I have a new paranoia: that my little guy will self-wean long before I am ready.
But first, a cute quote from the "two and some months" little girl. We were in music class yesterday and the teacher was doing the standard "Hello, fusspot it's so good to see you song" and she remembered to include the dumpling. So as she sang his name the fusspot looked up and said very loudly: "Dumpling THE MAN." Yes, we're working on pronouns over here.
So here's the thing: once the fusspot figured out nursing (and it did take her over 3 weeks to latch on ...) she would nurse happily forever. Offer her the breast, and she'd nurse. She would occasionally play, and she was certainly distracted on occasion, but she would nurse no matter what.
The dumpling is just so interested in everything, that even in bed at night when it's just the 2 of us he has to pop up to kick the wall and lick the pillow and examine his hands in the midst of a feed. And the boy loves him some solids. We were in Whole Foods yesterday around lunchtime and as the fusspot started to meltdown I abandoned my plans for a lunch at home and settled in to feed both kids there. Of course, all I had that was soft enough for the dumpling was Indian food which he devoured, lunging for more when I turned to deal with the fusspot.
And now he's started refusing bottles from babysitters. He still takes bottles at daycare every day (and I try to go nurse him once during the day) but our array of evening babysitters (when I work at night, it's not like we've been out as a couple in the past 2 months ...) can't get him to take a bottle. I don't know if I should cut back on his solids, even though he enthusiastically tries to join in every time the fusspot eats and will happily crawl under her high chair to collect the "extra" food. I am trying to only do one real solids meal a day, but he would enthusiastically have more and he's still a petite guy so I don't want to limit his food. Also, since he's now spending part of the night in a crib it limits his even snacking, although I do bring him to bed with me as soon as I go to bed (usually around 2 am). But then again I am terrified he'll self-wean or my milk will run out sooner than I'd like (and let's be honest ... I would like to nurse practically forever. But at least 2 years if possible. Oh, and it really doesn't help that we now believe (possibly erroneously) that nursing hormones help to control some of my weirder hormonal imbalances and may have made it easier to get pregnant the second time ...). Thoughts?
Friday, October 14, 2011
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
Navel-gazing, part ???
Although I really do try not to get caught up in all of the parenting craziness around us here in the big city, we do in fact go to quite a few classes. Each week the fusspot has 2 scheduled activities and thanks to our indulgence in groupon/livingsocial/doodledeals we have any number of other cheap activities to sample a few times including music, art, gym, etc. No, this isn't a post about that per se. It's a post about the moms at these classes, and in particular their waistlines.
It has come to my attention that in every single activity that the fusspot and I attended in the past 2 weeks (dance, music, art, 1-hour preschool) I am by far the largest and most out of shape mother in the room. Oh, and I'm only 142 lbs (I was at the doctors today, more on that below). I know, I know, I live in an absurd neighborhood in an absurd city surrounded by incredibly wealthy women but still ... some of those women are 15 or more years older than I am, some of them have 3 or more children, some of them work much more stressful jobs than I do ...
And unfortunately it's not really about my weight. It is the fact that I never did diddly squat to fix my diastasis recti (hole in the stomach), I carried the dumpling straight out (going so far as to wear regular pants below the bump the week before he was due and my rings to the hospital), and quite simply despite being below my 'normal' weight I look newly postpartum. There is a very distinct lumpy mass around my belly button and it's not going to go away without a lot of work.
So while there are days that I vow to give up dessert and consider exercising (when, I have no idea. I guess at midnight when JD gets home), for the most part I am mad. Mad that the expectation is that not only will I do fertility treatments, birth children, nurse them and care for them round-the-clock but I am simultaneously supposed to look effortlessly trim and fit. Mad that weight has become an even more loaded issue than it was 30 years ago when my mother took -oh, let's see, 25 years- to lose all of the baby weight (but she looks fab now). Mad that all of the cheap t-shirts at GAP and H and M are super-fitted. Mad that we have no mirror so I often don't notice that my gut is hanging out until I'm already in the lobby of our building. Mad that at least once a week someone on the stupid NYC listserve I am on resurrects a discussion about the "very best spanx" out there. No, I am not going to wear an uncomfortable, modern girdle so that I look sexy for the weird guys on the subway or the homeless man in front of our building or my colleagues or even the other mothers I meet out and about. And everyone seems to expect me to spend quite so much time "hiding" my tummy fat, "concealing" the stretch marks, "minimizing" the focus on my weight (and yes, I am deeply thankful that I am in fact only self-conscious about my tummy and chest. The rest of my body looks just fine, thank you very much).
