I know the whole idea that the full moon has a freaky mojo over people is supposed to be worthless superstition, but I have to admit that after more than eight years as a parent, I’m a believer. It’s the only explanation I can think of for the fact that The Zen Baby is having more of an Exorcist moment right now, and I find myself saying in my most soothing voice:
“I’m sorry your feelings are hurt, but it is not ok to put nailpolish in Mummy’s hair.”
Even though I breastfed The Zen Baby into preschoolerhood, finally weaning her around 40 months, I don’t consider myself a lactivist. I don’t believe that formula is poison, that silicone nipples make the baby Jesus cry, or that bottles mean braindamage. I do, however, believe that “breast is best” and that no woman should be made to feel ashamed of the choice to feed her child according to her conscience.
I have a been a bottle feeder and a nursing mother, and I don’t think one choice was more right than the other. Each decision was dictated by circumstance, and was made with the best interests of that particular child in mind.
I tried to breast feed Diva Girl, but threw in the nursing towel after about three months. It just didn’t work for us, and we were both happier and more relaxed once I finally admitted that and stopped trying to force both of us into a dynamic that just didn’t work. Diva Girl on breast milk was a fussy, uncomfortable, unhappy baby with the worst case of acne I have ever seen. For her, the switch to formula was magical. Suddenly, I had a happy, content infant in my arms rather than a flailing, angry demon. I threw away my cheap, uncomfortable nursing bra, gave away the expensive yet awkward breast pump, and started buying formula by the case at Costco. I’ve never looked back.
Clearly, my experience with The Zen Baby was the polar opposite. With Zen Baby, the issue wasn’t the boobs, it was the bottle. I taught summer school when she was 4 months old–when she was busily growing the tumour that would cause so much heartache, but before it had made its insidious presence in her belly known. During the month I worked, Regan nursed all night and refused all forms of nourishment during the day–it didn’t matter that the bottle contained the exact same nectar that mommy provided, she wasn’t having that thing in her mouth.
Tired, frustrated, and at a loss of what to do with my tiny girl, I consulted our pediatrician, who advised me to stop nursing the 4 month old baby altogether.
“Starve her for a couple of days,” she advised, handing me a free sample of formula. “She’ll finally give in and take a bottle.” I smiled and thanked her for her advice, privately vowing to ignore, or at least modify it.
During the day while I was at work, my mom worked hard at getting a bottle into Regan. Once I got home in the afternoon, she pretty much latched on and stayed there for the rest of the night. And still, her weight gain dropped to ounces, not pounds. The medical solution? Once again, “stop breastfeeding.” This time, however it wasn’t offered as a convenience solution, but as a medical necessity shrouded in blame and judgement. Clearly, my boobs were defective. The baby was starving to death, and it was all my body’s fault.
Again, I declined to follow the doctor’s advice to the letter; I began feeding Regan solid foods, but I also, against her recommendation, continued to nurse her. I did the same thing two months later when I was advised by another doctor to give up breast feeding because “she didn’t need it anymore.” and place Regan on a high fat diet. Had I followed that advice, at best, Regan would have suffered far more lasting effects from her tumour, as it starved her body of nutrients–primarily the fat I was directed to feed her–and severely limited her stomach capacity.
I truly believe that breastfeeding saved my daughter’s physical and emotional health, first by providing her overtaxed system with easily digestible nutrients, and then by giving her traumatized little psyche the safe haven and comfort it needed to heal. And that’s why I’m joining in today. Not because I think bottles are bad, but because I think children have a right to what they need to thrive, and that mothers have a right to provide it for them without shame, ridicule, or judgment.
We saw Regan’s paediatrician today. Technically, she doesn’t have a paediatrician anymore, but back when she was in the hospital, Dr. Yang was in charge of the non-cancer, non-surgical aspects of her care. We haven’t seen her in years, not since the day I happily skipped out of the hospital, my miracle baby held safe in my arms. Today, we ran into her in an elevator while making one of our semi-annual follow up visits to the hospital.
I recognized her instantly, but it took her a few minutes to place us. Not surprising, given the changes we’ve undergone in the last couple of years. The gaunt, silent, critically ill baby who was her patient bears little resemblance to the round cheeked, vibrant preschooler standing before her. Gone were the iv pole, the multiple tubes, the look of absolute terror in her eyes, replaced by a child filled with humour and curiosity. And me? Well, sure I’ve cut my hair, but more than that, I’m no longer shell shocked, clearly keeping it together by sheer force of will. Today I’m confident, relaxed, smiling, and I’ve got great hair.
