Lessons of Drowning and Swimming

A couple of weeks ago when it became painfully obvious that I wouldn’t be able to get the boys into the city swim lessons (because at $2 a session, they’re not hiring a lot of lifeguards) and my cousin mentioned that I should teach the boys, I was skeptical, but I thought, “what the hell, I’ll give it a try.”  Then I started taking the boys to my parents every day to swim.  My dad joined us every day, and my mom and brother joined us when they could.  I looked online for teaching resources, and I dug back into my memory for other techniques I learned with the boys.  Evan can now swim three yards.

Evan wasn’t big on putting his face in the water when we started.  Or kicking.  Or reaching.  Or floating.  Or basically anything to do with swimming.  He felt fully confident to enjoy the water by climbing around, holding the side of the pool.  That would do in a pinch, but that isn’t swimming. 

Every day I held Evan, encouraging him to kick, kick, kick.  He made little puny kicks that barely moved the water.  “I’m done now.”  I’m going to just let you go now.  Then Uncle M dared Evan to make enough of a kick splash to spray me.  That did it.

When my mom was in the water, she and my dad taught Evan the way they were taught to teach me when I was just a babe in arms.  My mom would blow into Evan’s face, shove him underwater, and push him to my dad.  This worked much better on Sean as Evan had already lost the gasping ability.

One day I brought out diving toys for Evan to play with.  I would drop them on the stairs, and he had to put his face in the water and blow bubbles to get them.  This worked amazingly well.  After the fifteen minutes of lessons, I let Evan free play.  My brother and I were messing around when my mom said to look.  Evan was dropping the toys in the shallow end near the steps and getting them himself. 

My parents bought Evan a kick board.  While Evan loves his alligator board, he refused to use it in swimming instruction.  He wouldn’t hold it to kick, and he wouldn’t keep it under himself to swim.  He preferred to “surf” with it, trying to stand, trying to drown.

Another failed technique was to pull Evan through the water, holding his hands, supposedly forcing him to have the need to kick.  Instead of throwing his legs back to kick, Evan put his feet on my legs, trying to water ski on them.  Sean did the same.  Right.

Then I pulled out the noodles.  I shoved two under Evan’s chest and made him try to tag me.  KICK.  REACH.  REACH. KICK. KICK.  REACH.  REACH.  The kid swam the length of the pool and back.  Holy cow. 

Then one day after our lessons, my dad and I were talking in the shallow end as Evan jumped off the stairs into the shallow waters, trying to do back-flips, and Sean lounging in his inflatable ring, waiting for a beer and tunes.  Then all of a sudden Evan was pulling himself up on my dad.  We were a yard out.  My dad in surprised, teasing way said, “What are you doing?  Go see your mom!”  With that he threw Evan towards me.  Evan landed two yards away.  He pushed from the bottom and kicked and reached until he reached me, when I pulled him up for a breath.

This went on for a week until he figured out he could jump in from the shallow end and swim to the steps.  Then he wanted to be thrown in the middle of the pool where he had to swim to the top.  When someone launches him towards me, I walk backwards away from him, making him swim. 

The next lesson is to teach Evan how to turn and breathe.

That and teach Sean that just because Evan can swim DOES NOT mean he can too.

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Liars vs Bad Mommy

I tried a new sunscreen the other day.  But I forgot that I completely loathe spray sunscreen.  As a very white girl with a strong history of skin cancer (as in it’s not if, it’s when), I need to make sure the family is completely covered.  Apparently this slipped my mind when I purchased the misting sunscreen. I rectified the situation by spraying lots of the damn stuff.   

The new sunscreen, our new enemy

The new sunscreen, our new enemy

Evan helped me rub it into his own skin.  He was proud to help, to be a big boy.  Then he rubbed his eyes. 

Don't we have laws to make them stand by these statements?

Don't we have laws to make them stand by these statements?