And for the record, I push 75-80s lbs in a double stroller a mile to and from daycare every day. I carry one or both of my children for a significant portion of the evening. I can easily carry 2 children up and down a flight of stairs (or 3). On weekends and non-work days we routinely walk 5 or more miles (with stroller, naturally). In short, I am not out of shape. It's just that the every day exercise I get is not going to give me a flat stomach.
I can't tell you how high a percent of blogs I read where the (female) author at some point declares diet time! and spends a week or two lauding some new system of losing weight. I have certainly done so myself. But I am just over it. Maybe I am nostalgic for a mythical past where women wore their moomoos with pride or at least granola crunchy contentment. I guess sometimes I just want to make it clear that I appreciate this body of mine and it's doing just fine right now and sex appeal for me will never be a bared midriff (not then, or now). And really, it is just fine to sit on the couch at night and work and read and then putter around in the kitchen.
But for all that I can shout my self-acceptance to the internets, I am sure that I will be self-conscious by the end of art class tomorrow morning and certainly by the end of dance class (where I spend a good hour running/stretching/dancing with my toddler, while carrying the dumpling in a sling. It is a work out). For once, it would just be nice to see one other normal, plump mother who has not squeezed/starved/lipo-ed herself into looking like a prepubescent girl at mommy and me class tomorrow. Or maybe I'm the only one who feels like our ideal body image is a little too artificial to work?
Ah yes, and now for a medical update. Subtitled: my even grubbier babies. It turns out that rin.gworm was just too easy after all. New diagnosis: impeti.go. Funny how the standard treatments are not an option for me so we may be about to proceed with a "lots of handsoap and wait and see" approach. Such fun. At least this doctor realizes it's a wee bit serious and scheduled me for a follow-up in 48 hours (it has spread to the bottom eyelid, which is a bit awful).
It has come to my attention that in every single activity that the fusspot and I attended in the past 2 weeks (dance, music, art, 1-hour preschool) I am by far the largest and most out of shape mother in the room. Oh, and I'm only 142 lbs (I was at the doctors today, more on that below). I know, I know, I live in an absurd neighborhood in an absurd city surrounded by incredibly wealthy women but still ... some of those women are 15 or more years older than I am, some of them have 3 or more children, some of them work much more stressful jobs than I do ...
And unfortunately it's not really about my weight. It is the fact that I never did diddly squat to fix my diastasis recti (hole in the stomach), I carried the dumpling straight out (going so far as to wear regular pants below the bump the week before he was due and my rings to the hospital), and quite simply despite being below my 'normal' weight I look newly postpartum. There is a very distinct lumpy mass around my belly button and it's not going to go away without a lot of work.
So while there are days that I vow to give up dessert and consider exercising (when, I have no idea. I guess at midnight when JD gets home), for the most part I am mad. Mad that the expectation is that not only will I do fertility treatments, birth children, nurse them and care for them round-the-clock but I am simultaneously supposed to look effortlessly trim and fit. Mad that weight has become an even more loaded issue than it was 30 years ago when my mother took -oh, let's see, 25 years- to lose all of the baby weight (but she looks fab now). Mad that all of the cheap t-shirts at GAP and H and M are super-fitted. Mad that we have no mirror so I often don't notice that my gut is hanging out until I'm already in the lobby of our building. Mad that at least once a week someone on the stupid NYC listserve I am on resurrects a discussion about the "very best spanx" out there. No, I am not going to wear an uncomfortable, modern girdle so that I look sexy for the weird guys on the subway or the homeless man in front of our building or my colleagues or even the other mothers I meet out and about. And everyone seems to expect me to spend quite so much time "hiding" my tummy fat, "concealing" the stretch marks, "minimizing" the focus on my weight (and yes, I am deeply thankful that I am in fact only self-conscious about my tummy and chest. The rest of my body looks just fine, thank you very much).
