September 15, 2005

what not to read when you’re expecting

Okay, show of hands–who read What to Expect When You’re Expecting at SOME point during your pregnancy? I will admit to owning and dog-earing my copy; since we never took a childbirth class (oh, it’s a long story, remind me to tell you later), Wade’s only preparation for Henry’s arrival was a speed-reading of the chapter on labor and delivery. I liked the how-your-baby-is-developing-this-week bits, although I didn’t find much else useful in it, with either baby, and that diet? Ugh. I swear to god I remember reading that if you were particularly virtuous, you could reward yourself with HALF of a PLAIN bagel. Some reward.

And then there are the What to Expect the First Year and What to Expect the Toddler Years–someone gave us the first, and I used to browse the second at the bookstore. For us, useless. Henry, who was all kinds of developmentally slow, hit every single marker in the books, including talking–despite the fact that my pediatrician, who I trust more than god, had serious concerns about his verbal delay.

The Times article criticizes What to Expect for focusing too much on the bad; instead, I felt like it glossed over the real concerns, like just how damn hard breastfeeding would be or how deep the trench of postpartum depression could get, in favor of emphasizing how extra wheat germ on your salad would fix everything!

Which it won’t you know. Now, a nice martini . . .

Edited to add: I hadn’t had any coffee when I wrote this, or I would have told you all that when I was pregnant with Henry, I followed that damn eating plan TO THE LETTER. No caffeine, no white sugar, vegetables EVERY SINGLE DAY (broccoli–ugh). Henry was premature, has bad vision, AND is vying for the title of Universe’s Pickiest Eater.

With Charlie, I lived on Starbucks coffee and brown-sugar-and-cinnamon Pop Tarts. The boy was full term, eats everything, and is the only member of our family not to have spent a DIME of his health care allotment for the year.

I’m just saying.

September 13, 2005

ow, my eye! and a few other fashion pronouncements

I snuggled into Charlie’s bed this evening to read stories, but since he’s all hepped up on Triaminic (yes, he’s sick! already! and fall doesn’t officially start for another nine days!) he spent most of his story time climbing on me and yelling, ‘No! I will read the story!’ and then ripping the book out of my hands. After the second or third time, I gave up and got comfortable while he showed me pictures from his books. ‘Look! A teapot! I want to live in a teapot!’ I would have fallen asleep, except he kept shoving the books RIGHT in front of my face, to be SURE I could see the teapot.

Then he announced that I was a princess and I needed a crown! And he hopped out of bed and fetched the tiara from the bottom of a pile of god only knows what all crap on his floor and scrambled back up to crown me. And poked me in the eye with the damn thing. Twice. Fortunately, I was wearing my glasses so I didn’t actually LOSE the eye, but still, it was painful. And not very cute.

But now that I am officially a princess, I feel that I can reiterate my earlier pronouncement that no one over the age of, say, three, should ever wear white shoes. For ANY reason. You’re a nurse? Get some Crocs. Getting married? How about some lovely silver sandals? I am so serious.

And while I’m making fashion pronouncements (and if you know me in person you know how funny THAT is), let’s talk about low-waisted pants. I LOVE the low waist phenomena. In fact, I’m wearing a pair of low-rider jeans RIGHT NOW. They are super comfy; they give my little Mommy Roll a place to rest (you know what I mean–that little doughy spot on your tummy that will NEVER GO AWAY, even when the babies are grown and have their own homes and children). HOWEVER, there are two important rules for low-riders. First, if you are over, say, 35, your shirt must touch your waistband when you are standing up. That way, when you sit down, no one has to see the roll. I hate to be brutal, but there it is. Cover the tummy, people. Second, and most important, is this: if you opt for low-waisted pants, please, for the love of god, buy some appropriate underwear! No I don’t mean a sexy black thong; I mean underwear that can’t be seen when you sit down. They call it underwear FOR A REASON. And I don’t want to see yours, especially if I haven’t had my coffee yet.

