worry

Check Your Tires

Andy was out of town. It was a Saturday. I wanted to be out of the house. So I mustered up some courage, strapped all three kids into their car seats, loaded the stroller and drove to the zoo.

The weather? Beautiful. The number of people at the zoo? Insane.

Still, I was determined.

I parked far, far away. I strapped everyone into the Valco, and dumped the contents of my diaper bag into the basket underneath the stroller. We took off.

I thought the stroller was difficult to push but I contributed this to the fact that I rarely push all three in the stroller anymore—Sophie almost always walks. In fact, I often insist on it. She’s 4. And the boys like to walk. So if we’re at a place where I feel like I can handle all three without too much trouble, everybody walks. It had been a long time since I pushed all three in the stroller.

It was right around the time we were battling the crowd to see the giraffes that I realized one of my tires was almost flat. And I had no pump. And no help. And our van was far, far away. Memories of my dad reminding me to “check my oil” in my old car—the one that required oil-checking frequently, came flooding back to me. If he lived with me, I guarantee he would have reminded me to “check my tires.”

My old self would have found this scenario incredibly daunting.

Not my new self. Or, should I say, growing self.

I had a moment. I let myself have a moment and then I let it go. It was what it was. Worst case scenario, we’d all walk. Worst-worst case scenario, I’d find a pump (someone at the zoo would have to have a pump, right? I mean, don’t some of the animals play with blow-up balls and such?). Worst-worst-worst case scenario, I’d abandon the stroller and we’d leave. I figured it would make its way to lost-and-found. People are generally good. I would go back tomorrow, pick it up and all would be right with the world.

There were no worst plural scenarios, thankfully. The kids walked a lot, which was difficult with all the people, but we managed. And honestly, it was easier than putting everyone in/pulling everyone out at every different thing so they could see.

We had fun. We went to a bird show—my first time taking all three kids to a sit-down event by myself and they lasted (and laughed and clapped), the entire time.

We had ice cream.

We skipped the elephants, per Sophie’s request (a rather loud incident several years ago scarred her).

I felt good. I remembered the state I would get myself into with the idea of taking Sophie—just Sophie—somewhere by myself when she was a newborn. And not that that worry was wrong. I think that’s part of being a mother, a new mother, a good mother. But I also think, generally, I’d be better off with less worry.

You know those women who pride themselves on running marathons? Or getting promotions? Or winning a grant? Yeah, that’s not my life right now. Everything’s on a (much) smaller scale. But I’ve learned to take pride in these (small) achievements. Because I could lament the fact that I no longer run or manage a magazine. I could read and re-read and re-re-read the rejections I get from literary agents all too often.

Or.

I can say, Hey you. You took three at-times-crazy kids to an overcrowded zoo in a stroller with a flat tire and survived. You rock.

Or.

Hey you. You survived all three kids being sick at once. You rock.

Or.

Hey you. You folded a load of laundry today. You rock.

I know.

My (new) bar is very, very low.

That doesn’t mean I’m not still aiming high. I keep submitting to agents, even though I do keep getting rejected. But I also learned that I’m a happier human being if I celebrate the small achievements in life—as well as the big ones.

This new line of thinking also encourages me to get out more, do more, try more–even if there are hiccups along the way.

Still, I’d prefer no hiccups. I’d prefer full tires. But that’s not life–not my life, anyway.

“He who teaches children learns more than they do.” —German Proverb

Tulips “From Sophie”

Sophie and I had a rough night tonight. One of my failings as a parent is to threaten and then not follow through. For example: “Sophie, if you scream like that one more time you lose dessert after dinner tonight.” Sophie screams. “Sophie, I mean it. If you scream one more time you lose dessert after dinner tonight.” Sophie screams. “Sophie, I’m serious!” Sophie screams. “OK, no dessert. You can get it back if you don’t scream for the rest of the night but …”

Seriously. Super Nanny would have a field day with me.