The Banana Boat people are liars.  Dirty f*#$ing lying bastards.  Evan heartily agrees with the second statement.

Evan started screaming, which I yelled over the scream “cry, cry” as it is the best way to get the stuff out of his eyes.  But Evan can’t stay still when he’s in pain.  Off he went, stomping his feet, twirling around, basically doing the best imitation of a rain dance I have ever seen.  I almost wish I could have recorded it.  If he had been an adult, I would have been rolling on the ground laughing, trying to catch my breath.  Because this is a little pre-schooler which happens to be my son, I just giggled a little before I tried to wash out his eyes. 

I am a bad mommy.  I just can’t decide where I made my mistake: buying the sunscreen, letting Evan rub his eyes, yelling at my son to cry, or giggling over his pain dance.

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Your Friendly Vaccine Side-effects Infomation Sheet

When my doctor (or technically the nurse) gives my child a vaccine, I get a full information sheet about the whys, the benefits, the reactions. I find that they leave out the most common side effects. I decided to compile them for further use for other mothers.

For the child:
• Crying (which will carry on for ten to twenty minutes with a brief pause and then carry on for another ten to twenty minutes. Depending on the age of the child this can go on for an hour or two.)
• Running (which will happen after the shot because the child has repressed the memories of the past vaccine.)
• Screaming (which is very close to quiet.)
• Demanding to go home (which is something for the older child)
• Hiding in the corner (which is adorable and pitiful at the same time)
• A need for hugs, kisses, words of comfort (which are easily given)
• Tantrums (over toys, food, naps, anything)
• More need of comfort (which is strained over the tantrums)
• Need for prizes, sugar, nap (which is negotiable)

For the parent:
• Tears (because the child is in pain, and later the child is a pain)
• Running (or a want to as the child is in pain and the memories of the pain and then the child is a pain.)
• Screaming (internal after the second tantrum)
• Needing to go home (to put the child down for a nap and then a need to go to a restaurant, bar, book store without the child)
• Hiding in the corner (instead of dealing with the next tantrum)
• A need for hugs, kisses, words of comfort (from the child or close understanding friend, except for the kisses)
• Tantrums (or the strong desire to throw them)
• More need for comfort (as the parent plans a fantasy trip far, far away)
• Need for prizes, sugar nap (which is negotiable)

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The 4 year old kidnapper

The guests were starting to leave the party. My aunt stood at the door, hand on the knob, ready to pounce out, waiting for her husband to finish talking to my mom. We were all gathered in the foyer. Then two pirates came twisting through the crowd. The bigger, the eldest by three months, held the wrist of the smaller one, firmly.

Brock: Grandma, can you please move? We have to go outside.

My aunt: You have to wait for your mommy, sweetie.

Brock: I’m taking Evan home with me. He’s coming to my sleep over.

My aunt: (laughing) You’ll have to ask your parents.

Brock: Ok!

Brock turned around and maneuvered around all the adults, towing Evan behind him.

Brock: Mommy! Can Evan come to my sleepover?

T: Not tonight, Brocky.

Brock: Ok. Daddy, can Evan come to my sleepover?

C: (laughing) What did your mom just say? Not tonight.

By this time, the door was open. People began to file out.

Brock: Come on, Evan. You can come to my house for a sleep over.

Evan: No, I want to go to my house.

Brock: But, Evan. There are LOTS of toys at my house.

Evan: I want to go to my house.

Brock: Don’t you want to play with all my toys?

Evan: I’ve got lots of toys at my house.

Brock was now visibly upset, and Evan shook off Brock’s hand.

Me: It’s ok, Brock. We’ll do it another time.

Brock: Ok!

Of course, Evan did try to sneak away in their van.

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Does any one have rum?: A 4 year old’s pirate party

It was a pirate party that took weeks to plan but only because I was using tons of forty percent off coupons at Michael’s and I was racking my brain over crafts, something to do to keep the young ones from destroying my parents’ house.  In the end, it was over in a blink of an eye.

