Time out/Special place

It is truly amazing how quickly toddlers pick up on EVERYTHING. From swear words to using "I have to go potty" as a manipulative force to get out of the crib after having been put to bed, Alexandra picks up on the mundane to the important at light speed. No wonder they encourage language learning at this age--she is a veritable sponge.

Being a two-year old, and having just transitioned to being a big sister, time-outs have become way too common in our apartment. I am determined that I will not have a child who hits me, is sassy or rude, or is misbehaved and I am even more determined that I will not spank my child. As someone who grew up being spanked with any/everything around (hairbrush, wooden spoon, belt, willow branches, hands, etc.), I do not think spanking taught me shit. But, I am not going to be one of those White liberal yuppie parents who, after their kid gives them a black eye, says, "Let's talk about your feelings!" before tossing that brat into a time out. We can talk after time out, but if mommy doesn't put you in one, Dept of Child Services might have to be called.

With all the time outs around here, Alexandra has recently started self-imposing time outs when she starts to feel out of control. It's pretty amazing. Usually a small fall or a slight transgression in behavior (as in screaming bloody murder inside = not using inside voices) will foster the Pavlovian association in her head. She'll look at me and say, "I need to go to the cosleeper." Then she'll march into our bedroom, grab a blankie and her pacifier reserved for snuggling with mommy in the morning, turn on the white noise machine, and lay herself down in the cosleeper for five to ten minutes. Then she's back up and good as new.

When she did this yesterday, mid-playdate as her and Phoebe started to fight over big baby doll, I thought that we ALL need a cosleeper--a special place where we can put ourselves for five to ten minutes to drown out the stressful world around us. Wouldn't that be amazing? I can see myself, in the middle of a classroom altercation, just retreating to a little bed in the back of the room and ignoring the students. Or, mid-marital dispute declaring, "I need to go to my special place!" and doing it before words get said that you'd like to retract, before things get ugly, and before you have regrets.

I know we have gyms, alcohol, femme dates, and so forth that serve in place of our metaphorical cosleepers, but last night, as I watched Alexandra trudge to the cosleeper to gather herself, I couldn't help but wish that having a special place as an adult was a bit more literal and simple.

Birth Control

I am in agony at this crossroads.

So, here I am, 35 years old, 99% sure that I am done having children, and I have a good 10+ years of potential fertility left. I have to do something a tad more foolproof than condoms to ensure that we don't get pregnant again, especially when you consider that we have gotten pregnant twice using condoms (our miscarriage and nico). Obviously Adam and I are not exactly model condom users. With that in mind, there are two options: IUD or for hubby to get the big snip of vasectomy.

Neither option appeals to me.

IUD: I don't like the idea of a random piece of plastic wrapped in copper floating around in my uterus. Nor do I like what I have read of IUDs online. Granted, yes, I understand that only folks who are freakin' miserable post of their horrifying IUD experiences online, but those posts have scared the bejesus out of me. And, quite honestly, it does not seem right. Shoving a T-shaped hijacker in through and into your most important girl part just. seems. wrong. Sorry. I know some folks love it, and maybe I'm a purist, but ICKY. And the side effects...Don't even get me started.

THE BIG V: Adam is more than willing to undergo the big snip. He is 100% sure he does not want three kids, and I am 99% sure that I agree with him. And it's not that I feel bad about him ending his fertile life--the guy obviously is potent and has used his forces for good. But here's where I sound like a crazy lady: I feel if he gets snipped, I'm going to die in the next 10 years and he'll remarry, want to have kids with hot young wife #2, and then he'll resent our decision. In some sicko way, I feel if he gets snipped I will die, a Murphy's Law of vasectomy. I know I should venture into therapy for this crazy fatalistic thought processes, but I can't help it. I guess I have known too many healthy, happy folks just up and die in my life to think otherwise.