Anyhow, I promised myself, after a particularly rough weekend, I would start following through. And tonight, I did. There were a lot of tears. But I held my ground. Long story short, Sophie went to bed tonight without “stay up time,” without a snack, without books. I sat in the hallway and painted my toenails. She laid in bed and cried. It was horrible. But also good. Very good, for both of us. I was less friend and more parent. I followed through. I think, I hope, we’re in a better place now.

Andy went grocery shopping tonight. And came home with tulips. “From Sophie.”

Tomorrow I know Sophie will be overly loving, with her constant “I love you’s” (her “thing” as of late) and snuggling on the couch. Even if tonight she screamed “never” to me no less than three times. Am I doing this right? I wonder. Have I messed up? I worry. And then I look at the tulips. And listen to the words Andy says to me.

It will be OK. I am doing OK. We are all OK.

Sometimes, being “mean” is necessary and needed, I know. Still, that doesn’t make it any easier.

“The flower that follows the sun does so even in cloudy days.” —Robert Leighton

Closed (Because of Us)

Andy left for Gen Con with friends Wednesday night. He’s due back in an hour or so. I’m ready for him to come back.

The kids woke up at 6:30 this morning. By 10am we needed to get out of the house. The weather’s beautiful today, so we went to the park. Not yet ready to go home, we had lunch at Skyline Chili. Still not ready to go home and remembering how all three children were squinting in the sunlight at the park, I suggested we go to Crestview Hills Town Center and buy sunglasses (their old ones had all broken, which, I suppose is to be expected when you spend $2.50 on a pair of sunglasses).

Anyhow, we were able to park right in front of The Children’s Place. So I decided to forgo the stroller. The kids did remarkably well in the store, sticking together and not touching (too many) things, while I discovered that the sunglasses display had been taken over by a winter hat display (in August). The only other store at Crestview that sells children’s clothes is a department store, Dillard’s. So off we went. Sans stroller.

After walking past the large glass perfume displays, I found a map. The children’s department was upstairs.

“Does this mean we get to ride the escalator?” Sophie said.

“Yes,” I said.

She was thrilled.

All of my children have ridden the escalator—but usually, more adults are present. Owen was nervous (he’s often nervous) so I picked him up. James was ready to go running up it by himself, so I slowed him down and grabbed his hand. Seeing that my hands were full Sophie was delighted with the fact that she was going to be able to get on it by herself.

I’m not sure what, exactly, happened next. I just know that Sophie started screaming and doing the splits and while I tried to help her James fell down, on his back, his head toward the first floor and his feet toward the second. I pulled James up and then realized we were going up while Sophie was still struggling at the bottom, falling, yelling for me to stop. At this point a crowd has formed and just as I was trying to work my way back down the escalator to help (now screaming) Sophie with two (now screaming) boys in my arms a Dillard’s employee ran over and pushed the emergency stop button.

I got everyone off. No one (thankfully, luckily, inexplicably) was hurt. I kneeled down next to the Clinique counter hugging my children while two women walked past me, looked me in the eye, disapprovingly shook their heads and started whispering to each other about what had happened. Part of me wanted to scream at those women, telling them they had no right to judge, that we had done the escalator before without issue. Part of me wanted to admit I had made a mistake. But the biggest part of me just wanted to cry.

I thanked the Dillard’s employee, who was very kind, but insisted I stick around to fill out an accident report. The accident report required a manager of some sorts and a very long length of time when you’re in a very public place with three very upset children. The man who pushed the emergency stop button found three peppermints and gave one to each child. This helped. Sort of.

At this point, I just wanted to go home. But I had promised the kids sunglasses and Sophie is very good at remembering promises given. So we found the elevator and we rode it upstairs and walked through a salon into the children’s department—where of course, they had no sunglasses.

We took the elevator back downstairs. The doors opened and I saw a huge blue sign blocking the bottom of the escalator that said “closed for maintenance.” Two bright yellow signs had been posted at the top. Every Dillard’s customer was now having to use the small elevator at the back of the store if they wanted to go upstairs.

We left.

