new world, big kids

So I guess I need to address the very obvious fact that I've been away awhile. Looked like I jumped ship, didn't it? Not entirely true, because I've been writing half posts and never completing them, thinking about writing posts that I don't even begin. And then there's that other blog still percolating. I'm inclined to believe that intention should count for something, somewhere.

And then in that last post I didn't even acknowledge the oh-so-long break in posts. That's because I got moving with the writing and didn't want to stop for explanations.

Let's just pretend that you're already caught up, shall we? I hate coming back after a break because I feel I have to address the absence in a post that isn't really a post but some space filler of explanation that essentially always means the same thing: blah blah blah. Life takes a winding course and except for tragedy it's all mostly the same. I'll let you know if there are any tragedies.

I've moved into a new parenting time slot, did you know? Since I last hung out with you there have been major developmental changes. I heard this truth most loudly at an event for folks with babies and very young children recently. I happened to be there without kids so my attention was not diverted by my perpetual role as referee (oh the bickering drives me craaaazzzyyy). I looked around at the strollers and diaper bags and parents chasing escapee toddlers, and I thought "I don't live in this world anymore." It was a funny realization, especially since it should have been obvious. Those days were so tiring, a hundred hours each, and ran on one after the other without pause. Although intellectually I knew it wouldn't last forever, I never believed it. Suddenly I felt naked without my stroller: a kind of shield, a buttress, and let's face it - so helpful with the schlepping of stuff.

Things changed and I didn't even notice when it happened. I've moved from babiesandpreschoolers to schoolagedkids. The most obvious illustration of this new world is school, but the most important difference is developmental. It has to do with a mental progression, an ability to understand explanations, to not completely lose one's shit when asked to clean up the legos, to control reactions when frustrated hungry tired overwrought. Mostly.

The immediate down side is that the first of school also (evidently) means a soup of germs, which felled us straight away. Looking back on this blog, I want to acknowledge that I have spent a good amount of time enumerating our illnesses, which are many. I've spent a lot of time complaining about being ill, about fevers and stomach flus and many tv filled sick days in preschool. More weight in illness than a blog should carry. So none of that now except to say that because I've done nothing but lie on the couch or take care of sick kids for over 2 weeks now, my house is a DISASTER. Which makes me Crazy Lady. Just so you know the temperature of our spaceship.

So. Kindergarten and First Grade. A brave new world. I no longer have a child in the Waldorf school, which is sad, but it's also kind of exciting for the next thing, for us to be here.

And where is here? It is with a girl turning seven this minute, a girl who is sometimes overcome with so much love that she just has to say it, "I love you so much, Mama."It is here with a boy who is right on the very tip edge of losing the last of his babyness, and he's scared to see it go, scared not to be a baby and feel coddled, scared to have to learn and accomplish things.

It is here. Here where we all put on our shoes and our jackets at 8 am, leash the dog and trek to school 3 blocks away, watching for the trolls under the bridge. Here where Clark often pulls away from my kisses, where Frances is apart from me all day in a climate I know very very little about. It's odd to have her gone away from me so much, to feel so out of touch with her social life. I have to just trust that she will make good decisions, that she will choose the way that is warmed by the light. I know that often when I ask about their days they will not tell me, and I have to be open and present, so that when they do want to talk I am listening. I don't want to miss it.

sleepless complaining about gravy

It's 6:30 am and I've had two hours of sleep: 1:30-3:30. I'm too anxious about what I have left to do for christmas preparations/gifts/laundry/holiday-video/packing-for-the-trip so I'm up doing laundry and working on the video. It seemed more productive than just lying in the bed with my eyes open. Though the argument could be made that sleepless rest would be better than laundry for warding off the crippling disease the kids have contracted and I'm desperately trying to avoid. I can't avoid it; who am I kidding? I'm fairly resigned to the idea that I will be in the throws of a 103* fever on the flight down to North Carolina christmas eve. Yeah baby.

Last December I had all sorts of plans for activities to do with the kids and I ended up with both bronchitis and pneumonia at the same damn time and nothing at all happened except I lay on the couch, operated the remote, and periodically crawled to the kitchen to put pretzels into bowls for the kids. I had to simply give up my ideas of crafts and baking and holiday fun.

This year it's the kids who have gotten sick. First the stomach flu, followed 10 minutes later by what is apparently The Flu - super high fever for now 7 days running. Frances's fever has dropped to 100 and she says she feels great, thinks she is well. Her yardstick is temporarily broken. Which is as much of a pain in the ass as 103 frankly, because she's up hopping around and wrestling and is also more quick to be defiant and get offended and scream in her brother's face. And she's MUCH more sensitive to physical pain. Having her (very very long) hair accidentally pulled causes tremendous trauma and wailing. I had to remind myself today that this is not the child I usually live with. Thank the lawd.

So, again, not many activities done. We were moving right along with salt dough ornaments and had gone so far as to even make salt dough figures for a nativity scene (very comical and more on that later if you're lucky), but now many are languishing without paint or modge podge or glitter. Some are half done, some just need ribbon for hanging (the ornaments that is). We never got to the gingerbread houses at all (oh I really wanted to do those!). I have one more day before we leave for NC and still need to get presents plus pack: myself, the kids, presents for family members and from Santa too. Dear god I hate christmas.

I've got to get my brain around the idea that none of this is really truly important. Death is important; love; kindness. Having gifts ready is just gravy. Nothing to stress about. Okay, so I know that with my rational brain. Somebody needs to tell my limbic system so I can get some sleep.

summer fever

We are in Michigan now, staying at Mitch's folks' house. They live on a beautiful little lake with a pontoon boat and a paddle boat and a tire swing and hammock and a little beach with a dock to jump off and a whole lot of outdoor loveliness. It's pretty cool that the kids get to visit their grandparents here.

We've all been here together since Tuesday - 5 days ago - and the plan is that tomorrow Mitch and I will go home and leave the kids here.