And for the record, I push 75-80s lbs in a double stroller a mile to and from daycare every day. I carry one or both of my children for a significant portion of the evening. I can easily carry 2 children up and down a flight of stairs (or 3). On weekends and non-work days we routinely walk 5 or more miles (with stroller, naturally). In short, I am not out of shape. It's just that the every day exercise I get is not going to give me a flat stomach.
I can't tell you how high a percent of blogs I read where the (female) author at some point declares diet time! and spends a week or two lauding some new system of losing weight. I have certainly done so myself. But I am just over it. Maybe I am nostalgic for a mythical past where women wore their moomoos with pride or at least granola crunchy contentment. I guess sometimes I just want to make it clear that I appreciate this body of mine and it's doing just fine right now and sex appeal for me will never be a bared midriff (not then, or now). And really, it is just fine to sit on the couch at night and work and read and then putter around in the kitchen.
But for all that I can shout my self-acceptance to the internets, I am sure that I will be self-conscious by the end of art class tomorrow morning and certainly by the end of dance class (where I spend a good hour running/stretching/dancing with my toddler, while carrying the dumpling in a sling. It is a work out). For once, it would just be nice to see one other normal, plump mother who has not squeezed/starved/lipo-ed herself into looking like a prepubescent girl at mommy and me class tomorrow. Or maybe I'm the only one who feels like our ideal body image is a little too artificial to work?
Ah yes, and now for a medical update. Subtitled: my even grubbier babies. It turns out that rin.gworm was just too easy after all. New diagnosis: impeti.go. Funny how the standard treatments are not an option for me so we may be about to proceed with a "lots of handsoap and wait and see" approach. Such fun. At least this doctor realizes it's a wee bit serious and scheduled me for a follow-up in 48 hours (it has spread to the bottom eyelid, which is a bit awful).
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
One of those days
I figured it was a bad sign when the bus driver went right past our stop, then stopped in the middle of the street and shouted "Hey lady, I thought you were just chatting on your phone not waiting for the bus."
I wanted to ask since when it was a crime to talk on ones cell phone at a bus stop (and maybe specify that I was calling our bus-buddy to see if she was on this bus or the next since my toddler had made a break for the street at the very moment I should have been scanning the bus for a familiar face) but instead I smiled and thanked her for stopping and secretly prayed that this would be it. Please karma, just a few insults hurled at a tired mama today. Isn't that enough?
But 3 hours later we were on our way back downtown on the subway, one toddler covered in chocolate ice cream from head to toe (for the record, not even hers. A second ice cream cone offered to her by a friend. The first was vanilla as I have spent months convincing my fusspot that vanilla is so far superior to any other flavor that there's no point in even trying the others), and I do mean head to toe with ice cream in her hair, all over her hands, dripping down her thighs ... when I remembered that we had to go to the post office to pick up 4 packages being held there. Now not only is this post office completely stroller inaccessible (hello stairs) but it is also the only place where I have been loudly and publicly reprimanded for breastfeeding in an extraordinarily comical moment which included not only:
a. the angry post office employee, an older woman who told me to cover up "for the sake of the children"
b. her accomplice another older post office employee
c. my very own doctor who happened to wander in mid-confrontation and quietly sat down next to me
d. the poor post office manager who practically fainted when I mentioned the word BREASTS (gasp)
Oh, and the line is never under a half hour to pick up packages, and usually longer. The path to the post office was not exactly smooth. Our usual method to exit 3 flights of subway stairs is for me to carry the dumpling in the Ergo/my huge tote with laptop, breastpump etc/and hold the fusspot's hand as she slowly climbs the stairs. Inevitably someone takes pity on us and carries up the empty stroller, but if not I'll run back down and get it. Except tonight it was a very sweet non-English speaking older gentleman who grabbed the stroller. And then he tried to pick up my chocolate-slathered toddler to speed up the process, holding her far out from his body to maintain his well-kept appearances (and I could hardly shout out my usual line "she bites" since he was a non-English speaker) and of course ... he tripped on the stairs because carrying a 2.5 year old away from your body up a flight of stairs is not easy. The fusspot was entirely uninjured, as was he thankfully, but she had a full on meltdown on the stairs (could also possibly be her meltdown started pre-fall from being picked up by a stranger. Any advice about how to get strangers to STOP touching my children in public much appreciated). So now I was covered in chocolate and snot. Sweet.
