Outsourcing parenting?

I just read a very scary article in everyone’s favorite doctor’s office read, People Magazine. The piece, by Brooke Slezak (sounds like sleazy, right!?) reports on the new phenomenon of parents outsourcing such onerous and stressful tasks as cupcake baking and potty training and dressing a child. I can understand some parents using the bike riding coach – I mean, if you are a complete and total klutz, with no bike riding skills whatsoever and may actually injure your precious pumpkin while running along next to his training wheeled Huffy, well, then, call the $60 an hour bike coach, if you have the cash to burn.

I can see how Stop and Shop’s on-line Pea Pod shopping and delivery service can be useful, sometimes with a baby, you just can't get out of the house. But what can one do if one needs someone to do the shopping, and get the dry cleaning and stop by the playground for a little quality time on the swing set with the kids? Well, you are in luck! For $15 an hour or so, Mother’s Hen Helpers can help you out, and perform these chores for you! How about helping your little girl get dressed, including a fashion and color consultation? $200 an hour gets your budding fashionista well on her way to looking like a page out of Toddler Vogue. Are your children ill mannered, messy eaters and poor conversationalists? Another $200 on hour can hire the help of an in-home etiquette specialist, guaranteed to get those elbows off the table in time for Mommy to come home from the spa, clap her French manicured hands together and say, “Oh my, Arizona Lee! You are doing so well!”

No time to make cupcakes for the class birthday party? Too ashamed to just go BUY something? Well, while Mommy and Daddy are just too busy at work/at the gym/at the spa/on vacation/meeting the Prime Minister, there are personal chefs ($80 an hour) who will do the time consuming cupcake baking for you. If you want little Whittaker the Fourth to learn how to make the cupcakes at the same time, for an extra fee, the chef will be sure to let him lick the beater blades. Just sign on the dotted line.

Ha ha, very funny, right? I was kind of horrified to see this was for real. The article also included contact numbers for experts to help you get those photos in an album, professionals to pack away out-grown clothes, coaches to wean a child from thumb sucking, a concierge to help your child with a school project, someone to sew on scout badges (!) and another to wrap gifts for parties. What the F**k? Where are the parents? What the hell are they doing with their lives? Who is too busy to wrap a gift or dress a child or go to the market and grab a box of Entenmanns’s frosted cupcakes for a school birthday party?

One of the mothers interviewed had hired the bike coach and admitted, “with a twinge of sadness, “It’s like watching her take her first step…I would have liked to be there.”” She said it with a sort of – oh, poor me, what else could I do? feeling. Well, for heaven’s sake, do what the rest of us do, lady. Do what you can during the day, do a bit more while the children sleep and then stay up late and get MORE done once your heir and spare are sleeping.

Just how much time and energy should a parent put into the active raising of your child? Well, as much as you have the time and inclination to, I think. I know there are some who must needs work two jobs and use a day care or a nanny. I also know there are those who feel the need to home school and be with their offspring as much as humanly possible. I like to think balance is the key. I am all for a bit of parental control as far as schedules and furniture arranging goes. What I mean is; I will try and keep my boys up a bit past nap time if I need to run an errand and I will give them a bath a bit early if we have a dinner out or something. I won't drag them, kicking and screaming, through a store, but I will give them a snack if it helps keep them awake when I need them to be. Their schedule is more of a routine and I have it so it fits in with what I would like to do. Like blogging and shopping and cooking and cleaning. By furniture placement, I mean I have a dining room that is used as a dining room/computer room and a bedroom for the DH and me that looks like a grown up bedroom. On the other hand, the TV room has an Ikea sorter full of toys and one bookcase with some toys and some board books for them to play with on the shelves. I don’t like to have 5 bins of things in every room; there is nothing wrong with that, if you like it and want it to be so, fine. I am a bit OCD and it would drive me mad. Thus, in my house, unless you are in the kitchen, the TV room or the boys’ bedroom, you might not know I had two children at all. Unless the 10,000 pictures give it away.

I unintentionally practice that Patient Parenting Style Preacher Mom mentioned in a comment. I will let them play with water in the kitchen sink while I cook, or just keep on eye out as they careen around the house and I check emails. My DH and I will garden for hours and let them amuse themselves with weeds and sticks. I am not ignoring them, per se; I am letting them do their own thing.

However, my DH and I are the end all and be all of our children’s lives, and we do everything for them. I take them to two playgroups, to at least one museum and out grocery shopping weekly, we have a weekly music class together and, on his own, the DH gives them a bath almost every night and does bedtime, three times a week on average. I cannot imagine hiring a professional to bathe my twinkies and get them to bed!

I wonder what kind of psycho-perfectionists we Americans are becoming to have it seem normal to hire an expert to potty train your toddler. We are at the 23-month mark, and the potty is going to be a part of our lives very soon, I feel. I am going to try and gently guide my boys when it comes to potty training time, and rely on my own non-expert knowledge of my own inexpert children. If I run into trouble, as an unprofessional potty trainer, well, we’ll wait a bit and try again. If that doesn’t work I’ll turn to the unlicensed experts I have turned to with all my other parenting questions - my sister and my friends. All are interesting, kind, full of useful information, good conversationalists, and no-one, fortunately, charges me a dime.

Allergies suck

I am really not allergic to anything. I could pick a bouquet of poison ivy and drink swamp water and be no worse for wear. I have had some reactions, to irritants such as saccharine and once I had a reaction to gin, but aren't those poisons anyway?

