The Perfect Mother

I have this fantasy about motherhood that makes my life difficult: Aprons, cookie- baking, ironed sheets, schedules posted on the fridge, clean house with made beds.  All this and I’d still have time for sock darning, starching collars, and “The Young and the Restless.” Yep, the whole “Leave it to Beaver” perfection complex.

Okay, I exaggerate slightly.  I know the difference between black and white TV and Technicolor reality. But seriously, I did have certain preconceptions about what motherhood would be like and so far I’ve only been right about one piece of it.  Maybe we all start out with the fantasy of being the “perfect mom” but what does that really mean anyway?

I started thinking about this as I pulled my arts and crafts supplies from the depths of my basement.  Yanking the cobwebs off the large Tupperware bins, I started plotting the construction of my son’s Halloween costume.  In looking for ideas online, I considered how easy it would be to just point and click and “abra cadabra” a costume would arrive complete in all its prefabricated glory neatly packed in an Amazon.com box on my doorstep without me lifting more than my index finger.  Fight the urge. Fight the urge.  What would Mrs. Cleaver say?

First let me say that I think I’m a decent enough mom.  I worry about his nutrition. I worry about the television shows I let him watch.  I give him Ibuprofen when he has a fever. I make sure his chicken isn’t too hot and his milk is organic.  I kiss his boo-boos and usually have tissues on hand for his runny nose. He’s always on my mind – even as I book satellites from my desk in a noisy newsroom.  So what if his clothes are a little wrinkled, his footed jammies have a hole in the heel, and his bed linen is a few days past clean.  I know that’s not really all that important.

What does worry me however are some of the things I’m somewhat ashamed to admit – like sometimes my mind wanders when I’m with him. When we “play trains” I find myself thinking about work or a short story I’m longing to write. As I move the little black engine around and around….and around…on the wooden track I wonder how many more rounds I’ll have to make until I start smashing my head against a wall.  Then there are the times I play Texas Hold ‘Em on my Blackberry when he wants me to watch “The Wonder Pets Save the Baby Honey Bee” for the thirty-third time. And I just don’t have the muscle to fly him through the house more than once – well maybe twice.

Do these things make me human or do they make me a bad mom?

I guess part of my problem is what it’s always been – I want everything.  I want to be the selfless Mrs. Cleaver but I also want to write the great American novel and have a successful career.  I want all the things I wanted when I was younger – all the things that pushed me to later mommy-hood in the first place.  While my life has changed - I haven’t really changed along with it. 

So what is really important? 

As I wrote this article (the closest I will come to writing the great American novel – at least in this decade) my little boy came to get me a total of eleven times.  He told me a space ship had landed on our house as he served me imaginary soup and a plastic cheese burger for lunch. He showed me how he’d painted a clown picture entirely black and with raised hands asked me, “Where did he go?” 

Suddenly it clicked. What’s important is that one piece I was right about all along in my ponderings of perfection.  It’s about the love.  I knew it would be powerful and perfect - and so it is.

“Thank you, honey, I’ll eat this off my imaginary ironing board,” I said as I sipped invisible tea and one-finger typed the rest of this article.

Once Upon a Music Class (Review from 2009)

When I first became pregnant at the age of 41, I worried about a lot of things but my silliest concern (given the scope of what new mom's worry about) was the fact that I was out of touch and had a crummy memory. I remembered just a few nursery rhymes and very few kids songs. How would I sing my little boy a lullaby if I didn't know any? (Hey...I was a kid a long time ago!)

Music was a very big deal when I was growing up - my family listened to everything from The Beatles to Opera (on 33 vinyl recordings and even a few 78's). I want my son to have music in his life as well. It's not that I want him to grow up to be the Mozart of the 21st Century or anything, but I do want him to associate music with memories throughout his life.

So I went online to find out what kind of music parents were playing for their kids these days which is how I found out about Music Together classes.

Now, I know many moms have known about Music Together for over 20 years...but I did mention I was out of touch! So for those of you who are just venturing into the land of motherhood knowing as little as I did: Music Together is an internationally recognized method of teaching music to children starting at birth through about five years old. The idea is for children, along with their parents (or caregivers), to actively experience music versus absorbing it passively through CD's and television. Along with an adult role model and an experienced teacher, children sing, dance, and play musical instruments. Music Together believes that all children are musical - and we've all seen babies innately bopping up and down to the music we play for them - so this idea did not seem outrageous to me at all.