Two weeks ago I sent out pirate invitations.  I had written them on paper bags that had been ripped, burnt, and wrinkled.  I dusted off my calligraphy set and wrote in pirate speak about Cap’n E’av’s party.  Arrr.  I sealed the envelope with a pirate flag sticker, regretting not getting plastic soda bottles to send the invitations.

My mind had already formulated a scheme, not waiting for RSVPs or even invitations to be sent out.  The party would start out with dressing each child with a bandana, a sash, and a couple of tattoos.  We would move on to crafts, where the kids would build craft foam boats, pirate flags, and decorate buckets for their treasure hunt.  With a sunny day, we would troop outside to race our boats, to toss water balloons, to throw water balloons at rings, to walk the plank, to play with the inflatable pirate beach balls and run threw the sprinklers.  Then we would feast on tropical fruit and pizza, surrounded by Tiki gods.  We then would hunt for the treasure, instead of piñata, dividing the treasure amongst us like real pirates.  Then we would end on a sugar high and even watch Evan rip off wrapping paper.  It would be awesome. 

Back in California, we only had one friend who RSVPed for parties.  The rest, if it wasn’t an evite, would just show up.  I could always count on them all to show up, even an hour late, and since all the children were years older than my own, we always had a laid back pool party.  We only became complicated for Evan’s third birthday party, which was Kung Fu Panda themed.  Complicated meant that we hung Chinese lanterns and served egg rolls, wantons, and pot stickers instead of pizza.

Now in Arizona, I had no idea how people notified each other on coming to parties.  I always RSVPed, regrets or not.  Apparently, if you’re younger than my grandparents, you don’t call.  I got one call an hour before the party on my message machine to let me know that Evan’s only non-family friend had to get stitches that day.  Poor kid.  Of course, I didn’t get the message until hours after the party.

Since no one called, I vacillated between frustration and worry.  I finally settled on “screw it” and continued to prepare for all seven kids and their families, just in case.  If they didn’t show, at least the favorite uncles (the only uncles) would be there, and that would be enough for my boys.  I was sure I could con my brothers into doing the crafts and dressing as pirates.

The husband had to drive home on July 4th, but since he was late, he produced a surprise.  He had bought an inflatable pirate boat pool that I had been eyeing for a month.  While I had decided to make do with the kiddie pools we already had, the husband had jumped at the pool he saw at a store.  Unfortunately, he paid ten bucks more than I could have bought it, but it was the thought that counts.  The boys were stoked, though Sean more than Evan.

Now I would be posting pictures of this awesome pool or even the awesome cake my mom made, but I dropped and broke my camera right after the boys saw the pool.  I borrowed my mom’s camera.  it turns out that my computer does not accept the camera’s card.  You can now understand why I didn’t post the crafts yet.  I was seriously bummed last night.

Minutes before the party was to start, with the food cut up in the fridge, we sat watching some stupid game show when my cousin and his family descended on the house.  “What? No pirate flag?” he called to me as he crushed me with a hug.  “I forgot to order one, and no one carries them that was open for the last three days.”  His wife asked if Evan could open his gift now, practically pleading with me.  I nodded.  Evan tore open the bag to pull out a pirate outfit to compliment the one his cousin was wearing.  With glee, he begged to put it on.  I stripped him and made him into a pirate.  (Mothers of princesses, how do you clean this flimsy, cheap things?  Because it’s stained and just as fragile as those pretty princess costumes.)  The two younger boys got sashes and bandanas.  My mom rubbed on tattoos on the boys, though Broc, the eldest, proudly showed off the ones on his chest.

We herded the boys in the dining room to color pictures as my mom and I placed out food, plates, and juice.  Then I helped them construct their boats.  We moved onto making pirate flags, which I decided to do on foam sheets because I had tons of foam pirate stickers, though Lindsey had an awesome idea of cloth and fabric paint flags, which I want to do sometime.  With the natives getting restless, we plied stickers to the buckets.  (All crafts I’ll have on my craft site within the week.)  Then I released them into the back yard.