My DH is allergic to pollen and certain flowering plants. My mother is allergic to ragweed and other plants as well. My DH, God bless him, takes medication in the spring and does his best to limit the irritating sniff sniff sniffing. His skin is fine, a little adult acne here and there, but nothing out of the ordinary. My mother, grrrr, sniffs constantly. I know it’s rough for her being the allergy sufferer, but God, is it hard on the people living in the same house. Sniffing is like whistling out of tune or humming under the breath, or nose picking; it’s a fine habit as long there is no one around to think – STOP IT!! My sister’s baby is allergic to peanuts and has eczema as well.

With that history in the family, I am not surprised that I have a baby with allergies. Little Baby B has eczema and an known egg allergy, so he and I had an allergy workup today. You know, the visit when they stab your baby in the back with 20 different needles laced with the essence of potential allergens, and let it sit for half an hour to see what happens? Whew, it wasn't fun. I could see the wound marked EGG swell up almost immediately. The PEANUT site also got a little puffy. And, horror of horrors – the site for CAT got red too.

Now food allergies I can handle. If anyone reading this also knows me as a person, they will certainly be thinking – God, she is always reading labels and saying, “But this is hydrogenated! And there is cottonseed oil in this, as well as eggs! Throw these crackers in the trash!” I am all about eating the most natural food available, whenever possible, but I am not unreasonable about it. Why, just today, the boys and I shared a bag of plain M&Ms, and I have been known to chow down an Oreo or two. I totally prefer the Newman’s Os; all natural and so scrumptious and hydrogenated fat free, yippee! But, allergic to cats!?

I am pretty upset about this. How can I keep Baby B away from my cats? There is no organic alternative, no egg free version and no peanut-less cat available. If it were possible I’d be sure to use a squirrel substitute, or a mouse stock base in my cooking to replace the cat. I’d even get a partially hydrogenated animal, if I were forced to. But, unlike the Newman’s Own brand of snack food, or the Annie’s Bunnies we all know and love, there is nothing to replace my sweet felines.

I am not going to do anything drastic. I know a lady, who is not an animal lover, who, when told a story about a dog or a cat problem, invariably offers the same solution, “Get rid of it.” She is quite right, of course; humans should take precidence over cats. But, since I love my cats, I think I'd better not tell her about my baby’s allergy to them; I don’t want to have to try and explain my affection for my beasties. It defies explanation.

I found one of the cats when he was ten days old, or thereabouts. He was half dead, covered with dirt and bugs and had a serious infection in his nose and eyes. His mother had abandoned his sister as well. I took them both to the vet, and although the sister kitten died about four days later, the boy cat survived. I named him Shed, because I found him near the woodshed, and he is now 18 pounds of white silky fur and has one golden eye. The other was lost during his battle with the upper respiratory infection. I bottle fed him for a month and smuggled him into my office so I could feed him every three to four hours as needed. Therefore, having snatched him from the jaws of death, I am not about to get rid of him like he was so much trash.

My other cat, Worf, came with the name. Apparently, Worf is a Klingon on Star Trek and the nicest of a warrior-like race. My cat Worf is black, slinky and utterly beautiful. He has green eyes, a Siamese like meow and little graceful paws. He came to us when he was 6 weeks old, from the vet/orphanage. At the time Shed was 12 weeks old, and now they are inseparable. I would have no troubling finding a home for Worf, he’s very affectionate, but also self-reliant. He kills flies and bees and eats them; he eats mice and moles and has caught a few squirrels too. He single-pawedly keeps the street free from vermin. One of my neighbors commented on how her lawn is so lush and mole free now that Worf patrols the neighborhood. But I would not split them up; after three years of companionship they'd miss each other too much. Shed and Worf just go together; like apricot jam on a turkey sandwich, or a dash of bitters in a glass of champagne.

I am going to try this: My DH said he’d brush the cats every night to keep the loose fur to a minimum and I will vacuum every single day. Together we will do what we can to keep our already clean house even cleaner and see if we can push through to Baby B’s magical age 5. Age 5 is when a lot of allergies spontaneously subside, as long as the person is kept free from irritants. I will also try and keep the baby away from the cats as much as I can, but that will be very difficult.

My poor baby! He loves chasing the cats, tackling them and wrestling them to the ground. Then he will lie sprawled across them, yelling triumphantly at the ceiling. Poor cats, I am sure they love being taken down by a toddler too.

Ebbing and flowing; waxing and weaning

Well, after 2 and one half years of lactation amenorrhea, the Crimson Tide is back in my life. No, I am not referring to the University of Alabama Athletics. I mean, if I had ever had any doubt of the efficacy of baby led nursing as a form of birth control, I am in doubt no longer. For as long as my boys nursed when they wanted, for as long as they wanted and wherever they wanted; I did not ovulate. About three weeks ago I started saying, “No nursing right now,” at the playgroup, and at music class and in the coffee shop, etc. About two weeks ago I started not nursing them at all at night. That is, I am trying not to nursing at night; it works about half the time – I still nurse the baby if he is feeling hypersensitive and Daddy just isn’t doing the trick. My point is: I woke up on Sunday, feeling tired and grouchy, and hey nonny no…Hey there, Aunt Flo.