And now it’s time for me to go to bed. I am exhausted, and I’m blaming my friend M. This summer she graciously invited me to her book group; I finally got my act together in August and went, and it was fun, even if all the other women are lawyers (just JOKING). And this month they are reading The Time Traveller’s Wife, which is an incredibly beautiful and engaging novel. I’ve been staying up until all hours of the night reading and I’m beat. Why couldn’t they pick a boring book?

(Wade is in the other room flipping around on the TV, and he just stopped on some show where two hot fashionista chicks were talking about how NO ONE WANTS TO SEE YOUR UNDERWEAR in your low-rider jeans. Ha ha! So there! TV agrees with me. Cover it up, ladies.)

September 11, 2005

doing my civic duty (because that’s what superheros do)

Here at Friday Playdate, we are working hard to raise two morally and socially responsible children, without the aid of God or the Republican party. In Oklahoma, this can be tricky, as Jesus and the GOP are everywhere. But I do what I can, which includes taking the boys with me when I vote and talking to them about the democratic process.

So far they haven’t really learned much. They like to go to the polls with me because they get stickers and the poll workers make a big deal about how cute they are. Recently Henry has started asking if he can fill in the ballot for me, which is a big NO, although I do let him feed it into the machine. They clearly don’t understand what it means to ‘vote’, nor do they get the concept of elected leaders. Henry can’t remember who our President is, although he DOES remember Howard Dean yelling after the Iowa caucases, and will occasionally tell Charlie that if you want to be the President, you CAN NOT yell. Maybe he is learning something after all.

A couple of years ago, I volunteered for a mayoral campaign, despite the fact that I couldn’t vote in the election (I don’t technically live in Oklahoma City, but in a small incorporated neighborhood inside the city limits. And for those of you who are local and wondering, no, I don’t live in Nichols Hills and no, I did not volunteer for Mick Cornett). I had to take the boys with me when I volunteered, which they loved. The campaign office was a fun place to play, and there were always snacks, and everyone thought they were so cute. They associate electioneering with building forts out of cardboard boxes and eating cookies and covering themselves in campaign stickers, which seems like a good place to start.

Unfortunately, they also seem to associate the democratic process with losing causes, as our Oklahoma neighbors NEVER seem to vote the same way we do. The mayoral candidate we supported? Defeated. The gay marriage ban that we opposed? Passed. BOTH of the presidential candidates we voted for–Wes Clark in the primary and John Kerry in the general election? Defeated. I could go on, but I won’t. It’s too depressing.

Oh, sure, there are moments of victory, like Brad Henry’s election to the governor’s office. But for the most part we are a family of losers. But we are losers who VOTE!

Tomorrow I will be taking Charlie with me to vote in a special election on a bond issue to fund state highway repair. In Oklahoma, 11 out of every 10 bridges are about to fall down (Wade would like me to note that I am exaggerating the numbers, but it’s nearly that bad) and highway repair is woefully underfunded. Like a lot of things in this state, come to think of it, but I digress. Anyway, State Question 723 creates a trust fund for highway repair money. And funds it with a gasoline tax.

And I will be voting for this.

Yes, you heard me, I’m going to vote FOR the gas tax. Why? BECAUSE THE STATE NEEDS THE MONEY. Because the roads are a mess. Because there are no other really good proposals for how to fund this. Because it is our responsibility to step up and contribute and keep the state–or at least it’s roads–from falling apart.

But you can imagine how little chance there is that this will pass, particularly now with the price of gas as high as it is, and particularly in a state as poor as Oklahoma. And so, once again, I will take my son with me to vote for something that I believe in–and then, once again, I will explain to him that democracy means that we go with the will of the majority. And I will chose my words carefully, just as I do when I talk about the President, so that my sons will learn that you can disagree with the man (or with the expressed will of the people) without resorting to name-calling or referring to any visit to the polls as a ‘waste of time.’

Just once, though, I would like to vote and be on the winning side.