A better woman than I would not have attempted such a feat as collecting 4 packages at 6 pm with 2 tired and hungry children in tow except ... I don't want to waste our good times in line at the post office so my attitude is "when it's bad, go to the post office, because it will only get worse.
So there I was in the very long line at the post office (oh, and let me clarify what is infuriating is not the length of the line but that there is one line designated for collecting packages, -a practice which should be exceedingly quick-, and the same line is also designated for "problems." So you never know, even if you are #2 in line, how long you may be waiting) when the fusspot announced she had to pee. Now. Haha karma, I've got this one down. I politely offered her either the curb outside or one of the dumpling's diapers because there was no way we were giving up our spot in line 20 minutes into the wait.
I just wish I'd known how much she had to pee because it was rather apparent to all that the dumpling's hastily applied size 2 diaper did not hold the contents of her bladder. Now I was standing in line with a chocolate and snot covered toddler with a distinct odor of pee, possibly from the quantity which escaped the diaper, ran down her legs and was pooling in her boots (thankfully rain boots. Already washed and set out to dry as I write this).
And yet, we got 4 compliments on the way home on how cute she was dancing along the street (the stroller being full of boxes). And when we climbed into her armchair to read tonight she smiled at me and said "Best friends mama. Best friends."
And so it was hard when I went to check on the fusspot later tonight to hear her say "Baby is crying mama. Aren't you going to rock your baby to sleep?" We are doing a very, very modified CIO and it is really hard to do. Until this week the dumpling had never cried more than 10 minutes consecutively in his life (I have easy babies, I know). But I am tired and I need to work in the evenings, and he is an incredible hazard to himself as he desperately attempts to crawl over guard rails or fling himself off the end of the bed ... so our current method is for me to nurse him to sleep every night (wait wait I say) and then transfer him to a pack 'n play. He always wakes up during transfer, and then I smile, wish him good night and leave. Thus far he's doing ok. Asleep in under 20 minutes and no vomiting. I love that he is still cosleeping with us from whenever he wakes up as soon as I am in bed, but I can both sit down and work by 9:30 this way and also not worry that he will somehow endanger himself if I don't run in the moment he wakes up during the night.
I wanted to ask since when it was a crime to talk on ones cell phone at a bus stop (and maybe specify that I was calling our bus-buddy to see if she was on this bus or the next since my toddler had made a break for the street at the very moment I should have been scanning the bus for a familiar face) but instead I smiled and thanked her for stopping and secretly prayed that this would be it. Please karma, just a few insults hurled at a tired mama today. Isn't that enough?
But 3 hours later we were on our way back downtown on the subway, one toddler covered in chocolate ice cream from head to toe (for the record, not even hers. A second ice cream cone offered to her by a friend. The first was vanilla as I have spent months convincing my fusspot that vanilla is so far superior to any other flavor that there's no point in even trying the others), and I do mean head to toe with ice cream in her hair, all over her hands, dripping down her thighs ... when I remembered that we had to go to the post office to pick up 4 packages being held there. Now not only is this post office completely stroller inaccessible (hello stairs) but it is also the only place where I have been loudly and publicly reprimanded for breastfeeding in an extraordinarily comical moment which included not only:
a. the angry post office employee, an older woman who told me to cover up "for the sake of the children"
b. her accomplice another older post office employee
c. my very own doctor who happened to wander in mid-confrontation and quietly sat down next to me
d. the poor post office manager who practically fainted when I mentioned the word BREASTS (gasp)
Oh, and the line is never under a half hour to pick up packages, and usually longer. The path to the post office was not exactly smooth. Our usual method to exit 3 flights of subway stairs is for me to carry the dumpling in the Ergo/my huge tote with laptop, breastpump etc/and hold the fusspot's hand as she slowly climbs the stairs. Inevitably someone takes pity on us and carries up the empty stroller, but if not I'll run back down and get it. Except tonight it was a very sweet non-English speaking older gentleman who grabbed the stroller. And then he tried to pick up my chocolate-slathered toddler to speed up the process, holding her far out from his body to maintain his well-kept appearances (and I could hardly shout out my usual line "she bites" since he was a non-English speaker) and of course ... he tripped on the stairs because carrying a 2.5 year old away from your body up a flight of stairs is not easy. The fusspot was entirely uninjured, as was he thankfully, but she had a full on meltdown on the stairs (could also possibly be her meltdown started pre-fall from being picked up by a stranger. Any advice about how to get strangers to STOP touching my children in public much appreciated). So now I was covered in chocolate and snot. Sweet.