My baby brother had helped make a couple of buckets of water balloons.  My mom had cautioned me against a balloon toss as it was too complicated for four-year-olds.  I knew she was right, even before she said anything.  I just thought they would love getting wet.  Within minutes the balloons were gone.  Hmm, I guess we needed more than two buckets full.  It didn’t help the my brothers and my cousin got involved.  We moved on to sailing our boats, but alas the wind was too strong, making the blowing impossible or unnecessary.  With the pirate ship pool beckoning, the moms changed the boys into swimsuits and slathered on sunscreen, setting them loose on the pool.  Before long, almost everyone was in the pool, and I was soaked in my clothes because Broc, under the encouragement of his dad, my cousin, kept throwing buckets of water on me.  Fear not, I retaliated.

The husband went and brought back pizza on which we did feast.  But as we waited for his return, we had dressed, overly-excited pirates on our hands.  I lead them on a pirate hunt, around Dead Man’s Sea, passed Old Man’s Plantation, quietly by the Sea Dragon’s Liar, through the Trollope’s Rum, the Rum Runner Inn, and into The Bowels (of Hell).  There we searched for treasure until I was sure the boys would tear my parents’ extra family room apart.  I pulled out a cardboard treasure chest I had for a while.  I opened it up and divided the treasure like real pirates.  We had inflatable swords, miniature rubber daggers, bouncy pirate balls, gold-painted rocks, pirate coin medallions, compasses, fruit snack sharks, and plastic spy glasses.  Within minutes, the pizza arrived for our hungry pirates.

My mom made a really cool cake, which I’ve got to post a picture of.  We even decorated it with these cool pirate stickers and a mermaid sticker on the front.  She did a fantastic job.  Not too long after that, we realized how late it was, and people needed to get home. 

It was good party.  Arr!

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Four Years and Counting

It was a nudge, a squeeze, a queasy feeling.  I watched The Husband get ready for work. It must have been an important day as I watched him put on his tie.  He usually took full advantage of being the owner, rolling in around nine-ish, not wearing a tie.  There was that feeling again.

“This is going to sound weird.  But I think I’m in labor.”

He stopped and eyed me through the mirror.  He turned around, horror written on his face.  “Are you sure?  I mean, you’re not due until Friday, and you keep saying you think you’ll be late.”

“Of course, I said that.  If it’s your child, she’s bound to be late, just like you.  But I think I might be in labor.”

“Are you in pain?”

I thought about the feeling.  “No.”

“Well, I have to be to work early.  You know how four-day weeks are.”

“Every one is recovering.”

“Right.”  He gave me a peck.  “Let me know if anything changes.” He walked out of the room.  “I’ll try to be home for lunch.”

Right.  I wobbled my way downstairs to get breakfast (Mmmm, Rice Krispies in cold milk.  Or maybe the Mud Buddies I made yesterday) to find my brother M was already awake.

“What are you doing up?”  There was that feeling again.  Weird.  My baby brother must have noticed because he looked at me funny.

“Are you ok?”

“I’m fine.  I think.  I think I’m in labor.”

“Crap!  I’ll go wake up Mom!”

“Wait!” I grabbed his arm.  “I can’t be in labor.  We’re going to the Angels game tonight.  Tomorrow we’re going to LA to see the King Tut exhibit.  Not to mention the blinds need to be cut for the nursery, the bookcase we got isn’t built yet, and then there’s the stroller we got yesterday.  It’s still in the box from yesterday!”

“Fae.  I don’t think any of those things matter when you have a baby.”

“I can’t have the baby yet.  It’s TOO SOON!”

“Ok, ok.  Let’s get breakfast.  And then I’ll help you put together the bookcase.”

“Thank you.  So why are you up?  Where’s Mom and Dad?”