When we made these plans I was so excited to be at home with my husband and no kids for the better part of a week. He'll be working, of course, but in the evenings we can go out to dinner if we want, at any point in the evening. We can sleep in! Nap mid afternoon! Run spontaneous errands! The plan, of course, is to get some projects done around the house.

But tonight I feel funny about it. I've been away from the kids before - many times - but always when I've gone away for a trip or something. I've never been away from them for any length of time when I was at home. I'm going to miss them.

And Frances is sick. Friday morning we went to see a play, and in the theater she was so cold she was shivering. (Luckily, as a holdover from my living in the south where summer means 50 degrees inside any building, I had a sweater in my bag.) That afternoon she slept and slept and when she woke her temperature was 102.

That was Friday. Today is Sunday, and her temp is still 102. She's a trooper about it, I have to say. We took her to urgent care yesterday to get a strep test, but it seems to be nothing more than a virus, so we're waiting for the fever to pass.

[If I may take a soap box moment here: I've stopped treating fevers. The fever is, after all, the body's way of killing the virus, so letting it run is best, the literature says. Unless it's crazy high, of course. In addition to that, bringing a fever down means the kid feels again like having pillow fights with her brother, so in addition to helping the kid heal, leaving the fever alone helps her get rest. Yet somehow the pharmaceutical companies and the doctors have most folks convinced that a fever gets tylenol immediately. Ridiculous what a hold they have on us.]

I've never before missed them. This has in the past disconcerted me a small bit. Funny - I've had the baby yearning so badly lately, but when they were babies I felt only relief about being away. Now, now that they are big and don't need me so much, now I will miss having them with me.

Perhaps it's all about my not having my own thing, which I definitely need to find. Who will I be if they're not with me?

Will be interesting to see how it goes, how I feel about it once we get back to NY. 

quiet time parenting success! and the holidays

Yay me! A couple of weeks ago I bought Frances a big round old school $3.99 Target clock with numbers and hands in bright yellow (so sunny!). The next day I told her to play in her room and watch the clock, and when the big hand came all the way around to the 12, she could come out. I put public radio on low (which here is excellent musical programming during the day) and left her to herself. One time when I came in she was humming and dressing some polly pockets, and she didn't even speak to me though she smiled (so engrossed...), and the 2nd time I checked on her the room was spotless and she was sitting in her chair listening to the music and watching the clock. "It's on the 11, Mom!" she said. All very exciting stuff, these clock hands. I didn't foresee a clean room as one of the perks, and I'll take it.

Meanwhile, Clark listened to a book on tape, then I set him up with a Christmas ISpy. I read a couple of pages to him and helped him find the objects, then he was off and running on his own, and I was free to straighten up the house. After that he just moved around me while I did my work and he did his.

A couple of days after our phenomenal success we left for NC for a lovely 5 day family visit. I'm now in the throws of having to implement this whole thing again now that we're home, travel always interrupting any possible routines.

It's not long before we leave again - this time for Florida and my in-laws - and I've been feeling enormous pressure to make christmas cookies and ornaments and gingerbread houses. I'm mighty glad I got the (silver! aqua!) trees up before we left. The kids, of course, decorated the bottom halves of the trees and the ornaments are clustered in twos and threes, which is a lovely look, turns out.

Aaaaand now I have pneumonia, plus Mitch is going to be out of town all next week, both of which mean I'm letting go of my ambitions for cookies and ornaments and gingerbread houses. Only so much one sick human can do, and now what I can do is lie on the couch and play knights with little playmobil folks while closing my eyes.

In other news: the botox is working this time. Headaches be gone! And the snow is coming, some of it already swirling around in the air, father winter on his way. Can't wait!

dancing without rhythm = stumbling

Everything is falling apart over here. The kids were both terribly sick, high fevers, congestion, etc etc, and Frances missed school for a whole week. Which meant a week where everything got out of rhythm, a week with ridiculous amounts of TV. Then about the time they started to feel well, I got it too. And holy shit it's a killer of a flu. I now understand why Frances kept waking from her sweaty naps in tears. It just hurt, everywhere. Achiness and fever of 103 and bad bad bad headache and intense sinus pressure and congestion and awful awful. So though they were better, we were still house bound because I could barely drag my ass off the couch to pour them milk. And, again, lots of TV.

Over the weekend Mitch was a single parent because I spent the entirety of both days in bed. I think this was a major contributor to the fallingapartness because Mom was home, but they weren't allowed to see me. How odd that must seem. Once when I was barely awake I heard Frances open the door to the bedroom. She stood in the doorway a moment and watched me, and then quietly backed out and closed it behind her.

Then I discovered that this week is "February break". (What? Who has February break?! Those in the snowbelt, that's who; those in dire need of a trip to the tropics.) So off schedule again, everything askew.

To add to the pile, and in fact perhaps the biggest thing of all, Clark gave up his nap just days before they got sick. He would still like to be taking it, very much, and would gladly sleep 2 hours or more if I let him. But he was staying up until 10pm, which was simply not acceptable. So I cut the nap.

Now he's exhausted and still two and a half, and we have no rhythm to our days. I didn't realize how completely the day hinged on his nap. Now what to do? How to organize? Frankly, I haven't been very good at figuring it out because I can't seem to get well and therefore have no energy for creative parenting.

We have instituted a midday storytime which is helping. But even with that, I'm having to turn on the TV for them so I can nap. I'm just so exhausted....

I've been reading parenting books again, a terrible thing for my morale, this time Waldorf books that insist rhythm is the key to the universe. And to some degree I believe it is, at least when dealing with young children, which is what makes our lack of it so frustrating. I do believe a rhythm to the day gives them a feeling of security and connectedness, and this feeling of security is what they seem to be lacking. Perhaps this is partly the reason for the clinging, for Clark saying, "Mommy, I want you," even as he is wrapped around my leg. Frances said to me yesterday, "Mama, I never want to go away from you ever." I will need to hold onto that 10 years from now when she wants me not at all...