A better woman than I would not have attempted such a feat as collecting 4 packages at 6 pm with 2 tired and hungry children in tow except ... I don't want to waste our good times in line at the post office so my attitude is "when it's bad, go to the post office, because it will only get worse.
So there I was in the very long line at the post office (oh, and let me clarify what is infuriating is not the length of the line but that there is one line designated for collecting packages, -a practice which should be exceedingly quick-, and the same line is also designated for "problems." So you never know, even if you are #2 in line, how long you may be waiting) when the fusspot announced she had to pee. Now. Haha karma, I've got this one down. I politely offered her either the curb outside or one of the dumpling's diapers because there was no way we were giving up our spot in line 20 minutes into the wait.
I just wish I'd known how much she had to pee because it was rather apparent to all that the dumpling's hastily applied size 2 diaper did not hold the contents of her bladder. Now I was standing in line with a chocolate and snot covered toddler with a distinct odor of pee, possibly from the quantity which escaped the diaper, ran down her legs and was pooling in her boots (thankfully rain boots. Already washed and set out to dry as I write this).
And yet, we got 4 compliments on the way home on how cute she was dancing along the street (the stroller being full of boxes). And when we climbed into her armchair to read tonight she smiled at me and said "Best friends mama. Best friends."
And so it was hard when I went to check on the fusspot later tonight to hear her say "Baby is crying mama. Aren't you going to rock your baby to sleep?" We are doing a very, very modified CIO and it is really hard to do. Until this week the dumpling had never cried more than 10 minutes consecutively in his life (I have easy babies, I know). But I am tired and I need to work in the evenings, and he is an incredible hazard to himself as he desperately attempts to crawl over guard rails or fling himself off the end of the bed ... so our current method is for me to nurse him to sleep every night (wait wait I say) and then transfer him to a pack 'n play. He always wakes up during transfer, and then I smile, wish him good night and leave. Thus far he's doing ok. Asleep in under 20 minutes and no vomiting. I love that he is still cosleeping with us from whenever he wakes up as soon as I am in bed, but I can both sit down and work by 9:30 this way and also not worry that he will somehow endanger himself if I don't run in the moment he wakes up during the night.
Friday, October 7, 2011
a maternal moment
totally unrelated to actually being in the same vicinity as my children.
As long-time readers know, I am deep into that weird world of academia where babies -ought- to be entirely compatible with flexible work schedules and a career which is generally short on the 9 to 5, firm deadlines genre. However, my department and university have not exactly been thrilled about my "willful choice" to have children. And since I am in a heavily male-dominated subfield where any mention of home life/children/non-academic life is seen as an indication of weakness, I tend not to mention my babies unless directly asked. I, after all, managed to teach a class starting at 3 weeks post-partum without once mentioning that I had a baby.
Which is all background to the rather odd experience I had today when a student mentioned something about the challenge of having kids (in the context of what we were discussing, which was something rather technical) and out popped: Oh, I have 2. It was actually quite delightful to watch the 3 female undergrads in the class look up surprised, and not so shockingly all 3 stayed after to carry on the conversation and ask about life with babies and a soon-to-be-written PhD. In a weird way on the spot I felt the need to tell these little girls (18-22 is so young) that real life goes on, that it is possible (albeit hardly elegantly) to have babies and discuss X. Just an odd little moment in my life.
Medical update: Apparently ringwo.rm is itchy, not painful. So make that rin.gworm AND staph. And no, there are no oral meds to treat it that our ok for breastfeeding. Oh well. Will be making do with lotions and potions and lots of patience. And an imaginary washing machine to keep my baby from catching it.
As long-time readers know, I am deep into that weird world of academia where babies -ought- to be entirely compatible with flexible work schedules and a career which is generally short on the 9 to 5, firm deadlines genre. However, my department and university have not exactly been thrilled about my "willful choice" to have children. And since I am in a heavily male-dominated subfield where any mention of home life/children/non-academic life is seen as an indication of weakness, I tend not to mention my babies unless directly asked. I, after all, managed to teach a class starting at 3 weeks post-partum without once mentioning that I had a baby.