And now, in fine legislative fashion, I’m going to tack something completely unrelated on at the end here (you know, like a farm subsidy bill with a flag burning rider attached–completely unrelated! but all one thing): a big thank you to everyone who chimed in about the nail biting–you all had some wonderful suggestions, and it was a relief to hear that none of you had ever ACTUALLY SEEN anyone who chewed his own hand off. We opted, over the weekend, to put band-aids on the worst fingers, which has helped; they are no longer bloody and raw, and are healing nicely. Of course, now Henry is obsessed with the band-aids, and as he was already obsessed with washing his hands, we are having to change them all the time. But at least his fingers look better.

We are also putting all of the Interweb’s good advice about potty training to use. Charlie has been spending some time every day in big boy underwear, which is just shorthand for Having Lots of Accidents, but he is now able to tell us when he pees in his diaper, which is a good start. And I’m all ready with the bribe, too.

Thank you, Internet–I couldn’t raise these morally responsible citizens without you.

now we just need a good coat of arms

The boys are currently obssessed with knights and castles. This morning, at SuperTarget, I bought them each a light-up sword, in the dollar section. Because, for a dollar, why not?

Well, here’s why not: the FIRST thing they did when I opened the packages (in the car) was have a sword fight! They were strapped in their booster seats, which was the only thing that kept them from ACTUALLY stabbing each other with the little plastic daggars, but boy were they trying. I though Wade’s head was going to snap off. The best part? It honestly NEVER occurred to me that this might happen. Really. Despite the fact that just yesterday I was going on and on about how we really need to keep a careful eye on how the boys are playing when they play pirates or knights because Henry has such a hard time distinguishing between pretend and real sometimes and he tends to get carried away with the kidnap and jail and bad guys games and . . . and then I bought them swords!

So in an attempt to restore order and keep the boys from impaling each other, we laid down the law: no running with the swords and no poking anyone. And then, for fun, we started knighting them–you know, tapping them on the shoulders and muttering some gibberish about ‘Behold! You’re a knight!’ But because we are geeks, we had to find the proper ceremony, so I Googled it (gotta love Google) and I found this knighting ceremony. My favorite part is the ‘buffet’, which is not the lunch served after the ceremony but a kind of blessing on the new knight:

Know, now that you are made a Knight,
that you must succor the defenseless,
seek justice for those of every station,
and maintain the honor of Knighthood.

I have written before about how I am always trying to turn the boys’ obssessions with All Things Violent to good use (Superheros help people! they have excellent table manners! they vote Democrat!). So we knighted the boys, read them the buffet, and talked about what ’succor’ was and who the ‘defenseless’ are and how to ’seek justice.’ They kind of hopped around, half-heartedly not listening, and when I was done, Henry said, ‘Okay, but can you make us some blanket caves in Charlie’s room so we can see how the lights on the swords work?’

But seriously, if it keeps them from trying to poke each other’s eyes out, and maybe makes them think about doing good in the world, I’m down with it. And for a dollar, the swords won’t last through the night anyway.

September 9, 2005

chew on this

Henry bites his nails. We first noticed it in the spring before he started preschool, when we were visiting various schools and talking about how much fun! fun! fun! it would be to go to a new school and meet new friends! He was very excited and liked to talk about it with everyone, but he was biting his nails. The pictures from his fourth birthday show him smiling happily at his chocolate cupcakes and biting his index finger while we all sing to him. Yikes.

We noticed it again when school actually started, but that time he was also getting up in the night and asking me to lay down with him. He wasn’t sad or sick, he just couldn’t sleep and wanted company. When I am stressed out, I have terrible insomnia; I think Henry probably does, too. But eventually he got into a routine and started sleeping through the night and the nail biting stopped. And now he’s in a new school, and has started biting his nails again. But this time he has also been biting the tips of his fingers, until they are raw and bleeding. And now I’m realizing that I should have warned you that this post would be icky and graphic. Sorry.

As you might imagine, I am a little concerned about this. Okay, a LOT concerned. I am certain that the nail and finger biting have to do with the stress of a new school; Henry really does seem happy with his school situation, and you all know how much I adore his teacher, but still, change is a hard thing, especially for a child with limited emotional and social skills. And I don’t think that Henry, at five, with all his issues, has the vocabulary or the emotional wherewithall to talk about his stress. Hell, I’m 37 and I don’t always have that.