I do have a plan, and it includes storytime and quiet time and a daily walk. I'm waiting for it to either get a little warmer, or for me to feel a teeny bit better before I implement the last. There was one spring day last week (50 balmy degrees!), and most of the snow melted off the yards and up came the mud. We took our trikes outside, and it was glorious. Like coming up from the depths after the bends. Then that night it snowed, and now we're back to our regular 20 degree high and 6 degree low with constant flurries. But for a moment it was spring! It allowed me to see what our lives will be like soon enough. With spring outside the door I think I can get our footing, get a rhythm.

spring please come.

My son took off his mittens and buried them in the snow and now we can't find them. I'm having trouble finding the humor in this, though I know it's there somewhere.

He also buried his Little People fireman, and he seems to think that loss is much more traumatic than his mittens.

He's going to be three in a few weeks, I really can't believe it. He's lengthened out recently, and suddenly he looks like a little boy, so tall and big and grown. He's not a toddler any more. He speaks so completely and well, except when he's screaming, of course; a thing we're still struggling with.

And he is all boy. Before I had kids I thought gender differentiations were more socially constructed than I now believe. Certainly much is, but so much is clearly instinct; it's weird to me. As Mitch and I were watching him toronado through the family room the other day, Mitch commented that Clark, as a little boy, has to practice for killing the big animal. So funny! And if one is indeed going to hunt big animals, he needs to be good at running and climbing and throwing things. Of course, the girls need to practice caring for the babies. I guess I believed until puberty hormones were absent in kids. Certainly and clearly not the case.

As for the caring of babies, Frances has now constructed a miniature house in our dining room, complete with kitchen, playroom, dining room, and bedroom (which is more like a dorm, baby beds lined up in a pretty row). She's never done this before, not to such lengths. And she's scared to death Clark is going to wreck it, not an unfounded fear.

Finally, I will say it: I'm ready for winter to be done. I'm ready for us to be able to step outside barefoot. I've been sick so long I don't remember what it's like to be well. And taking care of kids isn't the easiest thing when you've got no energy. Back to bed for me.

me the mama, the salve.

For the past week I've been nursing sick kids--quite sick, with high fevers and empty eyes and no appetite. Everybody's been home from school. Today, however, I had one half-sick kid and one nearly-well kid with buckets of energy. Aaaaannd now I've got the fever. The last two days I've been achy and exhausted and completely unable to do anything more than chop cubes of cheese and pour cheerios into a bowl. Since it's February and we live in upstate NY, the temp and wind have been such that the only time I even opened the door today was to let the dog out then back in.

So today when Mitch got home, I collapsed on the couch and begged to be released from bedtime duties. It mostly went well, until the end. I thought the kids would be ready for bed early, both of them still somewhat sick, but I probably didn't factor in the fact that we hadn't left the house since Tuesday. Poor Clark wailed and howled. Mama Mama Mama Mama! I listened from downstairs, wondered if I should let Mitch handle it, thought maybe it would be good for Clark to have someone else comfort him. But since he was specific in his request for me, after a few minutes up I went.

Mitch was working on his laptop outside Clark's room, and as I passed him he said, "Are you sure Clark's ready for bed?" The minute I appeared Clark got quiet and wiped his wet face with his palms. Poor guy. It's true that he seemed awake. Not strung-out-and-over-tired awake, just awake. He talked about his stuffed pony. He told me about the cricket on his shirt. I wondered if I should just bring him back downstairs and try again later. I thought I'd sing to him first, however. 

There are two songs I recently reintroduced into our nighttime playlist, both tunes that I sang to him when he was a baby, when I walked the floor to get him to sleep. It's been interesting: one of the two he wants over and over now, every night, and the other makes his eyes heavy in the first few notes. It's like a muscle memory. So tonight, though he seemed so very awake, I started the first song, assuming he would break in with a request for different lighting or some pretzels. 

You can guess where this is going. I wasn't halfway through the first song when his eyes started to droop. By the end of the second round he was so asleep that his thumb had already fallen from his mouth. It took all of three minutes. 

When I emerged from the room Mitch said, "He needed his mama. I wasn't going to do, that's for sure." Apparently Mitch had tried to comfort him, tried to hold him; Clark wouldn't even look at his daddy, just pushed him away. And Clark is crazy about his daddy. 

He's in a mommy stage, there's no question. I knew that already. (So is Frances, by the way, and the two of them together can sometimes be a little more love than I can handle.) But it's interesting to me that he calmed so quickly when I arrived, that he gave in to the deep rest of sleep so immediately. It's true; he needed me. I don't know why, but it seems odd to me that these little creatures need me so deeply, and not just for the safety and regularity of routine (I get that. I am the one home with him all the time, the one making meals and bandaiding scrapes, the one helping him navigate conflicts with his sister and his fear of the monster upstairs), but for something more intrinsic.

I'm not explaining well. I guess I mean that I'm so focused on providing the physical stuff-- cooking, and keeping the house straight, and organizing craft activities, and ushering folks into snowpants and the minivan--that I don't realize how much emotional stuff I provide too. Yet as I'm writing this I'm aware that much of the physical stuff is the emotional stuff. I keep them on regular sleep schedules and pack snacks and watch for overtiredness. I try to protect them from the bombardment of the world, while also show them what that world is. It shouldn't surprise me that he needs just me the way he does, should it? I could see it more easily if I were the only caregiver, if his daddy weren't such an amazing father... Am I still shortchanging my role in this? Do I not see with perspective who I am to my son? I think I don't. 

Frances has lately taken to calling me the "best mama in the world." Every time she does it I hear a little disclaimer in my head. But then, the other day I flipped open the book The Emotional Life of the Toddler to a random page and read that, though the parent's job is to protect the child from emotional stress, no parent can do this all the time because the perfect parent doesn't exist. And it's important to remember that children are resilient enough that they bounce back from emotional strain pretty well. 