I am absolutely positive it was the endless, day and night, baby led nursing that meant I was not ovulating. The moment I said, "No," took over and no longer let them dictate the parameters of the nursing relationship – whammo! I release an egg (or knowing me, two eggs) and have the resulting period. I know several women who have had a menstrual cycle whilst nursing, but none of these women co-slept and nursed on cue. I feel that to be an effective form of birth control, referred to on-line as The Lactation Amenorrhea Method, or LAM, the baby must wear the pants. Or the Huggies. Or the Pampers. Or the washed at home cloth diapers held up with pins. Or whatever. Lactation amenorrhea is a physiological result of nursing, but it must have an emotional cause as well.

I recently read The Nursing Mother’s Guide to Weaning, by Kathleen Huggins, an emotional book, which basically lets the reader know it’s "best" for the baby to let the baby wean when the baby is ready. One of the reasons given for not weaning is a delay of menses, and all the messy, expensive inconvenience that goes with it. Well, it’s just hunky dory for the baby to wean when he’s ready, isn’t it? But it's not always best for mama. In my case, Baby B is ready and willing and able. Today, for example, he asked to nurse when he woke up, I complied for about twenty minutes. Then we had a busy day – went to a friend’s house, had a nap, ate lunch, went swimming, had ice cream, played outside, and he didn’t ask again until about 5:00. He was hungry and tired and missing his Daddy, so he asked to nurse, I said no, he hollered for a minute, then was happy to eat his nice couscous and fresh garden vegetables with his Daddy, who brilliantly showed up just as the meltdown detonated. So that means Baby B has nursed once so far today, and will nurse again for about ten minutes before bed. He will have nursed only twice all day, with about twelve hours between sessions and he’s cool with that. I'm cool with that; I could nurse twice a day for the next month, easily, and save nursing intermittently for soothing an injury or for an emergency. The Nursing Mother’s Guide would tell me that Baby B is ready and to gently guide him to wean.

However, nothing is easy in motherhood/this life/my household. Baby A, to be ornery, has asked to nurse about ten times today, and cries bitter tears every time I say no. I let him nurse a bit in the morning when he was freshly awake and groggy and confused and pissy, and he almost killed me suckling on the painful side. I have had to work very hard on distracting him from the breast today. I know when he gets a chance to nurse he will be so over eager that he’ll latch on with the force of a limpet mine. Lately, it takes real effort to pry his jaws off my nipple, and he’s bitten down a few times in an attempt to hang on. Yes, it hurts, and yes, darn it, I still have an infection on one side because of the force of his latch for the past two weeks. Now I know he’s not ready to wean, but I am not going to wean one baby and not the other. It may seem counter-intuitive to you; with all the cruncgy granola reading materials I consume. Why not let the babies wean when they want to? And if it’s not at the same time, why not let one baby keep going? Well, number one, I no longer want to nurse, it hurts again, it's becoming difficult and, when Baby A nurses at the playground, it prevents me from standing/walking/running and parenting my active non-nurser. Number two, I feel that Baby B is only nursing because he sees Baby A doing it, gets jealous and wants a piece of the action. Also, I AM a part of this nursing relationship and I say it’s over. I long to be able to run after my boys and not have to hold my boobs still. Oh, to wear a real bra again!

If, in the early days of tears and struggle, I could have seen today, and the tears and struggle, would I do it again? Would I nurse my twins for about two years? Absolutely. Without a doubt, there has been a lot of joy and a lot of peaceful snuggling and there have been many, many nights when I co-slept very well and was very happy with one or two babies attached. But now they are much bigger, much stronger and much kickier than they were as infants. I am totally tired out; I can no longer sleep with them attached. I can no longer sleep beyond 5:30 am; it’s not that I wake up then, it’s that they paw me awake to nurse!

I just read an article in Mothering Magazine about an unrelated topic: Passive Parenting, by Nora Rock. In a section urging parents not to speed up the maturation process, a few lines struck me:

“But in the raising, so much is lost…child logic, child language, child priorities - in our haste to grow our seedlings up. If we wean our breastfeeding children before they speak, we will never hear them describe an experience lost to memory for most of us. If we teach them too soon to tell time and live by our schedules, they will lose touch with the rhythm of their inner selves, the same rhythm that carried them into the world when the time was exactly right, hours or weeks after the midwife said simply, "trust".


Okay, I get it. I am not to rush my children headlong into adulthood. I am not to push them faster than they are ready to be pushed. I am not to hasten them away from a magical time in their childhood, a nursing time. I can just hear my boys now, age ten and recalling to each other the details of nursing; how it felt, how it tasted, how loudly I yelped when one of them bit me, how Baby B kicked Baby A in the eye and it swelled up for two days, because Baby A had Baby B’s favorite breast and wouldn’t let go… ah, memories indeed. Somehow I cannot imagine my boys engaging in a discussion of breastfeeding techniques, from the toddlers’ point of view. But then again, I also cannot imagine them ever letting go of their right to nurse, so perhaps they will talk about it someday.


I wonder what Baby A will say if I tell him, years from now, how hard he fought weaning? I wonder what the repercussions of his breast-centric youth will be? Twenty years from now, will Baby A bring home a woman with huge boobs? If he does, I guess I’ll know why.

Playground types and conversations

I go to two playgroups, one on Monday and one on Friday. Some of the Monday parents have also joined the Friday group, and we have infiltrated a Tuesday reading session at a local library as well. There are about ten of us who travel from group to group, from playground to playground, from town to town, hungrily seeking adult conversation, intellectual stimulation and fresh air.