I am surprised at how much agony this decision is causing me. I have been menstruating regularly since I was 11 1/2--that's TWENTY FOUR YEARS!!!!!--and I used my body for childbearing purposes for a total of three years. I feel so thankful for my fertility and my healthy pregnancies and beautiful children, but I wish I could just somehow turn this business off without hormones, surgery, or intra-uterine devices.

UGH.

Watch that Finger!

I am sure every parent out there has heard of the Maclaren Stroller recall. Supposedly, if you young one (or mother in law, as reported in the Brian Lehrer show on UNYC, the local NPR station here!) gets his/her fingers into the folding hinge, s/he could get a digit amputated. Twelve cases of finger amputation were reported to Maclaren in the past 10 years, therefore they are doing a voluntary recall on over ONE MILLION strollers. Unfortunately, you don't get a new one, just some fabric thingies to put over your stroller hinges to prevent finger mutilation.

A couple of things cracked me up about this recall:

ONE: The declaration to immediately cease use of your Maclaren until you got your fabric thingies. Pul-ease....As if anyone in NYC with kids can go without their strollers for a single day. Granted, we have FOUR strollers (jog stroller, double stroller, traditional Maclaren, and Maclaren for infant car seat) which seems kinda sick, but keep in mind that they are our main form of transportation here for kids. That just made me laugh.

TWO: The loss of finger digits. I guess it's really no laughing matter, but it reminded me of my dad. When I was in elementary school, my dad, a librarian at the CIA, got ink poisoning in his middle finger of his right hand. One of the complications of diabetes is that you have poor circulation to your hands/feet, therefore this paper cut, ink poisoning situation could not and would not heal. Eventually, he had to have the top digit of his middle finger amputated.

While the loss of a digit is not funny, my dad loved to put his amputated middle finger up to his nostril in public, making it look like he had the entire thing shoved up his nose, to embarrass me and my sister. We'd scream and giggle at him and his antics, and he'd laugh at our humiliation. One of my favorite memories of my father.

Thanks, Maclaren recall, for sparking that memory of mine.

BLAZ

Life is funny.

Right after Halloween, we found Alexandra's old letter magnets shoved into her toy kitchen's oven and I put them back on the fridge. She has managed to get most of them back into a purse or her shopping cart, but a few remained on the fridge, and last week I went to get something out of the refrigerator and the letters spelled BLAZ.

This isn't the first time baby girl has spelled something out with her magnets. At the ripe age of one, she managed to string together a swear word:








But this accident of letters was different. One of my close childhood into high school friends, Heidi Blazevich, died in November of 1990 in a car accident while driving to school. Every November I constantly wonder about her, who she would be today if she had not died, how her parents are coping years later, what happened with her older brother and sisters...A whole mind full of questions that all begin with the "What if..." regarding her death. I can replay the day of her accident like yesterday: I remember where I was standing in the hallways of Park View High School when I was told, where I was when she died, how she looked in the casket...It seems like yesterday, but here I am, 19 years later and still thinking of Heidi.

When Alexandra accidentaly strung together BLAZ (Heidi's nickname), I couldn't help but think that this was Heidi's way of giving a little wave in my direction, reminding me to be thankful for the past 19 years of my life that I have experienced.

Although each November I repeatedly meditate on my life while thinking of Heidi, I love that my daughter was the one to prod me into this reflective space this year. It really is the small, simple things that make life so beautiful and make me so thankful to be alive.

Losing Parents Now

As much as Facebook gets a lot of criticism and mockery from the masses, I adore it. I have caught up with so many old friends, and I feel much more connected to those with whom I have always been close. I have shared recipes, advice, and been witness to the ups and downs of others' lives. I totally understand why some folks don't like the level of transparency that comes with Facebook, but I embrace it.

Through FB, I reconnected with the first boy I majorly crushed on in high school, now a grown successful man, and watched him travel around Europe with friends via photos, saw him shuttled down a mountain after breaking his leg via video, participated in the healing process via encouraging wall messages...It has been super nice to reconnect to this guy whom I held very highly in my youth only to find that he's still a good guy. To me, it makes life make sense; it fosters a continuum of sorts.