And he comes by the nail biting honestly and genetically; both Wade and my brother bite their nails. Wade, in fact, used to bite his so badly that they would get infected. And yet more gross stuff! Wow, where is the disclaimer? Sorry again.

We have made clear to Henry, in a kind and loving way, that we are not mad about the nail biting, nor is he in trouble, but that he needs to stop before his poor fingers are totally ravaged. And we are trying to emphasize all his recent successes at school as much as possible. And I’ve been visiting with his teacher regularly, just to keep up with how things are going. And everything seems great. Except for his poor fingers.

So help me out, Internet. How do I help my son stop before he chews his whole hand off? Any and all suggestions will be welcomed. Really.

September 8, 2005

up to my neck in the booze pool

Today was Charlie’s first day of school. FINALLY. I had two and half blissful hours all to myself. You know what I learned? You can’t do jack in two and a half hours. But at least you can do it ALONE.

I went for a long power walk, which will probably leave me completely paralyzed tomorrow (but is, I think, the key to getting rid of the Summer Ass), went to the grocery (no peanut butter–it was a crisis) and took a shower. And ate cereal. And . . . uh, that was it. See? Jack.

Of course I did NOT take Charlie’s picture, as this is just Mother’s Day Out, which is daycare for stay-home mommies, and not REAL school, and he’s the second child and the one who doesn’t keep me up at night with the worrying, but now I’m feeling guilty, so here is a random cute picture of Charlie painting, which looks school-like, from our summer vacation.

Who wouldn’t love that face? And who wouldn’t love to see it GOING TO SCHOOL FOR THE WHOLE DAY?

Charlie had a good first day in his new classroom; they have a toy castle with a Prince and TWO princesses, so what’s not to like? When Wade came home tonight, he announced, ‘Daddy! I went to school! And I had a snack! FISH CRACKERS!’ That was the highlight of his day, apparently.

Henry is also doing well in school, in a totally normal-kid way. I have mentioned in passing how happy we are with this new school, but my god are we ever happy with Henry’s new school! Especially Henry’s teacher, Mrs. M., who I might have to lick one day soon, I like her so much. She got him to taste an orange, she checked a book on motorcycles out of the library for him, and last week she took care of the bully who has been taking his glasses. I think I have a crush on her.

Yes, a bully. In preschool! Apparently you are never too young to start picking on the kid with the glasses. Even if you are half his size! Which the bully is! Okay, the story is this: ‘Jimmy’ (not his name, or anything even close to it) takes Henry’s glasses, holds them over his head, and refuses to give them back. Of course, Jimmy is so small that over his head is right about nose level for Henry, but we have so drilled into him that you DO NOT grab ANYONE’S glasses that he doesn’t even take his back. So not too threatening.

Henry was clearly annoyed by the whole thing; he told us several times that he and Luke won’t play with Jimmy because ‘Jimmy isn’t nice.’ And we’re such dorks that we were saying, ‘Oh, you should try to be nice to Jimmy, so he doesn’t feel left out, blah blah blah . . . ‘ Yeah, whatever. But he wasn’t refusing to go to school or waking up screaming Jimmy’s name, so we didn’t really think too much about it. Because we suck as parents!

But on Friday, at carpool, Mrs. M. marched up to Jimmy’s father, who was standing maybe five feet from me, and said, ‘Jimmy has been taking Henry’s glasses and Henry doesn’t like it. I have talked to Jimmy and told him how Henry’s mommy and daddy had to go to a special store to get his glasses, how they cost a lot of money, and how Henry can’t see without them. I told him that if it happened again I would have to talk to his mommy and daddy. And he did it again today.’ Her tone was pleasant but business-like, and she looked Mr. Jimmy right in the face as she spoke. It was clear–to me, if not to him–that she wasn’t going to put up with this crap any more. She never said anything to me, but she knew that I was right there and that I heard her. Really, I wanted to kiss her.