Why can't I remember that the perfect parent doesn't exist? Why do I (and so many of the women I know) pressure ourselves to be the perfect parent? Feel we've failed when we fall short of perfection? (Why do I hear in my head, when my sweet daughter tells me I'm the best mama in the world, that no, I'm not. Why don't I just hear the love?) Why is perfection, rather than very good solid parenting, the yardstick?


Can't be. Doesn't exist. 

I feel like I'm rambling, like I'm circling the core of the thing. Like, if I could say it right, this post would be half as long.

Okay, jumping ship. We'll attribute the ramblingness of this post to the fever, whadayasay? I've got to get some sleep. 

venting venting complaining and venting

I know I do a lot of complaining on this blog. I would like there to be more questioning and celebrating and a little less complaining, but there it is. Perhaps that was part of the blog's initial intent anyway--a place to vent. (That's not true. I hoped it wouldn't be just a place to vent--that's for journals and coffee shop napkins--but a place to examine concepts with some consciousness.) One of the reasons I've been absent here for the past short bit is because I couldn't come up with much to write that wasn't complaining: about the strep Frances and I had (deargod did that hurt) or how although she seemed well within 5 minutes of starting her antibiotics it took me days and days of lying in bed without the energy to lift a spoon of soup to my lips; about the two-kids-and-one-me air travel which wasn't actually so bad and involved only a moderate amount of screaming ("Sit down, Clark. You must sit down on your bottom." "AAAAaaaahhhhhaaaahhhhaa!") and only one spilled drink in someone's-not-mine lap and seat, and I even had a change of clothes handy; about how I mistakenly thought that traveling by myself wasn't going to be the same energy expenditure as regular single parenting because we were going to see fun people and do fun things, but in fact it was rather exhausting; and now--now!--after coming home to my sweet sweet husband who not only greeted us at the airport with a rose for me but also straightened the whole house--our first weekend back and the excitement of being with Mitch because it's fun and because it gives me a hand, and Mitch spent most of the weekend in bed with some unidentifiable illness. Sigh.

I mean, really. My life does not suck. I do not live in war torn Serbia. I do not support these kids by myself with two low paying crappy jobs. I am not alone, abused, hungry. I live in a very nice house with a wonderful and supportive husband and disposable income. I have the freedom to choose whether to work or stay home with these children. My family are all healthy. Yet still I complain.

While we were in North Carolina I talked with one of my oldest friends about this: about the frustration and underlying general dissatisfaction that seems to come with caring for young children. My therapist assures me it is particular to this stage of my life and theirs; that staying home with small children is isolating and frustrating and makes you feel the loss of self, of identity, and that eventually the kids will grow and need me less, and things will all change.

Not that I need to tell this to anyone who has ever had a child, but it's just so emotionally exhausting. The crux of the thing is that you're never off duty. Even when they're finally (finally!) asleep in their beds and you and your glass of wine are settled on the couch for some mindless entertaining 30 Rock, they could resurface at any moment. You still have to listen for their calls, their cries, have to be ready to console or convince or clean up vomit, can't drink too much of that wine lest someone wakes with a fever of 105 and you have to drive to the hospital. You listen in your sleep, always ready and trained to act.

I've mentioned before my friend Sylvia's comparison of parenting to the trenches of war: hunkered down, ready to act, sleeping with one eye open. I really don't want to make light of war experiences, but it is a funny way to think about it.

I'm done. I feel much better.

No, one more thing: when will Clark stop flinging across the room everything he touches? When will he stop shrieking in response to any form of correction or suggestion or coercion or discipline? When will he actually play with toys rather than just dumping tubs of them on the floor and walking away? These things will pass, right?

Okay, now I'm done.

And since I'm done, I will tell you one uncomplaining thing: I set up my painting studio! I bought paints and funky gel texture mediums! I can't wait to get up there! I just have to find the time... and that's just a fact, not a complaint.

these days in the shell of a nut

1)  My computer has been in the shop all week which has made me feel completely adrift, but I sure got a lot of things done around the house. But here I am, back in front of the screen.

2)  It's kind of astonishing how many peanut butter and jelly sandwiches my daughter can eat in a 24 hour period. Can there be such a thing as too many?

3)  Something interesting happened this week relating to the blog.... Someone sent the director of Frances's preschool a link to my previous post where I list my complaints about the school. I have to admit that the post was kind of snarky and I was a leeetle embarrassed when I realized she had read it, especially as overall I like the school very much. The whole thing made me think about blogs in general, what their purpose is, what role they fill, how much must be personal expression versus personal restraint. When I write I know that I am doing so in a public forum; I know that some of my far away good friends read it (and of course my mom), and I also know strangers read it. But I forget about the peripheral people in my life who might read it when I'm not even aware they know I write a blog. Interesting.

(A short sidebar: I recently ran across someone from middle school on facebook and through a series of lazy links that literally took me all of 8 bored seconds I found a column his new wife wrote that described the details of his proposal as well as his wedding down to the flower arrangements and his carrying her over the threshold. It was bizarre to have this kind of intimate information on someone I hadn't seen or heard anything at all about since I was eleven. The internet is a strange place.)

4)  Last weekend we took our first trip to the emergency room. I've been wondering when that was going to happen. It wasn't so bad, though it took freaking forever. Unless you come in spurting blood you're going to be there for  h o u r s. I'd taken Clark to the doc on Friday because he'd been complaining for days that his stomach hurt. He'd stand up in his crib in the morning or after his nap and say "tummy. hurt." and rub his little dimpled hands over his belly. Then Friday morning he woke with a fever of 101 which I assumed was just a flu but decided it was a good time to take him in anyway because I was starting to worry about this pain in his stomach. Turns out he had an ear infection which the doc thought was oddly causing the stomach ache. 