The best thing about this music class for me, beyond spending an hour pounding on an oversized drum with my gleeful two-year-old, are the CD's! At the beginning of each season of classes, you are given a two-CD-set of original musical arrangements that you will learn along with your child. You will also be given an illustrated songbook with the music and lyrics written out and even some instruction about how to use the songs at home.

There are nine song collections in all. Each collection is represented by a specific instrument like bongos, bells, drums, and this season...for me...the fiddle. The songs, and the arrangements of the songs, are absolutely wonderful. The collections are culturally diverse from Native and African American folk songs to Latin dance tunes, and Irish ditties.

So now I don't mind that I don't remember who took whom in The Farmer in the Dell or how to do the Hokey Pokey because I can drum the macrobeat of Sweet Potato and Hine Ma Tov...and you thought these classes were for my son! That's ok...so did I until I found myself not only singing the tunes to myself all day at work, but I keep one of the CD's in the car that doesn't have the car seat!

To learn more about Music Together and to find a class in your area, go to their national website: www.musictogether.com.

One Good Egg

I knew as early as about thirty-two that I was not going to have an easy path to parenthood. I had polycystic ovaries and an underactive thyroid - which took about 5 years and 10 different doctors to diagnose and then another few years to regulate. I always figured that if I wanted a child - it would either be a battle to get pregnant or I would go the adoption route. One way or another I knew I had options and certainly time, right? I mean - look at all the Hollywood actresses who were having babies after forty!

When I met my husband, I was up front about my fertility situation and since he was as ambivalent about having kids as I was at that time, it didn't put a damper on our relationship. Instead we put a huge map of the world on our wall and stuck pins in the places we hoped to see together one day. Ah...to dream.

That's when reality struck. When my menstrual cycle went out of whack...yet again...just before I turned forty - despite all my medications - my new (and wonderful) doctor brought up the baby issue...yet again. How she treated my problem would partially depend on whether or not I planned to have kids. I told her I wanted to keep my options open. She told me about donor eggs and my heart sank.

Was it that dire? Would I really not be able to have my own biological child? For some silly reason I thought I still had time to sit on the fence. I'd read that women have a limited supply of eggs but I didn't know they had an expiration date. I'd heard about plenty of women over forty who suddenly became pregnant - the natural way. Maybe I'd be one of those lucky ones.

My doctor did assure me that the door was not closed for me but my chances of getting pregnant were diminishing rapidly with each passing year. In fact...after forty, studies say that my chances were dropping rapidly with each passing month and with my medical history - anything I tried could be a shot in the dark: "You just have to find that one good egg," she said. Boom! I was off the fence. Kicked off, in fact - landing flat on my rear-end and into the world of IVF.

I sent curses to those Hollywood actresses as I journeyed through the world of needle pokes and weekly pelvic ultrasounds. Very few of them talked about this part of the over-forty journey to motherhood. These women are rich; beautiful; thin; have doctors armed with Botox...and babies? Come on - why is it so easy for them?

The truth is - it isn't. Money might buy you a few more rounds of IVF or the ability to pay for a lawyer so you can adopt a child from Outer Mongolia, and pay for a top-notch nanny, but no amount of money is going to reverse the aging process that takes place within our ovaries. I guess I kind of wish that there was more transparency in Hollywood about how celebrities are getting pregnant, so dreamers like me wouldn't wind up traumatized by statistics. But I get it now and I did wind up among the lucky ones. Hollywood here I come?

Parental Improv

My son hit me the other night. Yep, he turned around from his Dinosaur Train computer game, said “Go away,” and walloped me upside the head. I didn’t even say anything except, “let’s get your jammies on.” Them’s hardly fightin’ words, right? Had there been a video camera present though, it would have been a great ad for Mastercard because I’m quite sure the look on my face was: priceless.
I know I was thinking: “oh-crap-what-do-I-do?” A thought and expression reserved strictly for a call to my boss’s office. My sweet little three-year-old Mohammed Ali must have read my confusion because he too seemed a little stunned in his own “oh-crap-what-DID-I-do?” moment. I could read it in his eyes. But he came to his conclusion way faster than I came to mine. His conclusion was to try it again, probably because it was something new and apparently wielded some fleeting sense of power over the Almighty Mom. My solution was to think a minute and see where this went – and it better not be to the other side of my head.