“There’s not a lot to do at night at your house.”

We finished breakfast and went upstairs to build the bookcase.  All the while I felt these weird pangs.  We were putting it together when the parents found us.

“Fae thinks she’s in labor.”

Tattle tale.  “I can’t be.  Do you want to come with me to Home Depot after lunch to cut the blinds?”

For the next few hours the family watched me.  The weird feeling became a pain.  A terrible pain.  The only way I could get any relief was to kneel, holding onto a chair.

“Mom, can you braid my hair?  I don’t want it to be in my way during the labor.”

“Sure, sweetheart.”

Twice during the braiding, we had to stop so that I could kneel over the chair.  Mr. Burns, the pug, was freaked out as he just stared at me, never leaving my side.  I guess I should have felt honored.  I wanted to kick him.

As I “breathed out my pain,” which is a crock of s*@t, my baby brother stood over me.

“Hey, Fae? How many kids did you want?  Was it four?  Do you still want four?  Do you?”

Come here, you little piece of crap.  I don’t care if you’re six foot five and out weigh me and have all that damn testosterone coursing through your body.  I’m going to take you down.  You’re so f*@$ing dead. I’m going kick you @ss.

“Not. A. Good. TIME!”

“The Husband, you’re wife is in labor.  You might want to come home now.”

“How does burgers sound?”

“Sounds good.”  Burgers.  Mmmm.  Owwww!

“Hey, Fae.  How are you doing?”  The Husband rubbed my back.  I think I might bite that hand.

“Fine.”

“Let me change, and I’ll grill the burgers.  We still haven’t picked out a boy’s name yet.  We have too.  Which one do you want Evan or Quentin?”

“I don’t care!”
“Evan, then.  I’ll be right back.”

I shot him a nasty look.  Stupid male.

As I drank water, I watched my mom and The Husband talk as he flipped burgers.

“So you think, we’ll have a baby in a couple of days?”

“No.  I think you’ll have a baby tonight.”

“Oh.”

Mmm.  Burger.

“Ok, I’m going to jump in the spa.  I always wanted a water birth.  This will calm me and the baby down.”

“I don’t know, Fae.  You’re contractions are coming every three minutes.”

“Please, Mom.  Let me try.”

“Ok.”

BIG mistake.  It slowed down the contractions to five minutes apart, then seven, but they hurt like hell.  I couldn’t lean over without trying to drown myself.  The Husband talked on his cell phone, pacing as my mom talked me through the pain.  The Husband finished his call and leaned down.

“How are we doing?”

“The Husband.  May I please have your phone?” I reached out my hand, dripping with chlorinated water.  I batted my eyes, dazzled my smile.

“Sure.”  He handed it down.  I reached up to get it.

A hand swooped in to grab it.  B*^%#!

“The Husband, you owe me.  I just saved your phone.”  The Husband gave a blank look at my mom.  “Fae.  Were you going to put his phone in the water?”

“I was going to throw it in the deep end.” Sugar dripped from my tongue.

“The Husband.  You better call D at the doctor’s office.  Her pain isn’t easing.”  My mom handed the phone back to The Husband.  He dialed the phone number.  Stupid male.

“Hey, is D there?  . . . Hi D!  It’s The Husband.  Fae is in a lot of pain.  Her contractions were?”

“Three minutes apart,” said my mom.

“Three minutes apart-“

“Now, they’re seven because she went into the warm spa.”

“Now, they’re seven because she’s in the spa.  But her pain hasn’t diminished.”

D over the phone said, “Has she cussed at you?  Has she yelled at you?”

“No.  She’s been just fine.”

“Crap.  Bring her here now.  We’ll squeeze you in.  She’s already passed that point.”  Click.

We hustled.  I got dressed.  I kissed my dad and brother goodbye.  I waddled into the big truck.  Thank God, he decided against the beamer.  I hated how he shifted.  I would kill him now if he shifted while we were on the way to the hospital.  My mom climbed in back, camera ready as it had been all day.  B*#$%!