It was a long walk back to the car. Sophie made a point to squint and continually comment about how bright the sun was shining. It was nap time. I unlocked the van. I opened the doors. I strapped everyone in. I was shaky, finally letting myself acknowledge how very lucky we all were, how the entire situation could have been much, much worse. As I was trying to stop my brain from thinking those awful thoughts no parent should think but every parent thinks, I ran into a curb—hard.

And my hub cap flew off.

I pulled into a restaurant parking lot and just parked for a minute, doing the silent cry behind sunglasses I imagine most mothers do at some point—the cry you can’t stop from happening at the moment but the cry you try to keep secret, so that your children remain oblivious.

I was tired. I was ready for Andy to be home. I had made a bad decision. I had almost brought harm to my children. I had caused a scene. A department store’s escalator had been shut down because of my family. And now people were having to swerve when exiting Crestview because of my now-terribly-scratched-up hub cap, which was in the middle of the street.

I took a deep breath. I let the cool air from the air conditioner blow on my face. I turned the van around and I retrieved the hub cap. I explained to Sophie that we’d have to go shopping for sunglasses another time, that it was past the boys’ nap time, that we needed to go home.

Normally, this would be cause for debate but she must have sensed something was up because she simply said, “OK.”

And now, we’re home.

I put the boys to bed. I called my parents, told them what happened, ended up crying some more. I popped popcorn for Sophie and added real butter for her, which she loves. Andy called from the road.

If I close my eyes I can still see the look of absolute panic on Sophie’s face, the odd angle James fell as he was looking at me, more surprised than anything, upside down. If I close my eyes too long I begin to picture things happening that didn’t happen and then I just want to cry some more.

But tomorrow I’ll feel better. And the next day, I’ll feel better some more. And on and on and on until something else goes wrong and there’s a moment of a panic, a hurt something, a scene, feelings of failure, another what if.

Most days, being a parent is amazing. But some days, it’s hard. Really, really hard.

“There is no such thing as a perfect parent so just be a real one.” —Sue Atkins

Three Kids Under 4 On a Plane

Early June Andy’s parents gifted us a wonderful vacation with them in St. Petersburg, Fla. The trip included five plane tickets, which I was both very grateful for (it’s a long drive) and terrified of (the boys have never flown). Confession: Worst case, though, I thought whatever happened would make a good blog post.

Fortunately, unfortunately, I have nothing super exciting to post here.

I prepared. Sophie has a backpack. I bought the boys backpacks. And filled them with things they don’t normally get—fruit strips, fruit snacks, Teddy Grahams, cheese crackers, these fantastic activity books, diapers for the boys, an extra pair of panties for Sophie, wipes for everyone, sunglasses for everyone, flash cards and empty Thermos drink containers.

Now you would think such excess would have kept them occupied for a flight to Paris. But after putting all the stickers all over themselves …

and eating all their treats much too quickly …

and going through the flash cards 10 times …

we resorted to letting them turn the overhead lights on and off, on and off. Thankfully, the flight was packed with kids (as it was going from Cincinnati to Tampa in the summer) and everyone seemed to agree that a flickering overhead light was better than a crying child.

It went well. Really well. Andy’s parents flew with us on the way out, helping us when needed. Owen kept saying “airplane” over and over. Sophie was beside herself with the idea of fruit snacks in the morning.

Grateful.

“Airplane travel is nature’s way of making you look like your passport photo.” —Al Gore

Pinkeye

Somehow Sophie went from runny nose and cough to runny nose, cough, high fever and (a lot of) yellow gunk coming out of her eye. (This in addition to other runny noses, fevers and maybe-pinkeyes in the house right now.) Cue the Saturday evening call to the doctor and antibiotics prescribed over the phone. We made the call close to her bedtime, so by the time the prescription was actually called in, filled and picked up, it was close to 10pm. Sophie was miserable at this point, not feeling well and exhausted.

I tore off the stapled instructions from the paper prescription bag.

And read this:

(Note, Sophie hates water in her eyes, hates it. I’m talking, screams-in-the-shower-won’t-dunk-her-head-in-a-pool-can’t-stand-to-be-splashed hates it.)