So Clark started antibiotics on Friday, had been on them for 2 days when he woke in the middle of the night Saturday all red and shaking and burning up, with a fever of 105.2. I took off one of his many pj layers (his room is the coldest in the house and we dress him in literally no less than 3 layers of pjs) and gave him some motrin which he immediately threw up. That's when I started to get nervous. The doc on call wanted me to go to the ER since he'd been on the antibiotics already; he was worried the ear infection bacteria was resistant to the medicine. I had tylenol suppositories in the house from a previous stomach flu (Moms! Did you know these things exist? Called 'Fever All', got them at the grocery. Good to have on hand.) and I thought for sure that would only bring the fever down to 102 or something. But of course by the time we got to the ER Clark's temp was normal. Normal! He felt great--was quite the charmer, teasing and giggling with the nurse, climbing up and then jumping off the chairs. The doctor came in (finally.) and asked if Clark would let her look in his ears. Not only did he hold very still but he then insisted she look in his other ear, then his mouth, then the top of his head. He didn't even cry when they did the IV draw.

But holy cow do things move slowly around there. We were there from 3-6 am and accomplished little more than having his temp taken and ears checked. Let me tell you--losing an entire night's sleep does not look as pretty on me as it used to. It's a very nice ER--a separate pediatric ER that was quite clean and pleasant, though slow slow slow. They did some blood tests, I think just to make me feel like they were doing something, and when I talked to our pediatrician on Monday he said he thinks it was a virus on top of the infection which made his fever spike. All is fine now. 

5)  Yesterday I found Frances and Clark in the bathroom together, and she'd gotten his pants off, his diaper off, and had him sitting on the baby seat on the toilet. AND! He had pooped in the toilet! For the first time! I may not have to potty train this kid at all; his sister might do it for me. 

solo again

Mitch left Saturday and is gone until Thursday evening and I'm here all alone with my sweet energetic and sometimes maddening children. Before he left the thing I was most anxious about was the mornings. Mitch is the one who always gets up with them, sweet husband that he is, and he lets me sleep until 7 or so, and then I lie in bed a few minutes adjusting back to this waking world. I'm no good first thing in the a.m. and I don't even have the luxury of coffee, due to my headaches. So.

Things are actually going pretty well but that's entirely due to the kids' sleeping in until 7:30, all 3 days so far. Yesterday Frances slept until 8:15 and I suppose I should have taken that as a sign but just saw it as my fabulous luck. Then preschool called later in the morning to say she looked pretty horrible and was complaining her stomach hurt. When I got her home she had diarrhea and a temp of 102 and immediately asked if she could take her nap. Last night I hoped aloud that she just wouldn't throw up. So far my luck has held. Today she says her head hurts but her fever is gone which is good. Hopefully Clark will hold off getting it until Mitch gets back.

Overall I'm feeling mostly good and capable. I do have my wonderful sitter who is practically part of our family now... and I'm sure I wouldn't be feeing this good about things if it weren't for her. The first day and a half I was thinking I was superwoman and that I might even tell her not to come, but then my better sense rose to the surface. Yesterday afternoon she took the kids to her folks' house where Frances sat on the big comfy chair with her blankie while Katie's dad wrestled the lights onto the christmas tree. She's coming again this afternoon but they'll all probably stay here while I disappear into the attic for some exciting spackling and sanding, the real break in the form of my nano on my head.

Sometimes it's funny to me how completely consuming and emotionally exhausting it is to care for children all the time. I am again reminded of the ppd coordinator in Durham who points out that society acknowledges that caretaking of an elderly parent is draining, but not children. And his point is that taking care of another human is the same, whether she is ninety or two.

So my committed approach is to take it easy this week. For example, it's 11:20 am and we're still in our pajamas. In fact, we're getting ready to go for a walk in the stroller, and we're just putting winter coats on over pjs. Then there might be some sitting on the floor with legos until lunch time. Woohoo!

Only two more bedtimes! Only two more mornings!

over yet?

Oh My God. I feel like all I'm doing these days is complaining, but oh my god. I need a support group.

I'm on my 4th day of antibiotics and today is the first day I've been able to be out of bed for more than an hour, so that's good. But Mitch went to the doctor today with what turns out to be bronchitis, Clark is on antibiotics for a sinus infection, and I still can't hear anything. Several times now I've picked up the phone when it wasn't ringing and I keep having to ask poor Mitch, who already barely has the energy to moan, to speak louder. (I also hear a faint symphony...) Last night Clark was up from 3-6am, just up, feeling crummy. I finally brought him downstairs and let him play and cry and play until the sky started getting light. Mitch let me sleep until 8, thank heavens.

Mitch's folks were supposed to be here tomorrow and were going to stay with the kids next week as we went to Lake Placid for a little ski vacation, the first time we've been away from Clark. And of course the hotel has a completely inflexible no return policy printed very plainly on our confirmation. When I called today though, the person at the front desk was very gracious and helpful and said they usually don't but would under the circumstances credit us for another stay with them. Whew. Before that I was just hoping Mitch would be well enough by then to drive and we would hang out at the spa rather than on the hill, but instead we're going to wait. His folks will come on Monday and maybe everyone will be well enough for us to go somewhere closer for an overnight.

All I can figure is that I got so sick because I was already depleted from the stomach flu and then was up with Clark all night every night while he was so sick, so this cough that turned into nothing in Frances just raged in me. I guess in Mitch too, because it seemed to start out as the same thing and has now landed in his lungs. Clark--well, we know why he's got it bad. He's barely had any calories in him with which to fight.

In any case, I'm tired. I don't really remember what life was like before Clark started throwing up 2 weeks ago, but I have a vague sense that I was enjoying it. Ah, one day I'll look back on this and it will be just a story to tell. As for the support group comment, feel free to leave comments here on the blog! I do miss my Durham support group.... as well as all you far away friends out there.

sick doesn't describe it.