This is one of the many times I’ve had to stop and think “Oh, I’m the parent. This is one of those parent moments that I have to figure out,” but although I’m 42 years older than him, I think I probably felt just as lost as he did at that moment, if not more. Being a disciplinarian so far has meant saying “no” now and again and/or enacting diversionary tactics. I’ve spent a lot of time with other people’s kids and when they’ve misbehaved I’ve been able to laugh. But that’s someone else’s kids. I’m not responsible for who they become in this life. Wow. Is this what it feels like to be a parent?
I’ve read a lot about the different means of disciplining children, from a smack on the hand to “Supernanny”-style naughty stools. I don’t have the stomach for the naughty stool and I don’t believe in hitting children (or anyone else for that matter) and well, Supernanny, you are way-cool but unless you’re going to hang out at my place for two weeks, I have no intention of pretending to be you. So what do I do?

I didn’t have to kneel down to his level because I was already down there. No he didn’t flatten me with his left hook, I was just already down there. I held his arms to his side and told him to look at me. He threw his head back and demanded that I “let go” of him “N-O-W.” That kid has some lungs! I said, “I’ll let go when you look at me and say you’re sorry.” That made him thrash even harder and scream even louder. That was nothing compared to what I got when I leaned over and shut his computer off, picked up his jammies and started to walk away.

When he ran to Daddy who was in the kitchen loading the dishwasher, and found no solace there (thank you Daddy!!) he came running at me again - to hit me again. Still as confused as I was 3 minutes ago, I just sat still and ignored him. He picked up everything he could find and threw it into the middle of the room and stomped off with his arms folded. Daddy and I exchanged smirks. That exchange of knowing looks between us made me feel reassured and even empowered. Daddy and Mommy were presenting a united front that no little Tasmanian Devil was going to gnaw his way through – and in that one smirk was a reminder that there really was humor here.

When I called Evan back over to me a minute later, he came over, head bowed, lip pouty, little gulping sobs, but still that defiant look (that look I love so much) out of the corner of his eye. I told him he could sit with me and watch TV if he picked up everything he threw around the room. He picked it up and threw it on the ground again. I said, “I guess you don’t want to watch TV.” He looked at me for a second. I looked straight back at him and he slowly placed everything piece by piece on the couch next to me – all the while pouting and babbling to himself. I said, “Great, what should we watch?” He curled up in a ball, tried not to smile, and said “Dinosaur Train.” I gave him a kiss, told him he did a wonderful job calming down and that I love him. He grabbed my ears, pulled me to him and gave me a hug around the same head slammed just moments before.

I never figured out what to do. I didn’t have a plan. I went into it clueless, got through it just as clueless and left it feeling like a parent. I never raised my voice or lifted a finger. I don’t know what happened in the end - but I think it worked.

Regrets of a Later Mom

I regret not having children when I was younger.  Not because I have a problem with being a later mom because I know who I was in my twenties and I know who I am now and this is definitely the right time for me. What I regret is that I can’t have more kids of my own. I’m a little sad that I didn’t meet the right man at about 27, have my first kid by 30 and then 2 more before 37 or so.  Had I known myself better when I was younger maybe things would have turned out differently for me. 
 

I regret not having children when I was younger.  Not because I have a problem with being a later mom because I know who I was in my twenties and I know who I am now and this is definitely the right time for me. What I regret is that I can’t have more kids of my own. I’m a little sad that I didn’t meet the right man at about 27, have my first kid by 30 and then 2 more before 37 or so.  Had I known myself better when I was younger maybe things would have turned out differently for me.  But that’s like saying “maybe if the sun was purple, the trees would be pink.”  No matter how hard I try to rationalize it, I can’t fully let go of that sense of regret.

Ever since my son was born, I’ve told myself that I can do it again.  Despite the fact that I had one month of feeling good and healthy during my pregnancy and doctors stamped my forehead with that “Advanced Maternal Age” label and filled my head with scary thoughts every single time I went for an ultrasound, I was convinced I could do it again.  Never mind the fact that it would have to be via IVF because I’ve been infertile most of my life due to PCOS, hypothyroidism, hyperplasia, aneuploidy, and who knows what else.  I’ve always heard those stories about women getting pregnant naturally after struggling for years.  I have friends who experienced that - so why not me? 