TO USE THIS MEDICINE, first wash your hands. Tilt your head back and, with your index finger, pull the lower eyelid away from the eye to form a pouch. Drop the prescribed number of drops of medicine into the pouch and gently close your eyes. Do not blink and keep your eyes closed for 1 or 2 minutes. Do not rub the eye. Place one finger at the corner of the eye near the nose and apply gently pressure … This will prevent the medicine around your eye from draining away from the eye. Remove excess medicine around your eye with a clean tissue, being careful not to touch your eye. Wash your hands to remove any medicine that may be on them.

Except that we weren’t doing this to ourselves. Rather we were doing this to our 4-year-old—our exhausted, sick 4-year-old who hates anything in or close to her eyes.

I looked in the prescription bag to see if there was another medicine that would knock Sophie unconscious just long enough for us to do this to her.

The bag was empty.

We decided to be straight up with her, tell her exactly what we were going to do, what was going to happen and ask her if she had any questions.

She looked at us like we were the worst parents on this planet and buried her head (and self, really) into my pillow.

We got the drops in. It involved (not necessarily in this order) explanation, pleading, bribing, begging, pinning down, pinning open, screaming, crying, gummy worm eating.

Oh, and we get to do this three times a day.

For seven days.

“A Spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down
The medicine go down-wown
The medicine go down
Just a spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down
In a most delightful way.” —Mary Poppins

Green vs. Pink

Sophie still loves the jolly old man with the long white beard and red velvet coat (what 4-year-old doesn’t?) but she has some questions for him—well, as of late, one question in particular. I thought we were long over this. Turns out, we’re not. A few weeks ago Sophie and my mom were talking about Sophie’s scooter, the one big gift she wanted for Christmas. She told my mom how much she liked riding it but added, “I don’t know why he got me a green one, though, when I asked for pink.”

And she did ask for pink. We were well aware she wanted pink. Pink, pink, pink. Andy spent a lot of time researching scooters and, honestly, we blew her Christmas budget getting her a nice one, a safe one, one that could be passed down to her brothers when she was through with it. And yes, of course, her brothers could ride a pink scooter. I have no problem with that. But would they want to? And what’s more, almost everything Sophie owns is pink. Everything else she was getting for Christmas was pink. So Santa put a green scooter under the Christmas tree.

Sophie hasn’t always been obsessed with pink. The first time we let her pick out her own shoes we ended up in the boy section because she wanted dark navy light-up Buzz Lightyear shoes. And she loved them.

She had baby dolls and a pink stroller when she was younger, yes, but she also had a wooden train set and a play kitchen painted primary white, red and blue. I dressed her in jeans all the time. She refused to wear accessories in her hair. Up until about six months ago, we didn’t own a single Disney princess movie. Instead, she preferred “Finding Nemo” and “Cars.”

And then pink happened. And by happened, I mean happened. She wanted everything to be pink—her clothes, her toys, her room, her cup, her plate. She took notice of when the Sundance Catalog arrived in the mail and she’d spend 20 minutes pointing out jewelry, saying big words like “beautiful” and “gorgeous.” She played “princess” and “wedding” and threw lavish parties for queens. The worst? She started qualifying things. “Those are girl toys,” she’d say, walking past an aisle exploding with all things glitter and pink in Target. Or, even worse, “That’s a boy book,” she’d say, pointing to a book about insects.

Cue me totally freaking out.

This, of course, led to to me spending several hours online one night, with a glass of wine in hand, researching the matter and stumbling across books like Peggy Orenstein’s Cinderella Ate My Daughter: Dispatches from the Front Lines of the New Girlie-Girl Culture, Jennifer L. Hartstein’s Princess Recovery: A How-to Guide to Raising Strong, Empowered Girls Who Can Create Their Own Happily Ever Afters and Cordelia Fine’s Delusions of Gender: How Our Minds, Society, and Neurosexism Create Difference.