In this group I have registered three parent types: The Hover and Rescue Parent, The Watch and React Parent, and the Oh, He’s Fine Parent. The Oh, He’s Fine parent is generally the one who gets to enjoy comparably lengthy conversations, while the Watch and React Parents find it tricky to finish a line of reason. The Hover and Rescue Parent can’t finish a sentence, let alone a thought. Of course, we are all a bit of all three playground parenting types, depending on our progeny’s activities at the moment. If a two year old is hanging upside down on a playscape labeled AGE FIVE AND UP, Hover and Rescue it is. If a three year old is going down a slide in the TOT LOT – AGE 1 TO 3, Oh, He’s Fine.

In general, I am in the Watch and React Category, especially when I have my peeps, my posse, my friends nearby. There are four mamas, and two daddies, with whom I share enough similarities to feel super comfortable, and enough differences to have fodder for discussion. Of course, having real discussions, with points made and conclusions drawn and everything, usually only happens over a bottle of wine out in a café somewhere. Either that or over the phone, or through the windows of the car, or in a driveway, when we are guarding our sleeping tots. These parents and I act as each other’s village, and we all run interference as needed. It’s lovely to know that I can go to the Porta-Potty in peace and have my babies watched for me, and then go back to a nice chat. We always try to get a talk in, because we find each other so interesting. We have had enough adventures between us to furnish topics for innumerable discussions; enough to furnish a salon, or a living room. (Get it? A salon? Never mind…lame joke...) Well, this group understands that differences of opinion do not a bad person make.

We have had some very interesting conversations lately, or rather; we have begun some interesting conversations lately. I am sure informed parents all over our land are talking about the Supreme Court, the London Transit bombs and the price of organic milk. (Just so ya know, Trader Joe’s Organic Whole milk was about $5 a gallon and at Stop and Shop the Northeast farms’ milk is $4 a HALF gallon. So, well, I mean, THAT’s worth discussing, right?) Unfortunately, as interesting as our conversations can be, we never really get time to finish what we are saying. There is always a toddler to rescue, a fight to break up, a sippy cup to distribute and sun block to reapply. (Yes, I really do reapply sun block after 90 minutes of vigorous play as directed. I really do!) In the past little while, I have started chats about weaning from the breast, sleeping though the night, playing Scrabble with a club, pet insurance, motorcycles, bullwhips, tattoos, swimming pools and toddler safety, new restaurants in the area, housekeepers who quit, lawn care, the Renaissance in England, books, music, blogs, slogs and frogs. BUT, as soon as the interloquation gets weighty, meaty or seamy, depending on what I am discussing with whom, oops! An interruption, and thought process is shut down.

It took me about twenty minutes last week to get out the dramatic Scrabble tale of my 203-point word. Yes, you read that right; I played QUILTERS across two triple word scores, yowza, and knocked the socks off my opponent. As I related this dramatic tale, soon to be preserved in legend and song, I kept having to cut myself off, rush over and help Baby A climb a ladder in order to go down a slide and then rush to Baby B in the sandbox, who naturally wanted the sand shovel another baby had, because it was just soooo much more interesting than the one I brought from home. Exhausting.

There is a mother who comes to the groups occasionally, a sweet lady and a very loving mother, who really never leaves her daughter’s side. The girl has just turned three and is quite active and athletic. Having a conversation with this mama necessitates you be quite active and athletic as well. In just half an hour we can go from sandbox to slide to swings and back. It’s hard to keep talking when you are out of breath!

One of my peeps, a gal pal, had an amazing talk with two consenting adults a few nights ago that left her breathless. They had a little wine, some common ground, and no children in sight. They were able to talk for TWO HOURS without being interrupted or distracted. At the end of the conversation they were all shaky and drained from the sheer volume of words exchanged and the importance of the conclusions reached. I told my friend that it’s called mind sex when it’s really good like that. She got all funny about the fact she has had mind sex with a mutual friend’s husband. I reminded her that it wasn’t anything to get funny about; there was a performance artist involved and several witnesses. Then I thought, oooh, that would make her evening a mental ménage a trios. Or would the witnesses make it be a mind orgy?

Lucky girl. The steamiest mental action I have had lately is via the Scrabble Club, the club where I played my 203-point word. Hey, it was worth repeating! The club has four dedicated members and about seven fringe players. One of the fringe members is a nice guy, who doesn’t talk much. I have played two or three games with him so far. One of the dedicated players told me that the nice guy was asking about me; he asked, "Is she available" and all that. The dedicated said she’d ask me and why, was he interested? "Well, yes," he said, "because she is so hot." Well, well, well. I was rather flattered by that. It’s nice to be a 36-year-old mother of two and still be seen as a hottie. I attribute that, in part, to the fact that by the time the Scrabble Club gets underway I have been away from my boys for several hours. Since they are not yet fully weaned and still nurse five times a day, I am still a milk factory, and therefore, I get “hotter” as the afternoon progresses, if you know what I mean.

I tried to tell that story to somebody at the playgroup today, but bless me if I didn’t get distracted by a baby! Oh well, there’s always Monday, and another discussion to attempt. When the boys are out of house for school I will be so unused to real conversation I’ll probably not know how to talk anymore. “Ha!” those of you who know me are thinking. “There’s no way to keep the MOT from yakking away!” Well, I kind of hope so – I don’t want my train of thought to get derailed; it's hard enough to find time to get it to leave the station.

My dear sister knows how I feel...