I’ve spent years resisting going on the pill to regulate my cycle despite suffering from three-week-long periods, hemorrhaging, and anemia.  My gynecologist never pushed me toward it. My endocrinologist questioned me on it but was respectful of my need to dream.  No one wants to come out and say “snap out of it, you’re too old to have another baby.”  And no one should say that – it’s the 21^st century and women have options.

I guess I could go for a donor egg and IVF again and I suppose my chances would be very good. And, I think adoption was an option until probably this year when I turned 46 – depending on the adoption agency, of course, and the country from which I wanted to adopt.  So if I’m willing to write off these other options, is my sense of regret really about not having more children or something deeper.

A couple of months ago I became so sick with anemia that I had to make a decision.  How much do I want to have another baby versus how badly do I want to be well and comfortable?   When I’m going through a rough menstrual “cycle,” I’m ready to put an end to the fantasy right then and there but when I’m regulated, the feeling that I can do it again, comes creeping back.

So why the flip-flopping feelings? What is really going on here?

I have a beautiful little boy, a wonderful husband, a job, and a house that may be worth nothing these days, but it’s home.  What more could I possibly want? The reality is I have everything I’ve ever wanted right now including the luxury of being able to focus on just one child.  So much love and energy goes into raising this wonderful little kid.  I treasure every moment, every smile, every funny thing he says, and every hair on his sweet little head.  I love being a mom.  Specifically I love being Evan’s mom. 

Maybe that’s the problem.  Now that I know who I am and I am the happiest I’ve ever been in my life, I finally know what was missing and I never want this feeling to go away.  But it’s time to stop fantasizing.  The reality is I’m 46 and my body is fighting me.  I need to take care of myself and enjoy the here and now because “right now” is exactly where I’m meant to be.

Just Breathe!

As a parent I learn a new thing everyday. In the last two months I learned that baby teeth can get cavities; that kids will stick pretty much anything up their noses; and I learned about something I hope no other parent reading this has to experience. But if you do, I don’t want you to be as in the dark as I was when it happened.

You know the old tale about kids holding their breath until they turn blue?  Well, I always thought that was just a metaphor to describe how far a kid will go to get what he or she wants – it’s not a metaphor and it’s not on purpose. 

I had never heard of “breath holding spells” (or BHS) until my son had one on Thanksgiving Day. First of all, let me just say that Thanksgiving was great.  I had some family and friends over.  The kids ran around the house and had a great time.  Since it was 3 days after my nieces’ 7th birthday and 1 day before my son turned 4, we had a little birthday celebration in addition to turkey and the trimmings.

The kids were running circles around the house and like every parent of 3 and 4 year olds we hoped all the excitement would tire them out…early.  We were watching them the whole time except for when one child slammed a door hitting my son in the face as he was running. I heard him cry and knew it was that “I’m hurt cry” so I jumped up and starting walking to where he was.  He was coming toward me at the same time – still crying.

I knelt down and was checking for injuries when all of a sudden his head dropped back and his eyes rolled into his head. I shook him slightly calling his name because…well…it seemed the thing to do at that moment.  Then he turned blue and his eyes were staring blankly.  Later, my friend told me that I was shouting for my husband and telling Evan to breathe, but all I really remember doing was throwing him over my arm and smacking him on the back because to me turning blue meant he was choking. Suddenly he started to cry again and I just held him and rocked him while he complained about the injustice of the door slam.  At that moment, I knew he was okay, but what the hell just happened? It just took seconds.  I had absolutely no idea what I had just seen. I looked over at my sister-in-law and kept saying, “he turned blue.”  My sister-in-law said her friend’s child had had these episodes and she called it a “fainting spell.” But if he turned blue he must have stopped breathing, right?

 

When everyone went home – and I think that incident cleared my house pretty quickly, I called the pediatrician.  She said she wasn’t sure what it was and I should take him to the ER to make sure it wasn’t a seizure – so that’s where we wound up on Thanksgiving night.

After my description of the incident to the ER doctor, and before anyone had even looked at Evan, they told me it sounded like a “breath holding spell.”  All I could say is, “a what?”  They said it is quite common in young children and they grow out of it by about the age of 7. Then they did an EKG to rule out any heart-related issues.