Now, to be fair, I should note that I didn’t actually read any of these books (which is honestly how I usually treat parenting books—I freak out, I spend hours researching them, I buy them, and they collect dust on my bedside table while I lament that I never have any time to read anything, usually while doing something like watching “Downton Abbey”). I did, however, read the descriptions and reviews on Amazon, which was enough to convince me that Cinderella is, indeed, eating my daughter and somehow, somewhere along the way we totally screwed up (if I had to pinpoint an exact moment, it was probably the evening I ordered her a chandelier for her bedroom—although, I admit, I love that chandelier).

And now our child has issues with the Big Man who lives in the North Pole because green “isn’t a pretty color.”

But here’s what I struggle with: Sophie loves pink. She loves flowers and rainbows and glitter and sparkle and jewelry and dresses. Right or wrong, it’s part of who she is. And by denying her some of that, by guiding her away from that, by implying that what she likes is somehow wrong, isn’t that just as stifling to her individuality than if I told her she couldn’t wear boy Buzz Lightyear shoes because they’re dark blue?

I think, like most things, there has to be balance. For Christmas she received a princess dress. And a princess castle. Her brothers got her a Fancy Nancy board game. She got lots of pink. But she also got a green scooter. A nice, well-made scooter that will last her several years and when she’s through with it, will be (hopefully) in fine enough condition for the boys to use, too. The choice was economical. But not purely. Even at 4, I think it’s good and appropriate that she not always receives everything she asks for, exactly as she wants it—even when it’s the thing she wants most for Christmas. And honestly, Andy and I were simply becoming overwhelmed with all the pink. We worried about the culture of pink. We worried that more pink would create more division of “boy things” and “girl things,” when, in reality, things are just things.

Come Christmas morning Sophie was quiet about the scooter. She was happy to receive it, yes, but there was no jumping up and down. It was a reserved happiness. We worried. She insisted on keeping the long, red satin ribbon tied on it so that “it would be pretty.” I couldn’t decide if we had made a good parenting decision or a a terrible one. I was torn.

Fast forward to warmer weather, to spring:

She loves her scooter. The satin ribbon has long been taken off. Every day I put the boys in the wagon and we follow her, a blur of pink and green, as she navigates the sidewalk on our street. (I should note Owen loves these wagon rides but in this picture I had just put on his TOT collar—for his torticollis—which usually he doesn’t mind, but for whatever reason on this particular day he was crazy upset about it.) She laughs and every day tries to go faster and faster and faster—and it’s been weeks since she’s lamented about her now-favorite toy’s color.

I believe we made the right decision. I believe it’s OK to let her choose her own clothes and I believe it’s OK that almost everything is pink—it’s what she wants, it’s what she likes. I believe it’s OK if she watches Disney princess movies and wears tiaras around the house and has pretend weddings. But I also believe that it’s my job as a parent to correct her when she claims some things are for boys while others are for girls. That I need to expose her to books and television shoes and movies and board games and toys that are all colors of the rainbow, that cover many different subjects … activities that require fine china, tiaras and pretty dresses, and activities that require dirty knees, dump trucks and bug boxes. I believe that somehow we have to acknowledge who she is and what she likes while also exposing her to the world at large—because with exposure comes new interests, new likes and, most importantly, new ways of thinking.

I’d love to hear your thoughts on the matter. One of which, I’m sure will be, “read those books.” In the meantime I plan to let her dig in the dirt while wearing tutus, play superhero while wearing a (pink) cape and have as many pretend weddings as she wants (even if she’s marrying my husband over and over). And although I can pretty much guarantee she’ll be wearing pink, I expect her to ride her scooter daily—even if it is, green.

“We’ve begun to raise daughters more like sons … but few have the courage to raise our sons more like our daughters.” —Gloria Steinem

Crème Brûlée for Dinner

For this I am either a terrible parent or a fantastic parent—I suppose the answer lies in who you ask.