I just had a conversation with my dear sister about the weekend, cartoons and our mother dearest. She said that she, the DS, doesn’t get as mad at her, the MD, as she used to. She just pictures our MD alone in a new country, with three children under five, no friends, no play-dates, no park, no playground, no videos, hell, no TV, no parents, no grandparents (they were back in the old country), nothing to do. My Dear Sister always reminds me of what I really should know by now: do not to expect anything, like assistance, love or compassion from our mother, but know that she will surprise you on occasion. So, I don’t expect help anymore. I really really really don’t. But, on occasion, I will give the MD a chance to prove me wrong, and God bless me if she doesn’t prove me right.

Case in point: As y’all know, on Friday my DH went away for two nights and three days to a local lab to be the guinea pig for a new cholesterol medication. (Yes, he got paid for it.) He left in the early afternoon on Friday and was not due back until Sunday morning. I spoke with my sister on Wednesday last week, and we arranged to have a day at her house, with all family members accounted for, next weekend, when the DH returned. We had planned on having a get-together on the weekend when the DH was away, to help me out in my temporary single-parenthood, but we decided the combination on a road trip and no Daddy would be too much for the little tykes. Therefore, my DS and I settled on the following weekend for our family lunch. With me so far? So, on Thursday, D minus One, I called my mother to ask her a question, pass the time of day and basically just chat. You know, reach out and touch someone. Well, the touch slid off the woman like the hand of a drowning person on the hull of a sinking ship.

Me: Hi, Mumsie dearest! How are you?

MD: - yap yap yap – I got a ten minute monologue on the latest antics of the cat.

Me: Well, you know my DH is away for two nights and I am going to be all on my own and my MIL is not available, so I will be on my own for three whole days this weekend, which begins tomorrow. I spoke with the DS, and she would rather I not come over and stay with my boys and no DH, because it could get ugly. So, I will be all alone this weekend, staring tomorrow, for two whole nights.

MD: Oh. Hmmmmm.

Me: I guess I’ll see you next week then, at the DS’s house, when my DH is with me?

MD: Yes, yes! Your father and I will be there. This weekend is not good for us anyway; I have so much gardening to do, I will be busy busy busy both Saturday and Sunday all day…– Then I got a ten minute monologue on the newest flowering shrubs set to grace their property.

Me: Okay, well, have fun digging in the dirt. I’ll have fun all on my own with my two babies and no husband for two nights. It’ll be great fun, I am sure.

MD: Yes, it is fun to garden…Bye!

No, I was not hurt, because I really wasn’t expecting a different response, nor was I expecting an offer of a visit or an invitation to come over. I know she’ll never change. But I got to thinking, what is going to happen to her when she has driven away all her children and grandchildren, as well her friends? What is going to happen then?

I wonder if she’ll call me up and try to get me to come over and visit her in her loneliness. Will I be a big-hearted person, forgive her for all the slights and hurts she dishes out today and toss her a bone tomorrow? Or will I, in turn, just go on and on about the twins’ latest antics for ten minutes and then hang up on her as she does to me now? I wonder if the power dynamic will ever change. I know she never will.

My Dear Sister, in her wisdom, said I would figure that out later. I will know what to do if it ever happens. And again, she reminded me that, like our mother, I could be snobbish and elitist and annoying and demanding. She reminded me that when it comes to our mother I am very demanding – I want assistance, love or compassion, and our mother cannot, and will not, give it to me. So I become angry and upset, but why? Our mother has always acted this way, why do I expect anything different? Is it because I feel I am growing and changing and maturing, and therefore she can too? Is it because I have such a need for a mother’s support right now?

When the twins were infants it was difficult enough, and now that they are two times terrible two and taking over every part of my life and brain, I need my mother more than ever. I ask for help and I am rejected. I call and whine a little and she hangs up. I do my best to be a grown-up and be big about it all and not be hurt, but I feel it a little, I must confess, I do. The DS says it’s my fault for having high expectations; she is right and I know she is right. But I am like a mosquito; the insect knows she will get swatted if she bites, and she understands that biting is painful and itchy, but she bites anyway, because she doesn’t have any other way of getting what she needs. My mother hears me on the phone and can’t wait to get off the line. Maybe she thinks I really am a mosquito, and am out for blood.

The Non Diet, Part Three

One of the brilliant books I have in my library is entitled When Women Stop Hating their Bodies. Gee, could that be a little more direct? I have gone up and down about my body image, and the distortions if it in my mind, ad nauseum, I know. I have just finished rereading the book, and had a bit of a breakthrough, which may be obvious to y’all who know me, but I was kind of amazed.

I spoke with my mother this morning, and asked her to meet me out, on this misty, rainy day, at a fancy department store, to keep me company while I shopped for black heels. I thought she wouldn’t possibly be gardening in a downpour, but, as usual, when it comes to Mumsie Dearest, I was wrong. I was turned down flat, scolded for asking her to come shopping, “when you know I hate the mall!” and summarily dismissed. Maybe she didn’t know the DH was back from doing his imitation of a guinea-pig , and was afraid she might have to hold a baby or something. It’s funny how she hates the mall now. My mother has every Wednesday, for four months in the winters, to spend on her own while my father goes to his continuing education classes. I remember, when I was a single girl, we would spend those Wednesdays together. I think we went to the mall about 15 out of the twenty evenings for two years in a row. But, sorry, I guess that does mean she hates the mall. What was I thinking? But I digress. My breakthrough.