I had a moment where I felt like I was dreaming.  If this was so common, why hadn’t I ever heard of it?  Why hadn’t any other mom I knew ever talked about it?  What is it heck is a “breath holding spell?”  And, if I didn’t know about this, what other horrible surprises await my motherhood?

After polling moms in the Northern New Jersey Chapter of Motherhood Later Than Sooner, I discovered that the doctors were right – while it may not be an everyday occurrence for most – it’s not a rare one either.  Out of the responses I received: one person knew someone whose child had had one of these spells, another one had a child who had had one at the age of two and yet another told me that she used to have them herself as a child.  If it happens as often as this, why don’t most of us know about it?  Is it because it’s harmless to the child so no need to fuss?  Well, thank heaven it is harmless to my son, but I’ll tell ya’ right now…it’s not harmless to the parent.  I died a hundred times over from the time it happened to the reliving of it over the next several days.

I am writing this mainly to spread the word.  If it happens to your child, you should definitely call your pediatrician if not an ambulance depending on the situation. You should get your child thoroughly checked out to rule out any kind of seizure or heart disorder. If everything turns out okay, you just have to hope it was a one-off but brace yourself for a recurrence.  If it does become a recurring problem, the one thing BHS-veteran moms seem to agree upon is this: before your child passes out, blow in his/her face. For some reasons this action kick-starts their breathing. They say it works like a charm. 

Now it’s my turn to hold my breath as I hope to fall into the “one-off” category because, honestly, while he might be fine, I’m not sure I will be.

If the Shoe Fits?

It’s funny, now, to think about how I was in my youth and what I expect of my son.  Aside from the usual stuff like teaching him to be polite; to share with his friends; to be respectful of others; to clean up after himself, I also want him to be nicely, and appropriately, dressed.  Nicely dressed…what’s that about? 

I’ve always been one to sneer in the face of convention and have a solid appreciation for the rebel spirit.  As a teenager I thought I was one tough cookie in my Doc Martin’s, long underwear, knee-length cardigan and the ever-so-hip single, dangling, spider web earring. Every so often, when my son does something reminiscent of my own rebelliousness, I get that little youthful flare in my belly that says, “Yes! You go, Ev.”

Given my affinity for youthful rebellion, my reaction to my son’s attire as he greeted me at the airport last week upon my return from a two week business trip, doesn’t surprise me.  Just before he gave me an enormous hug I noticed he was wearing two different shoes.  I thought perhaps my husband was in a rush to get him out of the house and laughed as I pointed out the error. 

“Nope,” said my husband, “He wanted to wear two different shoes.” 

As he ran happily away with his silly looking feet I thought, big deal – what’s wrong with a trip to the airport in mismatched shoes?  I even had that little belly-flare thought, “You go, Ev!” 

But when I took Evan to school the next day, the teacher smiled and asked if I had been away.  I told her I had and that I meant to email her in advance just in case Evan had any issues at school due to changes at home - but she said he’d been very good.  She said it again, “But we had a feeling you were away.” 

I was puzzled by this.  Why would she think that?  Aside from a note she had sent while I was away saying Evan wasn’t wearing a heavy enough coat to school, it seemed like everything had pretty much been status quo.  Then it hit me…the shoes!  Had Evan been wearing mis-matched shoes to school as well?  Oh the horror!  Upon returning home I asked my husband if that was the case.  He said it was, adding, “What’s the big deal?” 

“What’s the big deal?  What’s the big deal?!”

Hmmmm, I thought…what IS the big deal? 

Why was it okay to be a little rebellious for an airport visit, but not a little rebellious everyday?  Why is it “you go, Ev,” one minute and “that’s not cool,” the next?  As I questioned myself, I realized that motherhood has definitely changed me.  I don’t want the school to think we’re neglectful parents.  I don’t want them to think I’m an inattentive or undisciplined mommy.  Holy cow - it was all about what they would think of me!  I’d never really cared outside of work, or outside of relationships, what anyone thought of me; of what I wore; or of what I believed or didn’t believe.  So why do I care when it comes to my boy?    

Maybe I don’t care what people think of Amy, but I do care what people think of me as a parent.  I really do.  So I can stomp around as loud as can be in my old Doc Martin’s but what matters most is that I’m seen as a good mom from the top of my little boy’s head to the tip of his matching shoes. It matters.  I’m the grown-up now and I understand why the conventions are…sigh…important.  Important, at least, to me.