Sophie ran errands with me all afternoon. We dropped off clothes I’ve been meaning to have dry cleaned for more than a year (I don’t have occasion to wear dry-clean-only clothes often) at Atlas Cleaners. We went to a gorgeous old Victorian way up in Hamilton so I could pick up a lot of milk glass I won on an estate sale auction site (I blame you, Danielle, for this). We had a nice, long visit with my parents. Next up, the mall. I had a birthday present to buy and an item to return, and Sophie and I were hungry. I had every intention of going to the food court. Instead we ended up at Maggiano’s. We sat on high, leather chairs at a high-top table next to a glossy black grand piano. I ordered us both crème brûlées (not knowing how big they were), white milk for Sophie and coffee for me—dinner.

Sophie was thrilled. She cracked into the crème brûlée and said how much she liked it. She carefully wiped her lips with a white cloth napkin. When she was stuffed from the richness of the dessert, she started scraping off the caramelized sugar and eating it alone. And then, the prom goers showed up. Sophie was beside herself, with the tall cup of white milk, the huge dessert (for dinner!) and the dozens of young women surrounding her in beautiful dresses (at one point I had to tell her to stop pointing and saying “gorgeous!” every time another prom goer walked through the front doors).

“This is like a princess world,” she said.

And, for a 4-year-old, it was.

We finished our dessert dinner, left the restaurant and purchased the birthday gift. We tried on sparkly, deeply discounted jewelry and laughed at ourselves in a floor-length mirror. We went to the Disney store and Sophie held every single princess gown in front of her, swirling in front of the triple mirror in the princess castle, waving wands and trying on tiaras. We left the Disney store and walked to the indoor fountain. She was so giddy. On sugar. On trying on sparkly jewelry. On pretending to be a princess.

She asked for a coin so that she could make a wish. As usual, I had none (they always go straight to my Paris Fund jar). I told her to simply close her eyes and make a wish—that it would still count.

And then, my stomach hurt. Maybe it was all that crème brûlée on an otherwise empty stomach. Maybe it was the number of shoppers swarming around us, arms filled with luxury goods from high-end stores. Maybe it was all the glitter in the Disney store. But I feared about what she was going to wish for. I feared about the decadence of the evening. That it was simply too much—allowing a 4-year-old to have dessert for dinner (and crème brûlée at that!). Trying on sparkly jewelry with her. Letting her spend 20 minutes in the Disney store pretending to be a princess. I feared she was going to wish for crème brûlée for dinner every night, or sparkly jewelry, or a princess gown, or anything from the Disney store for that matter.

But she didn’t.

She closed her eyes tightly, breathed in and opened her eyes.

“What did you wish for?” I asked.

“That a rainbow would appear,” she said.

And then she was off, skipping, taking care to follow the lines made by the fancy mall’s tile floor.

I immediately calmed.

We returned the item we needed to return and then walked through Nordstrom. I tried on some Coco Chanel parfum. She wanted to, too. I debated, and then remembered her wish for the rainbow. I spritzed some on her wrist. She inhaled, deeply, and smiled. “Now what?” she asked. I showed her how to rub her wrists together. She did. She inhaled again. She was deliriously happy.

We took a wrong turn when leaving the mall. It was chilly so I had her put on the Red Riding Hood-esque cape my mom made for her for her birthday. I had no idea where the van was. Sophie took charge of the situation, claiming her cape was magic and that it would find the car. We ran around the outside of Nordstrom, past entrance after entrance (seriously, how many entrances does a store need?), hoping to outrun the goblins that were after us, and the darkness that was upon us.

We eventually found the van (for which I was secretly extremely thankful for, as I have a terrible sense of direction and we could have very well wandered around the parking lot a good 20 more minutes before we found it) and she climbed in, exhausted, happy. Despite the decadence of the evening, I hadn’t bought her a thing, except the crème brûlée and milk that filled her belly. No princess dress. No tiara. No Coco Chanel parfum (which she did ask for, and which I immediately said no to, for many, many reasons).