Which is all background to the rather odd experience I had today when a student mentioned something about the challenge of having kids (in the context of what we were discussing, which was something rather technical) and out popped: Oh, I have 2. It was actually quite delightful to watch the 3 female undergrads in the class look up surprised, and not so shockingly all 3 stayed after to carry on the conversation and ask about life with babies and a soon-to-be-written PhD. In a weird way on the spot I felt the need to tell these little girls (18-22 is so young) that real life goes on, that it is possible (albeit hardly elegantly) to have babies and discuss X. Just an odd little moment in my life.
Medical update: Apparently ringwo.rm is itchy, not painful. So make that rin.gworm AND staph. And no, there are no oral meds to treat it that our ok for breastfeeding. Oh well. Will be making do with lotions and potions and lots of patience. And an imaginary washing machine to keep my baby from catching it.
Getting used to
the fact that my body seems to be rather confused as to its age. There have been the rather unexpected spate of illnesses usually found in people about twice my age (can we say intestinal blo.ckage and sh.ingles) but also recently those found in the set half my age (first round of strep throat in over 20 years) so I guess it shouldn't be all that big a surprise that it's happening again. See, I've had a small itchy spot on my scalp for months. Going back to at least August, maybe longer. A small, scaly itchy spot which flakes every couple of days and has a nice contained "ring" formation. Easy to ignore until some lab results indicated my lymph nodes are going crazy at the moment.
Bueller? Bueller? Gonna be a fun consultation between LC and doctor tomorrow as we figure out how to treat rin.gworm in the breastfeeding mama. Oh my.
And nice thought to wash sheets frequently in hot water when we have no laundry at all. Oh yeah, and then there's the whole co-sleeping thing. I just hope that somehow the dumpling manages to avoid this delightful little endeavor ...
Bueller? Bueller? Gonna be a fun consultation between LC and doctor tomorrow as we figure out how to treat rin.gworm in the breastfeeding mama. Oh my.
And nice thought to wash sheets frequently in hot water when we have no laundry at all. Oh yeah, and then there's the whole co-sleeping thing. I just hope that somehow the dumpling manages to avoid this delightful little endeavor ...
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
To my new officemate:
This may not be the most polite thing to say, but I cannot tell you how glad I am that you are foreign. See, you may not know that the desk you are currently occupying is officially assigned to a colleague of mine. A very nice colleague, the type of woman who spotted my breastpump immediately and gushed about the joys of feeding her children (now grown and almost my age).
So, you see, when you barged in unannounced while I had my shirt completely off and a rather nifty plastic contraption squeezing my breasts every 4-6 seconds I was a bit mortified, but I appreciate how much you took it all in stride and immediately extended your arm to shake hands before I could even reach for a blanket to throw over me (see, the woman who is supposed to be here shows up about once a month and always knocks). I guess I just presumed that you were as much of a pro-breastfeeding activist as my former officemate.
So yes, I am thankful that you waited 3 full days before rather politely inquiring "what exactly I was doing to my breasts" and "why." You foreigness makes me feel better that we did full introductions while my shirt was off and my nipples fully exposed. I mean, you come from a country where topless beaches are the norm, so hopefully you took it all in the stride, although our submarine office is hardly a beach ... and at the very least you've seen what real tired and worn breasts look like (yes, organic food and extended nursing aside, plastic surgery will be scheduled for the next decade, folks).
And I guess all of that will compensate for the fact that you still don't knock.
So, you see, when you barged in unannounced while I had my shirt completely off and a rather nifty plastic contraption squeezing my breasts every 4-6 seconds I was a bit mortified, but I appreciate how much you took it all in stride and immediately extended your arm to shake hands before I could even reach for a blanket to throw over me (see, the woman who is supposed to be here shows up about once a month and always knocks). I guess I just presumed that you were as much of a pro-breastfeeding activist as my former officemate.
So yes, I am thankful that you waited 3 full days before rather politely inquiring "what exactly I was doing to my breasts" and "why." You foreigness makes me feel better that we did full introductions while my shirt was off and my nipples fully exposed. I mean, you come from a country where topless beaches are the norm, so hopefully you took it all in the stride, although our submarine office is hardly a beach ... and at the very least you've seen what real tired and worn breasts look like (yes, organic food and extended nursing aside, plastic surgery will be scheduled for the next decade, folks).