I am so sick. Really really sick. I almost don't know if there's any point in my talking about it. (but here I go...) At different times in high school I had pneumonia and strep throat, but since then I can't remember being this sick. After the stomach flu stuff (btw, Clark threw up as recently as this afternoon... I almost wonder if the illness made him lactose intolerant or something. He seems to be fine unless he has any formula or milk, as little as a couple of sips) I got Frances's cough and then a stuffy nose, and then I spent all day Sunday and Monday in bed. I thought I was going to be able to rest it off, but then all of a sudden I woke Monday night in the night so sick, so much pain in my ears that I couldn't sleep. I called the doctor the next morning but they couldn't see me until that afternoon. It just got worse and worse, and while I waited in the office I paced and cried because of the pain (the doctor took forever getting there. I finally went out into the hallway to find out what the hell).

Double ear infection plus sinus infection. ("Oh my!" he said, "Yup, that's a raging ear infection.")

What adults get ear infections?? I thought the antibiotics would work right away but it's taking time... I can't hear anything but loud white noise and I feel nauseated all the time, probably because my equalibrium is off. My ribs hurt from coughing, my legs ache, my head aches, and I'm dizzy and exhausted when I stand up. The pain in my ears last night was tremendous (really really astonishing pain) and my fever was over 102 but today it's better. My mom was here, you know, which meant she got to hang out with the kids while I slept. I more or less haven't seen the kids in days. I just took my mom to the airport a little bit ago and now the sitter is outside pulling the kids in the wagon. I probably won't see them before bed.

Okay, typing this has worn me out and I'm going to close my eyes again.
I want to write about my not seeing Clark and how he doesn't now want to look at me, how he turns away from me, angry that I've been so absent. But I can't right now.

enduring chaos

Dear god I'm getting sick again, the cough-nose-sore throat-achy kind, right on the heels of the stomach flu plus Clark's illness which by the way he's still not over. He's thrown up as recently as Friday morning which makes it 5 whole days of no solid food and the poor guy is too weak to even walk. It's 5 am and I've been up with him twice and now I just can't sleep because of the stuffiness and general crappy crap and I think I'm going to hang myself.

My mom is here for a few days thank the heavens because I've got to get some sleep or at least lie on my bed and read a book or I'll lose my mind. At first carrying Clark around was sweet but now it's just exhausting. Poor Frances has had a rough week--having to be so patient and she getting so little attention as I strip and bathe and reclothe Clark and mop up vomit and mix sugar into water and hold the crying baby oh my god. She's really over it all and is letting us know. She's excited about seeing my mom, and now she'll get some undivided attention which will be great.

Yesterday afternoon my mom and I took Frances to the birthday party of one of the little girls in her preschool class while Mitch stayed home w/ Clark. It was at this place called Jump Club which has those big inflatible moon bounce things plus lots of screaming kids and germs and general chaos. This was the second party we'd been to like this and I was not particularly excited about it. When we got there my mom said, "oh, I see why you were moaning about this." These things are so weird to me--these parties. I just don't get them. After playing for awhile on the moon bounce we all pile into this tiny room, kids and baby siblings and parents with flashing cameras and the staff pouring sprite into paper cups, and the kids sit at these little tables set with princess plates and napkins and party hats while the adults line the edges of the room. There is pizza that Frances eats none of, and then at this particular party there were cupcakes plus pink princess cake plus heart shaped sunglasses plus party favor bags with candy PLUS a pinata. I started to tell her she couldn't have any candy because she'd just had a cupcake (well, the frosting and some of the cupcake) as well as gross strawberry princess cake, but then I thought what the hell. We got home at 5 pm, just in time to fix some dinner and ineffectively coerce her to sit at the table and eat some of it. (meaning: sit at the table with our dinner and holler at her to come eat something while she chased the dog.) She was a complete lunatic. She's never having sugar again.

I swear I'll never throw one of those parties. My kids will think I spoil all their fun but they can just share in others' birthday experiences at those places. We'll see if I go back on this...

Interesting turn of events for the I-want-my-baby-back blues

Clark got sick. Seriously seriously ill. Monday when he woke up from his nap he cried at first but then sounded through the monitor like he was playing in his crib, so I let him. Now and then he'd cry for a moment and then go back to awake baby sounds and after about 30 minutes I went to get him. What I found was that he'd thrown up everywhere (really--everywhere) and I suppose that's what he'd been playing in. Frances was hollering in her own crib by this time so I started the bath and ran in to tell her Clark was sick and she was just going to have to hang out and wait for a while. I stripped Clark and put him in the bath, piled up his clothes and sheet and blanket and stuffed bear for the wash, got Frances out of her bed and parked her on the sofa in front of the TV, and charged back upstairs to be sure Clark was not drowning in the tub. I was certain he'd throw up again as soon as I had him dressed so I kept him in the tub a long time and kept warming the water for him.

That was around 3. The rest of the afternoon he didn't want to be put down so I carried him in the sling while I got Frances her dinner and straightened up around the house. He snuggled down against me with his thumb in his mouth and it really was a sort of salve for the mourning I'd been doing. Oh, sweet baby needing his mama. He was still throwing up every once in a while and I'd just go to the sink and lean him over--because he was up against me I could feel his stomach heave and tell it was coming.

The next morning I gave him a tiny bit of applesauce with rice cereal and he kept that down, then he went to sleep. He was sleeping so hard but near noon it was time for me to get Frances from school so I woke him. I tried to give him a little more applesauce but he turned away, though he drank some watered down juice. I was literally getting him in his jacket to walk out the door when he threw up all over me. It was 10 minutes before I was supposed to pick up F and I was momentarily struck immobile. What to do? I thought of calling a neighbor but I couldn't ask someone to come watch a vomiting baby while I ran to school. I called my friend whose daughter is in Frances' class. I had to call the school to authorize her to bring Frances home, then she had to come get the carseat and rush over to the school. These people charge you if you're late.