I know some (most) of the evening was ridiculous in its extravagance. But I hope, when she thinks back to this evening (if she ever does) that it’s not the sparkly jewelry or the princess dresses or the expensive parfum she remembers. Rather it’s that we had crème brûlée for dinner, an unheard of treat. That she wished for a rainbow. That we outran goblins while trying to find our van (and that we did so, smelling awfully good).

“You live but once; you might as well be amusing.” —Coco Chanel

The Middle-of-the-Night Cold

Sophie is:

wide awake at 10:53pm

watching the all-hours Sprouts channel (so this is why they play children’s shows so late at night)

in our bed

sweaty but cold

rubbing her always-watering eyes endlessly

making awful sounds when she breathes.

She calms, for a few moments, then sits up, a sobbing mess.

She says:

“My eyes! They just keep watering every time I try to settle down!”

“This medicine [children’s Claritin, we thought it was allergies due to the fact that we were outside all day and her eyes were so watery] isn’t doing anything!”

“I can’t stop crying!”

“My nose! I need a tissue! My nose!”

“Mommy, I just don’t want to be sick!”

I scratch her back. Revisit her favorite lullaby. Listen to her snore softly, during the few minutes she’s asleep, before the next coughing fit starts. Wonder what it would be like to have all three kids like this, in the middle of the night, at once. Knock on wood (literally) after thinking such thoughts. Wonder where Andy is going to sleep tonight. Wonder how parents do this with children who are sick often or sick always. Wonder what tomorrow will bring. Wonder what the next hour will bring. Wonder if I will get sick. Wonder why we, as a species, get sick period. Wonder who wrote “The Nightly Clean-up Song,” which is on Sprout right now. Wonder why I’m watching Sprout and not something else given that Sophie is, thankfully, sleeping, clutching her tissue as she would a doll.

If the last hour has taught me anything, though, she’ll be up again soon. With a raspy cough. Or tear-soaked cheeks. Or the basic discomfort that comes with every common cold and the realization, now that she’s older, that there’s little to be done. It happens to everyone. That it’s not fun.

I try to remember everything my mom did, and my dad did, when I was little and sick. There was Sprite. And Saltines. Rare one-on-one time with the parent who stayed home from work. Board games. A thermometer that beeped. Medicine in a plastic alligator spoon. All-day PJs. All-day TV. A fitted sheet on the couch. A brass bell. Back scratches. Lots of back scratches.

I won’t tell her it changes. That childhood sickness, while much dramatized (she’s 4), is way better than adult sickness—if only because you’re the child, not the adult. I imagine I’m not alone when I admit to wishing I was 7, when it’s the middle of the night and I’m in the throes of a terrible—yet minor—cold. Because no matter how helpful a spouse is during sickness, it’s not the same as a parent. It’s just not.

I may no longer receive, in the same way I did as a child, but I can give, in the same way I was given as a child.

And so I will.

I didn’t know it would be like this, before children—the up all night listening to the soft, little moans that make my chest hurt. My dad often said, whenever I was sick, that he wished he could take it for me.

At the time, I thought he was crazy.

I understand that now.

“From the bitterness of disease man learns the sweetness of health.” —Catalan Proverb

 

Finally, Non-Pureed Food

The boys, suddenly, love solid food. Seemingly overnight they’ve transitioned to it, no longer gagging, no longer choking. Perhaps they’ve decided they’ve frightened me with their inability-to-breath-face-turning-odd-shades-of-color antics enough. And, as usual, the immense amount of worry that has bounced around my brain (Why are they 11 months old and not able to handle a Puff? Are they getting enough nutrition with just pureed food and breast milk? What if they choke and I can’t get the choke-inducing bit of food out? How are they possibly going to handle birthday cake in a month?) was for nothing.

While they both have a fairly good pincer grasp, we still find it best to put bits of food in their mouths so that most of it doesn’t end on the floor (which is the same thing as Tucker’s mouth). So although still a little hazy I can begin to picture a time when the boys will pick at food on their trays while we eat our own meals, no longer combining the two.