And I guess all of that will compensate for the fact that you still don't knock.
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Ordinary problems, magnified
Life in the big city ...
The fusspot has developed rather a complex about strangers touching her. It's fine and normal and not a big deal. Except, see, we live in a rather densely populated neighborhood and we take a lot of transportation. So today we took 3 buses and 1 subway car and while I truly am able to carry both my children and a stroller and a big bag onto a bus or down a flight of stairs into the subway, I am well aware that it all looks rather awkward. So people often very kindly try to help. By doing things like picking up the fusspot and setting her on a bus seat (this morning) or trying to hold her hand as she climbs off the bus (this afternoon) or trying to lift her out of a super-duper-crowded bus at rush hour as I tried to keep people from banging the dumpling's head (rush hour today, obviously) and her reaction is mostly to scream bloody murder, attempt to lie down on the floor, kick, scream. Basically everything except bite which is what I finally shrieked in exasperation at the sweet grandmother who tried to help her off the bus at 6:30 pm today (Sorry, dear, sweet old lady. She doesn't actually bite and I'm sorry that I startled you so by yelling "She bites! Don't touch") but the truth is that I couldn't think of anything else to say by that point in the day.
Suggestions? I always thank people and remind the fusspot repeatedly how very nice our friends in the neighborhood are (yes, we are saccharine sometimes) and we have never even mentioned stranger danger.
Oh, and the day started at a lovely preschool "meet and greet" (necessary to apply). And the preschool was quite adorable and I would very happily send the fusspot off there every day if it weren't for the absurd price tag. So we're exploring cheaper options (which in our neighborhood means the miracle of the public pre-K lottery or Catholic schools. Poor Mandarin-speaking-Jewish-girl sent off to learn her catechism although I was in Christian schools until college and never had a problem). I hope that we are not in the city by next fall and our daycare is always a reasonable back-up, but there is a significant part of me which will be quite sad if the fusspot never gets to spend time in a classrooms with a sandbox and dress-up clothes and blocks and my impression is that even outside of NYC most public kindergartens today are not so "play-based" and "non-academic." Still, not so sad that I am willing to spend $14,000 to fix it.
The fusspot has developed rather a complex about strangers touching her. It's fine and normal and not a big deal. Except, see, we live in a rather densely populated neighborhood and we take a lot of transportation. So today we took 3 buses and 1 subway car and while I truly am able to carry both my children and a stroller and a big bag onto a bus or down a flight of stairs into the subway, I am well aware that it all looks rather awkward. So people often very kindly try to help. By doing things like picking up the fusspot and setting her on a bus seat (this morning) or trying to hold her hand as she climbs off the bus (this afternoon) or trying to lift her out of a super-duper-crowded bus at rush hour as I tried to keep people from banging the dumpling's head (rush hour today, obviously) and her reaction is mostly to scream bloody murder, attempt to lie down on the floor, kick, scream. Basically everything except bite which is what I finally shrieked in exasperation at the sweet grandmother who tried to help her off the bus at 6:30 pm today (Sorry, dear, sweet old lady. She doesn't actually bite and I'm sorry that I startled you so by yelling "She bites! Don't touch") but the truth is that I couldn't think of anything else to say by that point in the day.
Suggestions? I always thank people and remind the fusspot repeatedly how very nice our friends in the neighborhood are (yes, we are saccharine sometimes) and we have never even mentioned stranger danger.
Oh, and the day started at a lovely preschool "meet and greet" (necessary to apply). And the preschool was quite adorable and I would very happily send the fusspot off there every day if it weren't for the absurd price tag. So we're exploring cheaper options (which in our neighborhood means the miracle of the public pre-K lottery or Catholic schools. Poor Mandarin-speaking-Jewish-girl sent off to learn her catechism although I was in Christian schools until college and never had a problem). I hope that we are not in the city by next fall and our daycare is always a reasonable back-up, but there is a significant part of me which will be quite sad if the fusspot never gets to spend time in a classrooms with a sandbox and dress-up clothes and blocks and my impression is that even outside of NYC most public kindergartens today are not so "play-based" and "non-academic." Still, not so sad that I am willing to spend $14,000 to fix it.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)