The Husband drove the speed limit.  He even stopped at a yellow light. Grrrr.

As we pulled off the freeway, my mom asked, “The Husband, why did we take the truck?”

“BECAUSE HE WANTS TO DRIVE ME CRAZY!” I tried to dig my nails in the dash.

“Because the car seat’s already in it.  We’re bringing home a baby tonight.”

“It’ll be a few days, The Husband.”

“Oh.”

I had a cramp in the waiting room, but I was surrounded by non-showing women.  I was brave.  My mom took my picture as D took my vitals.  I must get my hands on that camera.

“She’s dehydrated.  That’s why she’s in so much pain.  Take her across the street and get her admitted.  They’ll get an IV in her, and I’ll let the doctor know.”

“Can they give her something for the pain?”

“Not yet.”

I had a labor pain before we crossed the bridge, suspended two stories high.  A nurse told us to walk along the side of the hospital to get to the front door.  I had a labor pain on a fire hydrant.  There was construction blocking the way, so we had to turn around and go into the emergency area.  I had another labor pain on the fire hydrant.  As we walked towards the glass doors, a man was walking out.  Seeing my mom and my husband huddling around me, the man’s eyes grew big.  “Doyouneedachair?!” He turned around without an answer and sprinted back into the doors.  He came back running a wheel chair to me.  The husband thanked him, and the man wished us good luck.

As we entered the hospital, they were waiting for us.  The man must have yelled it at the top of his lungs.  I was rushed to the delivery area, not my room.  I wasn’t far enough dilated yet.  Then came the drip, the monitoring, the hours waiting to dilate.  I couldn’t get into my favorite position.  I was forced to lie there, squeezing a dent into the bars or so I thought.

I didn’t like my nurse.  She was gruff.

She talked quietly over the phone. “Doctor, please, let’s get her the epidural.  I know.  If we give her Pitocin, she should be fine.  She’s in a lot of pain; I don’t know how long she can hold on.  Thank you, doctor.”

She patted my hand, never acting like I heard.  “Ok, my dear.  They’re going to wheel you into a delivery room.  They’re going to give you the epidural.  The anesthiologist is on his way.  Then they’re going to give you pitocin to speed things up a little.  This is the end of my shift, but I’m going to leave you in good hands.”

Did I ever say how much I loved that nurse?

The next nurse was sweet in the way that didn’t get on my nerves.

The anesthiologist came sliding into the room.  “Hey, my name is (Totally forgot).  Feel free to name your kid after me.  Many women promise that.”  He smiled.  “OK, folks.  I suggest you leave the room while I administer the epidural.”

The gruff nurse hadn’t clocked out yet, and she said, “If you move, he won’t do it.  I’ll hold you and help you breathe through the pain.”

I hate that damn phrase.

“What do you mean she won-“

“The Husband.  T’s here with some dinner.  Come on.  We’ll be back, sweetheart.”

“But she said-“

“They’ll give it to her.  I promise.”

“Ok.  We’ll be back in a little bit, Fae.”

Ok.  CRAP!  That hurt like a b@*^$!

The doctor came in.  “How are you doing, Fae?  We’re administering the Poticin through your IV drip.  Would you like to prey.” I nodded.  The doctor held my hands.  “Dear Heavenly Father, . . . .” Wait.  What did I agree to?!  Where’s my Marian Medal?  No male god would understand this.  “Fae, we’re also going to break your water to help move things along.  We’ll probably deliver in the early hours of the morning.  But I won’t leave.”

The curtain was drawn.  My numb legs were put in stirrups.  The nurse handed the doctor something.  The door was opened.

“FAE!  Are you in there?”

“Yeah.  I’m a little indisposed at the moment, J!”

“Oh, hey, J.  Did D call you?” the doctor said.

“Hey, Doc!  She did!  I wanted to see how Fae was doing!”

