled until he decided that he was once again hungry and no, the bananas and chicken with gravy would absolutely not do. Already a fan of efficiency, there are moments when only a bottle – with thick, nutrient-packed formula –can sate that boy’s hunger quickly enough. As we now have the mind-meld connection thing down pat, I am usually quite deft at having the bottle ready well before the hoots start and the eyes well up.

I must confess that on this particular night, I was having fun.

Yes people, fun. It was so good to be out socializing and enjoying a nice meal with a group of people I truly love. And so I let Simon continue to be passed and ogled while I chatted and ate and so I completely missed the signal. Missed it completely.

And so it came: pissed off wailing while I waited for the server to come back with hot water to heat his bottle and wait for said bottle to warm up to an acceptable drinking temperature. Ever-mindful of how listening to a crying baby in a restaurant (or any public venue for that matter) used to make me feel, I quickly whisked the boy to the main hallway to continue his fussing away from the other diners who were perhaps just looking to enjoy a good, quiet meal.

Thankfully, Simon is easily soothed. A short walk and a few rounds of The Alphabet Song brought his berating down to a mere lowered-brow quiet stare type of look. After a few minutes pass I think it’s safe and venture back in to check on the temperature of the bottle.

Just as I enter the room, Simon resumes his angry tirade. I quickly turn to leave once more when two of my girlfriends, veteran moms with 7 kids between them, stop me.

“DON’T YOU LEAVE THIS ROOM AGAIN.”

“But he’s crying,” I protest.

“So WHAT.”
“Who cares?”
“Don’t you worry about what other people think.”
“Sit down and enjoy your food.”
“If they can’t handle it, too bad.”
“So he’s crying, big deal. Babies cry. Go enjoy your food.”

Huh. Knowing these women to be ever-gracious and always socially acceptable, I take their word and bring Simon back to my seat where I check the bottle as his fussing continues. I am anxious but soften when I hear other women at the table behind me with their collective “awwwwws”- not angry, but more like sympathetic. “Poor thing.”

Huh.

Simon finally gets his bottle, grabs it with his hands and anxiously chugs 7 ounces in 30 seconds. He finishes by biting/gumming the nipple as he smiles up at me. Content and full, the crisis is over – he’s back to his chillin’ self. All is peaceful on the Smacky front. Let the socializing resume.

And so on the way home I was thinking about this…about how back in the day I would have a short fuse with any type of baby intrusion on my otherwise quiet world. I think back to times when I can remember myself seething internally for having the misfortune of being seated next to an infant or toddler violating my personal space on a plane or train. I remember Sal and me out to eat, listening to a screaming child, swearing to each other that if we ever were lucky enough to have a baby, we wouldn’t bring him out and force him upon the world like that. I remember reciting silent diatribes to parents who were “stupid enough” to use public transportation to travel with their babies.
I had sworn myself and future baby to politeness and social correctness. I wouldn’t be one of those mothers who tunes out and lets her kid frustrate the peaceful types in this society. I wouldn’t be so uptight as to need a night out that bad that I can’t wait for a sitter.

Hee hee. Oh my naiveté.

It now dawns on me that this stuff no longer bothers me. I no longer get upset by the presence of children, well, anywhere. Oh I can hear the crying babies, but now it doesn’t phase me at all. Nowadays I think more objectively, like “he’s probably hungry,” or “he needs a nap.” I feel for the frustrated mother who probably just needed to get out of the house and enjoy a square meal that she doesn’t have to cook nor clean up afterward. I know now that with a baby, taking a train or plane is far easier than a 5 hour car trip. I know now that these children are our collective future, and know how defensive and upset I’d feel I if anyone around me showed anything less than tolerance for my beloved little boy who can’t help himself yet.

I think some more and wonder how much infertility had to do with those pre-Simon, more hostile feelings, or if there is indeed some universal reaction in the childless at large who just prefer to keep their distance from the wee ones. I have to admit that for me, with infertility, there were times when being around babies was cathartic (sort of like an affirmation of life), but more often they were just too painful to be around, a reminder of what I could not and may never have. Babies brought out my bitterness, my frustration, and my sadness and insecurity from my failure at becoming a mother. No wonder at times I’d take the defense and view them as abhorrent creatures – who’d want them anyway?