I had just put the phone down, hands trembling, when I was struck by a desire for chocolate. Fortunately I had a lovely, rich, dark chocolate truffle from Nordstrom Habits on hand, so opened the yap, and inhaled it. Actually, I almost choked; it was a big truffle. I felt a little better immediately, but as usual, I also felt a twinge of guilt for eating when not really hungry. Then I thought, “Wow! My mother, the one person in this world who is supposed to love me and want to see me, would rather pull weeds in a downpour than be with me for an hour. So, I go for something sweet to erase the bitterness. Could this be more plain?”

So that’s my breakthrough; the realization that I feel rejected and I get “hungry”. I know it’s not just my mother, although she is a powerful part of my problem. It's simple: I feel hurt and then I stuff myself full of sweeties to dilute the bile in my throat. I wonder what a therapist would have to say about that? Did I tell you my mother is a therapist? Oh, the hell with my mother and her innumerable problems. She deserves my pity, poor woman. I must be kinder to myself, and not get so hurt by her. This breakthrough could be very good, since recognition of a problem is the first step to a cure.

Pass the candy.

The Non Diet, Part Two and a half

More on body image, and how others see me...

I must be exuding good vibes or something. I seem to be surrounded by sympathetic men these days.

Just this morning, at another of my playgroups, I was chit chatting with a stay home Daddy I know, who has a little girl. He and I were discussing children and their propensity for nudity in public places, like the park, the library and the playground. I commented on my nudie biscuit, Baby B, who had spilled apple juice on his shirt, and demanded I remove it. Then, as a result of feeling the refreshing breezes on his skin, he decided he wanted all his clothes off; hence the name – Nudie Biscuit. We both think it’s great that little children have no shame about their bodies, and he is concerned about his little girl, because his mother in law is highly critical. He hopes she doesn’t get all crazy about her figure as she grows up, and I hope my boys stay happy about being naked for a long time.

I said, “It’s so sweet to see him, naked and happy in a public park. I wonder when the shyness will emerge, or if he will ever be ashamed of what he looks like. I hope he is never ashamed, but who knows? I’m pretty confident as a rule, but feel embarrassed of my body a lot.”

My friend said, “Shame is a learned behavior. There must have been someone on your life who made you feel less than worthy because of your appearance.”

I said: ‘Yes, my blog beleaguered mother can be fingered as the one who gave me a complex, by constantly telling me I was fat, short and clumsy.”

He said: “Well it must be nice for you to see her these days, because right now, you look fantastic.”

Is it okay to be a little bit in love with a guy from a playgroup? At least, I was a little emotional at that moment.

The Non Diet, Part Two

Observation on others and how they see the diet dilemma...

I met some friends this morning, two guys and two dolls, for a trip to the museum with our children. One of the mothers who was there is like me, and concerned about her figure. And like me, she goes from feeling just fine, thank you, to feeling like a blob. We agree that we need to exercise more, and we both do our best to go jogging between blogging.

One of the guys had read my last post, on the Non Diet, Part One, and had read about my problem with the morning moose in the mirror. He left a comment that mentioned he is a serial snacker and finishes off the kids' meals for them. He also wrote he wants to get to “pre-baby weight.”

What a sweet and empathetic man! I mean that in a completely non-sarcastic way. How many men do you know who not only gain sympathetic baby weight, but also share in his woman friends’ obsession over losing it?

Yo baby, dope dope smoke smoke dope

Give me nickel dime, help me clear up me mind
Give me nickel dime, help me clear up me mind
Give me red wine because it make me feel fine
Make me feel fine all of the time

After UB40

Yesterday I went for a walk in a local park with a gal pal and her little girl. The three toddlers had a great time running up the stone steps, playing in the fountain and tearing around on the ten acre lawn. It was hotter than a crotch in leather pants, so we the Mamas were a bit lethargic, as we stood in the shade and watched our progeny frolic.

As you know, toddlers will see something interesting, stop dead in their tracks and stare at the thing for several minutes. This happened a few times, once as one of my boys was on the stone steps, next to a balustrade. I asked my Mama friend,

“What is Baby A playing with?”

“Oh, it looks like a plastic bag with some dusty green stuff in it.”

Lethargy forgotten, I flew over to the baby and took the mini zip lock bag of drugs out of his little paws. It was indeed pot, and it looked like a dime bag. Not having “partied” in about 20 years, I am totally out of the dope smokin’ loop, not that I was ever really in one. I just saw a few things in college, ya know…. Therefore, I asked my equally experienced collegiate friend, who came over to see what the baby had found,

“D’ja think this is a nickel bag or a dime bag?”

She said, surprised, “Oh, THAT’s what they call a nickel bag! Hmm, there’s a lot in that little bag, that’s a good deal.”

She has a supportive spouse and a pretty house, and a little tucked away I think, so I suppose $5 for a joint would seem like a good deal. For me, it’s simply not worth the money, or the risk, so I put the bag on the balustrade, where the babies couldn’t reach it.

Later in the day, as we were talking about our brush with the illicit, I remarked what with pot being illegal and all, even that little bag could cause a whole lotta trouble.

“Can you imagine getting arrested for having that nickel bag in your pocket? What a drag, going to jail over five dollars worth of pot.”

“Oh, you mean “nickel bag” is really means a FIVE dollar bag? So then a “dime bag” would be ten dollars!? Well, that’s not really a bargain after all!”

Oh, I forgot; she is accustomed to a 25-cent price point. She likes to shop at tag sales.