Anyway, all that is more information than you want. By that afternoon Clark had a fever of 103 and all we did was sit in the rocker. When he'd get very fussy I'd put on Baby Einstein (which is oh so soothing) and we'd rock. When Frances woke from her nap she pulled her little rocker up next to mine and rocked her baby too while we all watched TV. I was thrown up on a couple more times and did more loads of laundry and of course having a sick baby is the pits, but it also was wonderful. I carried him and held him and rocked him and he snuggled. Frances is amazingly patient about Clark--if I tell her "I can't now, honey, I have to take care of Clark," she does not protest. She's always been that way about him.

Then Tuesday night I was up half the night experiencing the joy first hand. Of course Mitch had a presentation to the faculty at noon on Wednesday plus his class from 6-9 so couldn't stay home to help. Usually I have a sitter here Wednesday evenings but I called her to cancel like a decent human being. It was a rough day: Clark's fever still above 101, my upset stomach and fever and general achy-ness (plus my period, let's not forget), everyone in their pjs all day, but Frances was oddly cooperative and entertained herself pretty well. There was also a lot of TV. She'd say "sure!" when I asked her to bring me the remote or the thermometer. At one point I was dozing in the tent (which is beside the play kitchen in the dining room, filled with blankets and pillows and stuffed animals) and now and then felt a spoon on my lips as she fed me something she'd cooked on her little stove.

Today is Thursday and I'm aware this is much more detail than anyone needs about my life but somehow I'm compelled to write it all. It was a full experience for me, a going into a different kind of space for awhile, a little vacation from my regular life. It was time just sitting with my children, no chores (except for several loads of laundry at the outset), no errands, no one around but us. Us alone, together, in full physical contact. There was an unexpected joy in it all, though yesterday was really hard.

I don't think Clark even touched the ground until this morning. He still hasn't walked--doesn't have the energy--and crawls slowly when he wants to go somewhere. Mostly he just sits and watches with his tired eyes. I'm still using tylenol to keep his fever down, but he'll get his energy back soon and be a toddler again. I think I'll be more okay with it now.

morning

I'm here to complain. I'll be brief.

oh my gawd i'm tired. And I think a little depressed after so long w/ so little sleep. I can't imagine how I'd feel after 7 hours straight.

Frances is sick. big runny nose, tears running down her face though she's not crying, fever. Clark is sick too. Just a day off antibiotics and his fever is back, snotty nose, terrible cough, pulling on his ear. Was up with him 3 times last night, one of them for an hour as I brought him downstairs and suctioned him and changed his diaper and let him play a bit. Was up with Frances only once but that was not a quick one either; I sat her on my lap and sang to her. She gets so lonely.

So today no school because of illness. I've got to call the doctor because he wanted me to bring Clark back in anyway to have his ears checked after we finished the antibiotic.

I just want to go back to bed.

daily life

I'm having some trouble finding the time and energy (when I have the time I don't have the energy) to post. Or at least to think coherent and interesting thoughts about which to post. When I finally got Clark sleeping 12 hours at night, he started teething. Then he got sick. Now he's on antibiotics and is much better, and just the last couple of days the tooth of interest has broken through, so maybe we're on the mend. Then today, 45 minutes after I dropped Frances at preschool, the school called to say she had a temp of 101.4. At home I set her up on the sofa and halfway through a Blues Clues video she asked to turn it off and go to her bed. Poor girl. Hopefully soon Clark will go down for his nap, and maybe then I can get a shower.

On the bright side, the kitchen is fairly clean, some of the presents are wrapped, I only have two loads of laundry to fold, and Clark is doing quite a good job of entertaining himself. That means I'm off to tackle the laundry. And chase Clark away from the dog's bowl.

Hopefully more soon.

doctors

Friday my doc said no more exercise. He said he "didn't think I needed bedrest yet" and that I needed to "take it easy." Ugh. But he did say the words bed rest. Bed rest. How would that work exactly? I've taken this to mean I shouldn't vacuum the house all in one swoop, but instead do one room at a time and then sit down awhile. Of course, the minute he said bed-rest I remembered all the organizing and cleaning out I wanted to do before the baby comes. I've done some of the attic already but there are closets that are calling me! I'd really like to take advantage of the nesting urge when it strikes.

And it turns out my child has hand-foot-mouth disease. Why do they call it a disease when it's just a virus? It seemed that maybe she had something else because the rash was all over, so we went to the doc Friday (2 docs! Both mine and Frances'. She was worried at the 2nd one (mine) that they were going to look in her ears again.) and they used a tongue depressant to look in her mouth, from which they confirmed it is HFMD. Terribly traumatic, the tongue depressant. Had to nearly pry her teeth open to get out the paci. Even worse than looking in the ears. In any case, bumps all over--legs, arms, diaper area, hands, feet, mouth. So icky.

I hate that we go to a doc that is connected w/ a teaching hospital. Not that the connection itself is so bad, but I'm always caught off guard when a resident or intern appears. I need to be prepared, the moment I see it's someone in training, to say, "Nothing personal, but I'd rather have the doctor do... (the exam, whatever)." Friday the doc brought in this guy that looked 22 and introduced me to him, then said he was going to look F over and get some info, then the doc was going to come back. What this actually meant was that the young guy was going to do a full exam (feeling her stomach, listening to her heart and lungs, looking in her ears, etc) and then the doc was going to come in and do the full exam again. We were already pushing against her naptime and she felt crummy as it was, and let me tell you that two exams is really more than she can take. The young fella not only hurt her when he looked in her ears, but he felt bad that she was crying so much and kept patting her and telling her it was okay, and she did NOT want him touching her more than he already was. So every time he'd console her it would just get worse. I was so irritated with myself for not saying something, for allowing him to practice on her. I know they need practice... and I'm sorry that I can't help w/ that, but this time in particular I shouldn't have. Anyway.

the hard stuff

Frances' fever spiked Monday night. (Again these things going awry in the night! Why not 3 pm??) She felt so crummy that she couldn't do anything but cry for ages and ages. We took her pjs off and put her in the bath and tried to cool her down, but it wasn't until the tylenol kicked in about an hour later that she was able to be at all calm. We both were up with her and after awhile it was sort of like in the early days of baby when there's nothing to do but be up and accept it. We watched tv; we talked; we felt what the middle of the night feels like. It's not so bad. 