But, in general, does the public at large feel this way? Why do we hold parents to such impossible standards? Why is it so important that we keep our children quiet and hide them away from polite society? Are we that intolerant a people that we can’t see past the fact that a child can’t control their impulses yet? Are we so stressed that we can’t endure a tantrum, or forgive a mother for daring to bring her child out in public? Why do we expect parents to be so apologetic? And why do we feel like we have to apologize?

Now that I know - now that I’m a mom, I can’t help but wonder.

And now that I’ve thought this through, I think in the future I won’t be so quick to stand up and flee the room if Simon starts up. I think I’ll book that train trip I’ve been meaning to take but didn’t for fear of behavioral problems en route. I am not so sure I should have to apologize to anyone that my 7 month old hasn’t mastered his crying impulse yet. Or that he's having a bad poop. Or that he's hungry. Or that I dared to leave the house with him on that particular day. Don't get me wrong- I'm not about to let Smacky run rampant, violating personal space or smearing chunks of Gerber on airplane upholstery. But overall, I think I’ll start worrying less about offending others and worry more about doing what I’m supposed to be doing: enjoying my life with this wonderfully sloppy, sometimes loud and occasionally antisocial miracle of mine.

******

HOUSE UPDATE:
Our old house will be featured on Chronicle this coming Thursday, the 19th. If you live in the New England area, please tune in!

Gettin clean

Interrupting the hiatus to share a photo of my squeaky-clean kid:

 

A Blue Christmas

Smacky had some fun today opening gifts from his most adored nanny, Gleyse.

He was pretty happy, though the excitement brought about the urge to poop. His cuteness did much to make us forget about how stinky he was. And he didn't care. He was in Blue Heaven.

Obrigado minha tia bonita. Eu te amo.
Bon Natal!

6 Months

On Friday the 16th we passed a quiet little milestone: our Smacky turned 6 months old. Yep -that's one half of one year. That's 180 days plus a few more.

In the time since he was born he's grown from 5 lbs. 7 oz to 16 lbs. 10 oz. He was 17" long at birth; now he's 27". Little man can stand on his own with a little help from a chair or ottoman or nearby human. He squeals with delight when I sing Blue's Clues or tickle him. He raspberries me back when I blow raspberries on his tummy when I'm changing him. He now shouts for my (or Sal's) attention when we're otherwise engaged. At social events he's happy to be passed around meeting new people and will smile at everyone while he grabs their nose or boldly inserts his hand into their mouths. He's cut his first tooth: the bottom right. He loves bananas and green beans and as of tomorrow will start on chicken and meats. He's grown into and mastered his Jumparoo, each morning aiming higher as his babbling commentary grows louder and more certain. When we read together, he now commandeers the book, attempting forcefully to gnaw on its corners. Allie and Lola are learning that though Simon may be the ultimate source for tasty-sweet human food, the convenience comes with the price of pulled ears, pinched noses and crushed tails.

Simon is a sweet boy. His smiles are easy and frequent. He's laid back yet very alert - I see in him both my penchant for observation and my tendency to go with the flow. He can be silly and random, finding hilarity in the way I open the dishwasher or in his father calling out to him. More infrequently he can be bossy, impatient or demanding, but I've noted that such occasions are usually preceded or accompanied by an unpleasant experience with gas or a big poop or, as the case on Friday, shots in his hams. (The poor hams). His default personality though is always "happy to be here." Most everyone who meets him comments on his good nature, and though I know those personality traits tend to be mostly genetic, I do give Sal and me a pat on the back for the environment we're providing. Despite the chaos in our personal lives, our home is happy and loving, and we really haven't forgotten for one second what a miracle this child truly is. Our parenting style has been more of following Simon's lead; after his stay in the NICU neither of us had the heart to impose any type of regulated feeding times or sleeping times...we just figured biologically his body would tell him what he needed and he'd tell us. And soon we all fell into a natural routine. I do all I can not to wait for him to cry or fuss to let me know he's hungry or tired; I give him constant and frequent opportunities to eat or nap...if he doesn't want to, I don't force the issue. As a result, Simon doesn't cry often. He sleeps well and eats well. He's not a stressed kid, and that keeps us parents fairly stress-free. But the grandparents don't get it, warning me continously that we're spoiling our child - that we're going to "pay" for this in the long run. You'll see, they tell me, but they never tell me just what we'll be seeing. Thus far, all I can see is that doing things our way is creating a happy, calm baby, who will hopefully grow up to be a happy, calm adult. And as we all know, happy, calm adults tend to have happy, calm lives. Perhaps my logic is flawed and we're robbing Simon of some critical discomfort which could help build character and problem-solving abilities later in life. I don't see it, but eh, who knows. If that's the case let him learn that shit in kindergarten. Right now he's still just a wee babe and our method is working well for all of us.