The Non-Diet, Part One

Okay, okay! I admit it! I have fallen back into the journal versus blogger trap. You know what I mean; a blog is an unedited, navel gazing, spit-out-what's-on-your-mind stream of consciousness, and the journal is generally made up of a series of prettied up, clever phrase sprinkled posts. The journal is the Elizabeth Bennet version of the Internet, where one is unwilling to speak, unless it is to amaze the world. You have read Pride and Prejudice, no? Really? Oh, it’s sooooo good! I’ll suggest it for my book club’s next project.

Trapped or not, blogger or journal-er, be that as it may, I am also aware (thanks Yellow Wallpaper!) that I am back to posting once a week. Now not intending to resemble the sex life of a couple who have been married for thirty years, I am determined to get back to the three times a week as a general rule posting schedule. With that commitment in mind – here is the first of a series I shall entitle – the Non-Diet.

The Non-Diet, Part One and a Half.

If you have been following my fun fun fun life for a little while, either on line or in the flesh, you will know I have a teensy weensy problem with obsessive eating and my self-image. Basically, on good days I think I am pretty and youthful and pretty youthful and as stylish as a mother of toddlers who insist on still nursing can be. On bad days, grump grump, I look in the mirror and see a gigantic moose, wearing a ratty tee shirt. As a general rule I avoid the mirror, unless it’s to perform an eyebrow operation (my brows are another teensy weensy obsession) or to fix my Eton-cropped hair.

Just today, as the boys napped, I beat the heat by hiding indoors. I saw the film Super Size Me; that documentary by the fella who eats at McDonald’s every day for a month, gains 20 pounds and almost has liver failure. It got me thinking about diets and exercise and all that. You might recall a post from March about a French book I read that recommended moderation, and outlined how that is the key to successful dieting. Well, for my birthday a good friend gave me two books about compulsive eating and body image obsessions and how diets can be fingered as culprit for these problems.

Hmmmmmm! I have one book that extols gentle dieting and mild delusionary tactics as the French way to thinness and happiness. I have another book that praises a woman’s decision not to diet at all and outlines how to love you for you and how to be happy however you look. I am trying to find what will work best for me. I do love love love to eat, and I really like to cook. Actually, right now there is a batch of croissant dough on my kitchen counter, growing and thriving like a live thing. I like fine foods and interesting meals and good drinks and champagne, and I also love to work out. I jog and I love my spinning classes and I really do think lifting weights is fun, so I am not concerned about getting enough exercise.

But I am concerned about the way I see myself. Some days I simply hate the way I look and some days I think my body and my style are totally fine. Other days I see my tiger flap, and just want to cry. My spin instructor, my gorgeous friend and the co-founder of our Double Entendre Club, says that I am losing weight and getting fitter. But I really don’t see it at all.

My logical brain tells me it’s all in my mind's eyes, and can not a reality in the mirror. I mean, it’s simply impossible to gain or lose forty pounds overnight. But honestly, that's how I feel. I come home from spinning or running or lifting, go to bed feeling light and happy and wake up feeling globular and grotesque. That's not weight gain, right?

I am going to re-read the books I was given and the French eat-your-croissants-in-moderation book too. I am going to take notes and pay attention to how I feel. I am going to pay more attention to ME and not let myself get swept aside by my precious pumpkins. I’ll let you know what conclusions I draw, or paint, or sketch. I might draw a blank, but I’ll keep you posted.

Get it? Draw or paint a conclusion?! Just a little play on words for y'all. Obessive compulsive disorder and body image distortion notwithstanding, I do make myself chuckle…

Nip in the bud? What about pruning a full grown blossom?

Today I had a discussion with the stay home daddy of my playgroup on the subject of biting and hitting, my latest obsessions. I let him know that if, at any time, he saw one of my boys biting or hitting another child, he was to feel free to clamp down on my boy, whether his child was the object of abuse or not. My tack now is to remove the biter/hitter from the child they have injured and set him down for a time-out, back to the group, so he gets that awful left-out feeling as punishment. I hope it’s not too traumatic, but I must stop them from being violent.

I was glad to see this worked very well yesterday. Baby A clamped his teeth down on the naked tender shoulder of a little one-year old. The one-year old was pretty exposed, being shirtless and all, sweet, pink baby skin in the sunshine. Baby A bit him when this baby tried to climb onto the rocking horse Baby A was enjoying. Now I can understand why he would want to bite him; one, the baby was cramping my boy’s style by climbing onto the toy he had first and two, the baby was just so yummy looking, but I cannot condone it. Therefore, I picked Baby A up and said, “Do not bite babies! You are being bad!” I put him down, with his back to the group, and stood aside. Baby A extended his arms to the side, clenched his fists and shook them before him as he yowled in rage and frustration. He was clearly thinking, “That baby was pushing me! I was just defending myself! What the hell, man?!” I didn’t leave him in the time-out for too long, but scooped him up and took him to play elsewhere. He did not bite another child the rest of the afternoon.

Today, however, I think he might have chomped down on a little boy’s hand; I am not sure. I did not institute any time-outs; I didn’t see a bite and I am not sure what went down. But there was some crying and some incoherent accusations made by a two year old, and Baby A was in the thick of it. I immediately thought, “Oh, he bit someone,” which might have been unfair of me, and might have been an unjust thought, but I am unhappily used to him biting by now. This was the instance that prompted the discussion with the stay home daddy.