This guy recently lost his dad. Having lost my father when I was 22, I feel deeply when others lose parents, particularly dads. I know losing a dad is different for everyone, different for a son than a daughter, and so forth, but I ache for my peers when I hear of them losing parents. A literal ache bubbles up in my chest.

But what really moved me about witnessing his loss via Facebook was a photo he posted yesterday--a congregation of his guy friends, most of who went to high school with us--who came out for his dad's memorial service. Dressed in dark colored suits and looking like men instead of the boys I knew them as, they posed with my friend on the day his family memorialized his dad. I haven't been able to stop thinking of this photo and now I know why:

When you lose a parent at a younger age, your friends don't know how to react. It's awkward...You're too young to have the sensibilities to know what to say, what to do, and it's just a mess of emotions on how you should handle it. Many of my friends didn't even acknowledge my dad's death, and as I shuffled through the summer after he passed I never knew how to bring it up even though it was all I thought of. I had a couple friends who came to his funeral (to whom I am eternally grateful), but most people politely avoided the topic. And honestly, that made it worse.

But now that we're older, we are wiser. We can stand by our friends when their parents get sick, or when our friends get sick, or when their parents die, or when they lose a friend, a spouse, a pregnancy...In all the instances where life ends. Nobody ever knows what to say, but we know now to say something. To reach out. To be there. Because not acknowledging loss is worse than the loss itself.

I guess that means we're the grown-ups now.

May my friend's dad rest in peace. I never knew him, but he raised a great son who was even a kind, funny, and smart person when I met him in middle school (a time when most kids are not decent people!). As a new parent, I feel that is testament to a life well lived.

Regression, example C

35 lb
37"
2 year old

in a mini-
cosleeper

(they can
hold more
weight than they
claim--
so we think.
we'll let you
know when she
breaks it.)

Wanted: Sports Bra

I have watched the NYC Marathon religiously since I moved to New York. Having had run my first marathon in 1999 (San Diego) immediately before moving to NYC, I came to this city on a marathon high. Each year I have found some place along the marathon route, bunkered down, and cheered from beginning to end--hands freezing, voice failing, and energized and inspired by all who run.

This year between Halloween, Daylight Savings Time, and negotiating two kids instead of one, we were late getting down to Fourth Avenue in Brooklyn, the first main stretch of the race after the runners cross the Verrazano Bridge in Staten Island and enter into Brooklyn. We finally made it down to the corner of our street and 4th Ave, with our friend and neighbor Kate, and in between running into about a dozen friends we discussed the overwhelming phenomenon this race: the complete and utter lack of a decent sports bra.

Okay, ladies of the race--WTF? We saw medium and large-chested women jiggling like nobody's business. Not only did it look uncomfortable, but holy god, the nipple chaffing that must have happened to those girls! One woman wasn't even wearing a bra, but a camisole, with her goods shifting up and down a great deal. A GREAT DEAL. We saw so many women running with not enough support and it was greatly disturbing--both as a woman and as a former distance runner.

As someone whose normally small B boobies have shifted to be DDs, I am acutely aware of trying to move with small boulders attached to my chest and it is not fun. I wore a unsupportive bra on the elliptical machine last week and felt like I was going to knock myself out--and the elliptical is low impact! They make great running bras for ladies who are larger or, if you don't want to admit that your chest falls into that category, then double up a normal sports bra. What's wrong with these women?

I think that next year I'll create a stall at the marathon expo on proper sports bra usage...Or maybe I'll film a public service announcement and post it on YouTube...Or start a grassroots campaign for better running bra usage...I'm not sure, but those puppies have got to get strapped down.

(Photos: A group of British ladies walk the marathon each year in these crazy decorated bras--not whom I'm talking about in this post b/c they're walking, not running, but very amusing! And Alexandra getting into the cheering. Children's toys make for great marathon noise makers :)