The next day she was very fussy and still feverish. After her 10 minute nap (seriously) she was especially a mess and for a while was completely inconsolable. I felt so helpless; I wanted to be able to comfort her, but she was just so miserable. Some of the time she didn't even want me to hold her, or she couldn't accept my comfort, or something. She wanted me near, and I think she actually wanted to be held, but she wouldn't let me touch her; she would just stand in front of me stamping her feet and crying. When I'd reach for her, she'd push me away. The thought to smack her actually crossed my mind; I haven't had that thought since she was very small and would cry for hours. It startled me, and I just put my hands over my face and cried myself. It wasn't that I was angry—it was more like wanting to shake her out of it. I was just helpless. I sobbed, big racking sobs, and this, interestingly, actually quieted her for a moment. I'm sure it was funny to see Mom cry like this. It felt like an appropriate thing to do with those feelings. 

That was 2 days ago. Yesterday her sitter, whom she loves more than anyone else in the whole world, called me in the afternoon to say she was inconsolable again. For her to be fussy with C means something is really wrong. So we took her to Urgent Care last night, where they told us what we suspected: ear infection. What I didn't know was that it was both ears. Last night she had her first dose of antibiotic and today is a much better day. 

It doesn't disturb me now that I thought to hit her, but it did then. It's so clear that having a kid puts you right in the middle of it and you're forced to face your stuff. So much of it is an exercise in BEING, in feeling what you're feeling, in sitting through the boredom and frustration and powerlessness and worry and the certainty that we don't have a clue. It's all very spiritual, this experience, and it's not surprising that I sometimes want to escape. I have a hard time being present for my life as it is, even without the difficulty of caring for another human. Certainly doing it well (being a good parent) means accepting that you can't always do it well, that sometimes you'll have thoughts you don't like, that sometimes you'll respond in ways you wish you hadn't. Thankfully all I did yesterday was cry.

aching

My child has a rash. She woke up with it Sunday morning, welts the size of a dime, a quarter, a pack of cigarettes on her stomach and thighs. Then it was under her arms, the whole area completely red and alarming, some of it puffy, some just flat and angry. By midday it spread down her side and onto her back. When she went down for her nap one cheek was pink and when she woke up it was the other. And it had spread up onto her neck while she slept. This morning her entire torso was one huge red splotch, though it hasn't taken over her lower legs, her arms, or her face. Because it's winter and she's clothed in the house, you actually can't see much of it with her clothes on. But every time I change her diaper I'm alarmed all over again.

And it's hot. Everywhere that's red is hot to the touch. Tylenol helps some, but not entirely. She's got a bit of a fever and is, as you can imagine, quite unhappy about the setup.

Yesterday when I called the after-hours nurse she said it didn't sound like anything serious but that I should keep her away from other folks, especially pregnant people. Well, that's helpful.

M took her to the doctor this morning (while I explained to drowsy 18-year-olds how to prepare for an in-class essay exam) and the doctor said, "I don't know what it is but it will probably go away in a few days. If it doesn't, bring her back." Ah, yes. I suppose I should be relieved it's not rubella or meningitis, and I am of course, but not knowing is troubling. We can't for the life of us think of anything to which it could be a reaction—and it's probably just a virus, like they said, that will pass. I understand that it's common for kids to get rashes when they get colds or regular viruses. Since when? I don't remember anything about that from my childhood. So if it's a regular thing—okay; still, it's so startling to see.

And this is one of those situations (I know there will be many many many) where I feel my heart on the outside of my chest. It's just hanging out there, exposed, raw. And every time I look at those welts my raw exposed tender heart aches.

the fun of the stomach flu

F had the stomach flu Sunday night. I'd never really considered how different it is to experience the stomach flu from the point of view of a parent—it's nearly as horrible as it is to be the one sitting by the toilet. (And why is it these things start at night?? Why can't we have a great game of repeat puking and changing clothes and bathing when I'm already awake?) I think I did 4 loads of laundry between 10pm and 3am. Sheets, mattress cover, pjs, rags we used to mop up, sometimes our own clothes. It's funny what you find yourself doing without complaint, what seems normal at the time; when I told my cousin R about it she remembered the time her 1 year old son was sick and she caught the puke in her hands. Thank earth we haven't gotten it yet—I'm going with the thought that our immune systems were able to handle it. Mitch says every time he eats anything he assesses what it will be like coming back up. Lovely.

Yesterday we wouldn't let her eat even though she was starving and asking for food and milk all the time, poor girl. (Well, I did give her milk first thing, thinking it had been several hours since she last threw up, and she drank 1/2 a bottle and immediately threw it up all over the floor and her pjs.) She'd sign for milk and for food and then just cry and cry. The nurse said to only give her little sips of water, so we'd hand her the sippy cup and she'd grab it and chug at it like she was parched, and we'd have to pull it away. It broke my heart a little.

It's funny what it does to you, coming in to see her sitting up in the crib covered in vomit—the instant adrenaline, the worry, the need to make things as right as you can. I can't imagine how in the hell a single parent does this kind of thing. Mitch was stripping her down while I was running for rags; he was rubbing her back and telling her it was all right as she cried in fear while I stuffed laundry into the washer; one of us ran the bath while the other pulled sheets off the bed. It was a team effort.

It's good to have a team.