I told this friend how much trouble it causes me, emotionally and mentally, to have a biter for a child. He agreed it must be difficult and said, ‘You need to nip this sort of thing in the bud.” That made me laugh a little as I cringed a little; this biting thing has gone past the bud stage, it’s in full bloom. I don’t need to nip anything; I need to prune this wild underbrush behavior before the kudzu of violence gets me banned from my playgroups completely.

So that’s what I am trying to do, uproot the biting tendencies from the gardens of my children. Any tips? Does anyone have a weed-wacker? Or should I use Round-Up? George, any thoughts?

Toddler who hit and Mothers who find it just too much to bear

The other day, at a playgroup, Baby B walked up to a baby in a stroller, pointed and said “Baby!” raised his hand, and whacked the baby on the top of his little head. Naturally, the baby, about 8 months old, started crying. Just as naturally, the mother of this baby, who is a friend, thank heaven, was able to quickly soothe her the little one. I hope he was more surprised than hurt. When the crying subsided, Baby B looked at me and smiled, and lifted his hand to try it again.

I picked him up, looked in his big blue eyes, and said in my mean mama voice, “No hitting! Do NOT hit a baby! You are being bad!” I put him down and pushed him away from me and turned to his brother who needed a diaper change. What I had previously been doing was saying, over and over, “no hitting”, “hitting is bad”, “hitting hurts” and the like. I had not told the baby he was bad, just the action was bad. But I am so so so SICK of the hitting and so sick of the biting and so grouchy and intolerant these days, I suddenly decided to take the hard line.

Baby B was rather upset. He cried and reached up to have me hold him and wept and followed me around, and again tried to get me to pick him up. Again I told him, “Hitting is bad. You are bad when you hit. Do not hit,” and put him away from me again. He walked over to the infant in the stroller again and said, “Baby?” He had a look like he was going to hit him again, so I went over and removed him from the infant. Baby B got his arms around my neck and held on tight. I knew he was upset and I hugged him back and told him I loved him so much. I know he understood that, but I wonder if he understood the no hitting thing?

What can I do, apart from really stay on top of them? Baby A is the biting boy and Baby B is smack happy. They do it to each other at home and I will tell you; the screams of pain when they bite each other and my feelings of helplessness to stop it are just a few of the many factors that cause me stress these days.

I thought that seasonal affective disorder attacked people in the winter. You might have heard this disorder called SAD, or the Winter Blues. According to the website for The Northern County Psychiatric Associates of Baltimore, Maryland, “about 70-80% of those with SAD are women. The most common age of onset is in one's thirties, …and for every individual with full blown SAD, there are many more with milder "Winter Blues." There seems to be interplay between an individual's innate vulnerability and her degree of light exposure. For instance, one person might feel fine all year in Maryland but develop SAD when she moves to Toronto. Another individual may be symptomatic in Baltimore, but have few symptoms in Miami. Some individuals who work long hours inside office buildings with few windows may experience symptoms all year round. Some very sensitive individuals may note changes in mood during long stretches of cloudy weather.”

Well, this is all very interesting and neat and great, but how does it explain why I am moodier and crankier and less tolerant of the babies now, in the summer, than I was in the winter? Do I have a unique case of The Summer Reds?

A simple answer to my moodiness is two fold. One, the weather has been a bit humid and oppressive these past weeks, and I am feel squashed by the blanket of moist air that is squashing the entire state. And two, the boys are being very clingy and very pissy and very moody themselves, clearly trembling on the brink of another milestone. I think they are going to suddenly wake up one day and start speaking full sentences, and their little minds are feeling the strain.

So here I am, with violent twins, a hot summer and a permanent headache from all the screaming and whining. I wonder if I am suffering from some kind of disorder, or is it just that any human being in the same situation would feel cranky and moody and stressed out? There is that part of me that wants to be the all capable caretaker, to call up the testicular fortitude, and just get a grip and deal with it. There are days when I do just that, but it seems so hard to get the energy when it’s hot and sticky. It also seems that the boys, at 22 months, are a lot more work these days.

There is so much I need to do and want to do during the day; cooking, cleaning, laundry, writing, shopping, errands and so on. There is so much I would like to accomplish with the boys; reading with them, playing brain-nourishing games, encouraging them to eat interesting foods. I want to take them to the zoo, the park, the aquarium, the library, the museum, the ice cream parlor; but it all seems such an effort.

It’s easy to blame the heat for my apathy, and the stress of nearly two years alone with twins, but it seems like a cop out. When I hear about other people and what they do and get done, I feel as if I am letting my boys fall behind developmentally. I mean, at what age do they stop hitting and biting? At what age can they feed themselves? At what age can they listen and stay near me in a store and not run across the automatic door opener and then out into the parking lot? At what age will I again feel the joy of motherhood, or feel that the joys are slightly outweighing, or at least on the same level as, the stress?

The quick solution is to leave them at a day care center, go get some little job somewhere and remove myself from the situation. However, me knowing me as well as I do, I know that would cause a bit of stress in and of itself. By the time I got it together, got us all out of the house and to the day care, to the job, and back again, I’d have no time to do all the little that mean so much to me. Or I’d have to stay up past midnight, instead of past 11:00, as I do now. It’s amazing how much time and energy it takes to keep a home organized. And if I had a job that took me out of the house, I would really not have any time to assist them with their mental and emotional development.

Oh, these Summer Reds, these Summer SADs, this moodiness. Apart from getting away from it all for an evening of exercise twice a week, what can I do? Apart from calling up reserves of tolerance and patience, how can I deal with the stress? And apart from doing the best I can, how how how can I get my children to stop biting and hitting? How?