I look at their small bodies and consider the amount of food they consume—it’s a lot. Yesterday they each had a peach yogurt cup, a 1/4 of an avocado, a 1/4 of a banana, peas and crumbled goat cheese in addition to 6-1/2 oz. bottles every three hours. As I type this on a rainy Tuesday morning they’re fast on their way to eating a 1/2 banana each for breakfast—only a half hour after downing their first-thing bottles.

This is wonderful, because they need to grow.

And terrifying, because someday, they’re going to be teenagers.

“When the boy is growing he has a wolf in his belly.” —German proverb

A Mother’s Instinct

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I worry about James. I always have. At 27-1/2 weeks I was worried about him, even though I was told, at the time, that his rate of growth was fine. But in the end, it wasn’t. At birth, Owen was double the size of James. If my water hadn’t broken on its own, six weeks early, I know at my next scheduled ultrasound I would have been sent to the hospital for a c-section because of how small James really was. James was in the NICU longer. One of his ribs protrudes so oddly that, for a couple scary days we were worried it was some sort of mass (an x-ray and ultrasound confirmed it’s just bone). He suffers from eczema, which at times, can be severe. As such, he often can be found in this position:

James Bottoms Up

I like to think he’s simply doing downward dog but I know he falls into this position often to more easily scratch his head. He does it so much that he’s losing hair on the top of his head—akin to when he only slept on his back and lost hair back there because of that. We have a prescription cream, and it helps, but we’ve yet to rid him of the rash entirely.

That’s not all. None of my children have had ear infections—except James. And now he has a recurring one. At his 9-month appointment we were told he’s in the 1 percentile for weight but that it’s OK—his charted growth curve is upward moving. And yet, at this week’s appointment when the pediatrician confirmed James’s ear infection had returned (and I felt like a terrible mother for dismissing so many signs all last week), new stuff came up. Like the fact that in addition to the eczema, James will sometimes get hives. And that his diapers aren’t what they should be. And that he is still so small.

And so today, after Owen’s PT appointment, I had to take James down the hospital hall for blood work. I will never, ever again complain about having blood drawn. (OK, maybe a little if they have to dig to find a vein, but never like I used to). I’ve decided watching your 10-month-old have blood drawn is 10,000 times worse. The needle is smaller, yes, but the blood takes so long to fill the vials (and using most of my strength to hold down my screaming baby didn’t make the time go any faster).

The pediatrician wants to test him for allergies. And thyroid issues. And many other things, things that have to do with nutrient absorption and other big words I probably should be looking up instead of writing this post.

In the scheme of things, none of this is a big deal. He’s happy (most of the time). And healthy (for the most part). And nothing that I’ve written so far scares me—truly, it doesn’t. What does, though, is mother’s instinct.

People, women, in particular, talk about it all the time: Trust your mother’s instinct. Trust your gut. Listen to that voice inside of you that nags and nags and nags, despite logic and evidence and people telling you to stop worrying, particularly people who have had years of medical training.

I worry about Sophie.

I worry about Owen.

I worry about many, many things (ranging from why recycling pick-up never showed up this week to my career outside of mothering to the tragedies in Japan).

But I can always, with some deep, inward thought, let my worries go or, at least, lessen a bit—except with James.

So then I worry that I’m worrying so much about my mother’s instinct that I’m simply making it seem like it’s something huge I should be trusting when, in reality, it’s just superficially inflated, because of all the worrying going on in my head. Or something like that.

I imagine, I hope, his blood work comes back perfectly normal. And that with more humid weather his skin improves. As he grows, I suspect his rib won’t protrude so noticeably. And maybe, ironically, he’ll actually end up bigger than his brother.

And yet, I can’t shake it. I’ve tried as part of me fears there’s going to be an asterisk next to my name on James’s chart and I’ll be labeled an excessive worrier by his doctors. But then another part of me thinks back to when I had not yet met him yet, but held him, inside of me, and I knew—I knew—something wasn’t quite right. And it wasn’t. I’m not an ultrasound technician. I’m not an ob/gyn. Only a mother. With an uneasy gut.

I hope it’s wrong.

“Instinct is the nose of the mind.” —Madame De Girardin