“Well, I’m about to break her water.”

“Oh.  OH! All right!  Fae, GOOD LUCK!  I’ll see you tomorrow!”

“Thanks, J!”

The door closed.  My water was broken.  I was left alone.  And then I threw up my hamburger.  Dang. 

The doctor walked in.  “You threw up?” I nodded as the nurse took the full vomit tray away.  “I figured when I saw the beeping in the nurses’ station.  You’ll be fine.” He left the room.  The nurse busied herself.  My husband and mom walked in the room.

“Where have you been?  They gave me my shot, the Potocin, and broke my water.  J was here.  And then I threw up.”

“I see the epidural is working.” My mom’s dry sense of humor, ladies and gentlemen.

“Yes.  And it’s wonderful.”

“Your dad and M were in a different part of the hospital.  They’re going to stick around for a while.  Maybe they can come in later.”

Time passed.  Not too much because all of a sudden I was completely dilated and ready to push.

The doctor walked in.  “Well, Fae.  That was fast.  I was expecting to be here until two.  Let’s see what’s going on.”  He slid into position like a catcher.  “Looks like the little guy-.  We don’t know what the baby is, do we?”

“No.  But my mom is sure it’s a girl.”

“She carried high.  The heartbeat was fast.  It has to be a girl.”

“She hid the envelope, doctor.”

“Ok, let’s get this baby out.”

My mom had one leg; the nurse the other.  The husband held my hand.  It took three pushes.

“Here, she comes.  Here, she comes.  Here, she comes.  Here, he is!”

“A boy!  A boy!  A boy!  My boy!” I whispered over and over as they cut the cord and laid Evan down on my lap.

At 9:20pm, July 5th, three days before his due date, with images of ancient Rome dancing in my head, Evan came into the world.  My world was forever changed.

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Random, that’s me

Some days you have to be random.  Today is my day.  Because really I’ve been random all week.  Like when I write and read.  I’ve been spending the week at my parent’s house during naptime, working on sewing a dress to wear to my brother’s wedding.  Every day brought a panic attack as I stared at the material, knowing I can’t cut straight or sew straight.  All I have to do is add the ribbon, the straps, and the zipper.  Then I can figure out a hairstyle for an evening, New England wedding held at a Victorian mansion.  Right.

Maybe some of you noticed there weren’t any July 4th crafts.  That’s because I’ve been too busy planning for a birthday party July 5th, which means I’ve been running errands every day like a crazy woman.  As it is, I held off present shopping as long as I could, hoping the husband would be in town to share in the joy.  No such luck.  Again today I’ll be gone during my normal blogging and reading hour.

I meant to write this all last night.  But the monsoons are here.  (Or at least what we call monsoons.)  I love thunderstorms.  It’s like God and sex rolled into one, and I can enjoy it fully clothed.  Last night while I tried to catch up on the blog reading after bedtime, I kept hearing the massive thunder rattling the windows, lightening flashing through the sky.  (Don’t worry I was on an unplugged laptop.)  The storm called to me, so I went out to see what was happening, only to find the world was holding its breath.  The storm flashed around me at a perfect three miles all around.  The Eye.  I watched for a half an hour as the storm just sat, flashing, hollering, being absolutely beautiful.

Now I really should go as breakfast is done.  The boys are running loose.  I have a room or two to vacuum, dishes to do, a shower to take.  Then it’s shopping.  Read ya all soon!

Add it to the list

As I herded the boys away from the playground, I had them turn around and say goodbye to a cute, towhead seventeen month boy that they had been playing with.

Evan: Mommy!  I want a baby just like that one!

Me: You want a baby?

Evan: Yes!

Me: We’ll see what we can do about that.

Evan: Actually (yes, he really does say actually), I think Uncle T should have one!

Me: (Because Uncle T is getting married in August and Aunt K would like to wait on kids for a little while, I smile.) Well, we’ll let Uncle T and Aunt K now what you want.