Gah, can you tell my back is up with that last paragraph? Sigh. I suppose I'm tired of the critics. Motherhood is such an important job that I think mothers like a consensus to know that what they're doing (or used to do) is the right thing. When they witness or hear someone doing something differently they get defensive and start saying stupid things to and about the alternative mother. It's hard not to do. We all forget that we do what's right for us individually. Why is that concept so hard sometimes? Especially when it comes to mothering? Probably because most of us would rather burn in hell than fuck up our kids...and the slightest hint that we may not be on the right track sends us over the edge.

Anyway, back to the Smackaroo -
he's doing so well - so much better than I ever dared to hope. He's healthy, smart, and cute as a button if I do say so myself. We are so so blessed. Every morning when I wake up I feel like it's Christmas -and somehow he, the best gift ever, keeps getting better everyday. I love discovering tiny new things about him, and, well, just love loving him. I was meant to do this.

Happy 1/2 year my sweet little boy!

(pics coming tomorrow morning - too tired right now!)

Ciao.

You'll Shoot Your Eye Out Kid

Yesterday I participated in an age-old holiday ritual: taking your kid to the mall to get his picture taken with Santa. Because in my family Simon's arrival literally was like the second coming, there has been much pressure to take my son to do the following: 1) wait in an hour long line to 2) let him sit with an odd and hairy badly dressed old man while 3) Gleyse and I dance around like jackasses behind a camera yelling PEEKABOO to get the baby to crack a smile. After all, this is his first Christmas, and as I'm warned, possibly the last chance I'll have to get a good picture. Evidently as my child's brain develops he'll learn to truly fear the red-nosed fatman, which, I mean, I can't say I blame him. But once that fear sets in, there's no getting a decent Santa picture. Or so I'm told.

In front of us on line was a cute little Italian boy with his Grandma. Grandma was pretty nervous, pacing and such. She finally tells me "Look, you can go ahead of us if you'd like. My daughter went to get some hair gel and isn't back yet." Grandma ruffles her grandson's hair. "I think it looks good like this - it looks natural. Why does she need gel? Why can't she just let him be?"

I nod and because I am very sensitive to how very seemingly contentious mother-daughter (and MIL-DIL) relations can get when it comes to matters of the grandchild, I keep my mouth shut. And I glance down at my own little Italian boy, and realize that despite my best efforts with the brush, today of all days he's sporting crazy-old-man hair. Wisps and curls are standing up on top of his head, with tendrils poking out awkwardly from in front and behind his ears. Some would find it cute. I find it adorable. But because I am the mother and because I know this picture means far more than it should to certain family members, for today, this day, the crazy-old-man hair cannot stand.

Grandma continues fussing with her grandson. "I think he has beautiful hair. Look, it's wavy, see? But it's natural - this is his hair. He's a young boy. It's natural... but SHE evidently feels the need to put some gel in it. Who am I to say anything...what do I know?" Her grandson is oblivious to her doting, focusing intently on a nearby television showing Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer, the Rankin Bass classic and my personal favorite. Grandma is glancing around, clearly worrying that her daughter won't get back in time for their turn.

Again, I smile and nod, noting that Simon could certainly use a little dab. Just a little product to tame the wiry wisps is all my boy needs to look smashing for Santa. I'm looking around now, seeing what stores are nearby. Just as I turn to ask Gleyse for her input, Grandma's daughter comes flying up the line, her hand full of lotion. She smiles at me and starts working on her boy's head. I hear her tell Grandma, "it's body lotion...it'll work just fine." Grandma starts grumbling.

I finally cave. "Body lotion?" I call over to the daughter. "Would you mind if I..."

"Not at all," daughter says, as she offers me her lotioned hand. "It's Origins - I figured it was all-natural. I didn't feel like buying a tube of gel just for this."

Grateful, I smoothed the crazy-old-man wisps down. Simon grinned his giant grin, the gummy all-out-joy grin. Aaaah, I think. This is going to be a great picture.

Daughter tells me it's okay to go ahead of them. Seems she and Grandma couldn't decide on tucking the shirt in or keeping it out.