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“Bonding” with a Model

Yesterday I saw a piece on the news on how they are starting to make exact models of unborn fetuses.  Using a 3D computer model and a layering printer, they can hand the expectant mother a model of her unborn child.  They went on and on about the benefits of this new product for expectant parents.  I have a few problems with this.

First, I think these models are ugly.  But then I think those pictures of people imaged into crystal and glass are ugly too, so I might not be the best judge on this.  If a parent wants to have an image of their unborn child, who am I to judge.  It’s the way that they are already peddling this product as “helpful” that makes me upset.

A psychologist, that was interviewed, talked about how a mother can hold a model therefore getting practice for the real baby.  While that maybe an interesting experience, a mother can practice on a doll, which I’m assuming will be much cheaper.  Not to mention, that holding a doll helps practice your hold as a real baby is much more flexible and squirmy than a doll.  Again, this model is really more like a souvenir of the pregnancy like the ultrasound pictures or a belly cast.

The issue I take offense to is how this is touted to help parents bond with their unborn child.  A psychologist talked about how important it was for post natal bonding and how it would be easier if the parents bonded to the fetus during pregnancy.  Now I did not have a problem bonding with my child, but I knew mothers who did, who felt like bad mothers, who felt like monsters when they didn’t bond right away with their children.  While they did learn to bond and love their children, I don’t think a 3d model would have helped since the ultrasound pictures didn’t.  Not bonding is the fear for many pregnant women, and to feed off this fear to buy some product in the name of bonding, really just ticks me off.

Pregnant women are so easy to persuade with their worry of being a good mom, being filled with all kinds of hormones, making them do and think crazy things.  I’m kind of surprise they aren’t talking about how this would help fathers bond because in my experience men actually have to hold the baby to get it all to click.  Pregnant moms might buy into that.  But what if a couple buys a model and still doesn’t feel the bond?  What kind of pressure does that put on the parents to spend the next several weeks or months worrying that they won’t love this stranger that is their child?

These people assume that one can bond with someone through an image.  It’s like falling in love with someone by looking at his/her picture.  That’s not love; that’s infatuation.  I’m not saying that this product won’t make the impending birth more a reality because it will, just like the ultrasound pictures.  If the ultrasound picture can do that just as well as then why try to convince parents to plunk down hard-earned money for one of these models.

Sure, I think this interesting technology.  Sure, if you want a memento of this time of your life, this might be really cool.  But let’s not sell this as an important parenting tool for expecting parents because that’s wrong.

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Never give a Mom monthly list pads

(Note: I published this early in the morning, and WordPress decided not to publish it.  Those liars.)

Never give a mom a year of monthly magnetic sticky pads.

She will either (a) be ultra organized, (b) not be organized at all, or (c) fancy herself organized.

A) She’s the Ultra Organized Mom.  Therefore she doesn’t need them.  She’ll find them quaint, but she has her own system.  Perhaps she’ll use them or she’ll just regift them to some other poor soul.

B) She’s the Not Organized at All. Therefore she doesn’t need them.  She’ll find them cute, but she won’t use them because she doesn’t do lists.  She’ll toss them, exchange them, or dump them in a box somewhere in the back of a closet.

C) She  actually Believes She is Organized.  Therefore these stupid pads will add to her growing insanity.  The first year, she’ll change them out dutifully, but it will be apparent that no one writes a list every day.  She’ll put them away for the next year, and she’ll realize that she doesn’t write that many lists on pads and will still have these pads a third year.  With the pressures of raising kids, cleaning a house, feeding a family, shopping, driving, entertaining, paying bills, and (God forbid) working, she’ll say screw it and use whatever pad is up there, which means she’ll be using January’s pad in March and October’s pad in July.  This will clue others in of her raveling sanity.  She really doesn’t need that either.

Therefore NEVER give a mom a year of monthly magnetic sticky pads.

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