As it turns out, Santa was hmmm, how shall I put it - slightly crabby. A bit business-like. In a rush, but I'm not sure for what (don't Santas get paid hourly?). He was nice enough, but certainly not jolly. No one was ho-ho-ho-ing here. We've got pictures to take people. Move along.

Simon was calm, non-plussed by it all. He looked at me for a bit and then was intent on watching the bickering Grandma and daughter. He was completely oblivious to the cranky Santa holding him. Gleyse and I were complete idiots, jumping up and down behind the camera, waving our arms, gooing and squealing and really giving it our all. More interesting to him however were the Bickersons, whose constant backand forth got him to crack at least a half smile. It's where he kept looking, seemingly fascinated by their drama. And Santa and the photographer quickly grew weary at my persistence in waiting for a smile: take another one!

And so this is what we settled for:

$40 later and I've made a whole lotta people very happy (except Santa). Happy first Santa pic, little man!

My Brush Runneth Over

Ugh.

Why the f*ck did no one ever tell me about this???

For the past 2 months I've been shedding worse than Allie on a hot summer's day. Each morning I woefully clean my hairbrush as I inspect my conspicuously thinning scalp. Hot rollers help, so does wax. But being the vain hair-diva that I am, this development does not bode well for me at all. Have you ever seen one of those women with overall thinning hair? The ones who walk around with damaged fine wisps which hug their scalp and drag their face down? The ones who, perhaps in a "combover" type of mode, decide that they will compensate for the lack of what's growing above by letting the below become too-long and scraggley?
Yeah, well, I wasn't about to become one of those women.

I took a long hard look in the mirror and said to myself, "it's time." And although thankfully I'm not sporting any patches or obvious spots, the overall thinning is really bothering me. I do see new growth sprouting up and am fairly convinced that this will all be temporary. Note I said "fairly convinced" and not "convinced." Here's where I employ my Denial Fairy and pretend that everything is gonna be just peachy in the follicle department. But really, what to do in the meantime? To me, to keep growing my hair long while my little sprouts try to catch up is nonsensical, not to mention just courting an eventually not-so-good look. And so I visited George this morning.

We didn't have to say much to each other. As I sat in the chair, he fluffed the sides and said "you need it a little shorter. Pregnancy."
And with that, it came off. My heart sank a little when he took out the buzzer to even out the bottom of the back, but I know it's for the best. And it doesn't look all that bad...it's healthy and fuller. It's a bob, but with a very short back. Simon will no longer be able to jam his sticky fists around my neck and rip out additional precious strands.

Before I left, as he wisked away the tiny hairs off the back of my neck, George remarked, "There. Now you'll fit right in in Wannabeville (his sarcastic nod to the type of people I'll be living with when we move next week)."

Anyway, I get the "Mom Cut" now. I really get it. There are actual reasons behind it beyond the "I just don't have time anymore" excuse. I get it. I do.

Prune Juice and Green Beans

What a difference a day makes.

I caved and called Dr. BowTie.

* 1 oz prune juice mixed with 1 oz water did the trick. Smacky hated the taste and only took 1/2 oz, but evidently that was enough to get things moving. Within 15 minutes, we had poop. I don't know who was more relieved- Simon or me.

* Dr. BT agreed Simon sounded ready to try solids. He nixed the rice cereal as he gets that in his bottles regularly (we've done this since he was 6 weeks or so - it really helps control his acid reflux) and can cause constipation. He recommended we try jar fruits and veggies. I picked green beans to start. He LOVED them. After every spoonful (I kid you not) he'd announce HHHHMMMMMMMM!!!! He ate half a jar and would have kept going had I not put the brakes on (taking it easy to see how he digested it). Of course, much of it remained on his face but he was in heaven, eating like the big people do and trying to grab the spoon from my hands.

I've always daydreamed of this day. Pinch me.

***

Tomorrow Simon turns 5 months old. He's looking more like a little boy now - less infant-like. This seems to be a really good age...he smiles so easily and jabbers on and on and loves to play. His personality is emerging and I'm seeing silliness (cracking himself up, doing things to anticipate a response from us), flirting (batting his eyes and lowering his lids while he smiles), and cleverness (I tried hiding below the highchair tray during a game of peek-a-boo, only to look up and see him slouching down to look under the tray, watching me). Of course these things may just be coincidental and part of normal development, but if that's the case please let this mom be delusional and let her believe her little man is truly as special as she thinks he is. He's so delightful at times my heart just spills over.

Kelly, Dee, Jans and Joy, thanks for the great input.

Ciao.