A few key words refreshed her memory–”baby,” “giant tumour,” “nearly coded,” “miracle”–and her face lit up, then clouded with concern. After I assured her that we were fine, and that our presence in the hospital was merely routine, Dr. Yang relaxed and smiled at Regan, complimenting her glowing picture of health. As the elevator doors opened onto the paediatric floor, she thanked me for introducing ourselves, for reminding her that sometimes miracles happen and that even here, under the worst of circumstances, there can still be happy endings.
This part of our story isn’t quite over yet. There will be another year or so of tests and visits, but I can live with that. Because I know I’m not looking at a happy ending so much as a very bright beginning.
The test itself barely registers as an event anymore. Now that Regan is old enough to understand, and we don’t have to hold her down to get it done, the test is no longer something to be dreaded or endured. By now, 2 full years into this particular drama, we’ve got it down to a routine: In the days leading up to the appointment, play “hobstible” with the dollies. Scan their bellies with the doctor equipment, and talk about how it doesn’t hurt them. Talk about the “tickle” and the “slimy.” Remind Regan that soon she gets to go to the “hobstible” so that the doctor can look at her tummy. Make it sound like an adventure.
She lies still for the scan now, holding on to me instead of forcing me to hold her down. She doesn’t like it, but she doesn’t fight it, either. Gone are the days when I had to get on the gurney with her; now I sit in the chair beside her and hold her hand while the technician glides the various instruments over her small body. While I praise her for her bravery and compliance, I keep an eye on the monitor, making small talk with the tech as I watch for abnormalities. I’m by no means an expert, but I’ve seen enough of these pictures by now to fool myself into thinking that I have some idea of what I’m looking at.
This is all the easy part. It’s what comes next that’s hard. The wait.
Usually, it’s not too bad. Usually, I’ve chatted up the technician enough that they give me the “all clear” before they even leave the room to check the films. Not this time though. This time, she leaves to get Regan a finger puppet reward and to “check some measurements,” leaving us waiting in the darkened room.
At first, it’s not too bad. The time is taken up with wiping the goo off of Regan’s belly and high fives for a job well done. But, as the minutes stretch on, and the woman doesn’t return, I start to wonder exactly how long it takes to get a finger puppet. I start to remember the last time I was left to wait this long in one of these room, and resolutely refuse to think about it. I know Regan is healthy now, just like I knew something was wrong then.
But then, what’s taking so long? Seriously, how long does it take to find a finger puppet? Or is it something more? Did she find something else? Is she waiting for the radiologist? Why would she need to do that, if the films are clear? My breathing starts to speed up, and I will myself not to hyperventilate, to concentrate on the obviously healthy child who is surfing on the gurney. The waiting, though, it gives you time to think.
What if it’s started to grow back? I haven’t noticed anything, but what if that’s because it’s still small? Well, that would be good, right? Small would be ok, early detection and all that. What’s the worst that would happen, that they’d open her up and take it out again? That wouldn’t be so bad.
Except, it was hard enough with an infant who was too little to put up much of a fight–although she tried; good lord how she tried. How much harder to go through it with someone who understood? Who knew what was happening to her. Did I have it in me to do it all again?
And then, before I have to answer that, the technician is back with a finger puppet and a clean bill of health. Turns out the finger puppet wasn’t really worth the wait; Regan would have rather had a sticker. The all clear, though, that’s something worth waiting for.
Now, the question is, how long do I have to wait before the waiting simply becomes another part of the routine?
I’m still wrapping my head around the fact that my Zen Baby is 3.
It’s similar to the same sort of “where did the time go?” wonderment that I felt when Diva Girl turned 8, but tinged with a sense that every single one of those 1095 days were hard won. I don’t really dwell on it anymore, but sometimes, especially on days like this, I’m reminded that there was a time when I wasn’t certain I’d be celebrating Regan’s third birthday. So, all the gifts aren’t necessarily for the Birthday Girl; the mere fact that we have a Birthday Girl is a gift in and of itself.
And what a girl she is! This newly minted preschooler bears only a passing resemblance to the Zen Baby of a year ago. Last year, Regan was silent, rarely speaking above a whisper, and then only to a select few–her grandparents, her sister, me. Now, she is a boisterous chatterbox, full of ideas and almost always engaged iin a running commentary of her thoughts and actions. She used to be pathologically shy, unwilling or unable to interact with friends she saw nearly every day, let alone people she didn’t know. These days, she happily chats with random strangers in the elevator and she delights in introducing me to her friends.
It’s been a long time coming, this transformation from silent observer to boisterous participant, and like most incremental changes, it’s happened so slowly as to be unremarkable, at least in the day to day living of our lives. The differences however, in who she is, and in how we live, truly are dramatic. I notice them, of course, but like all changes, they quickly get folded into the rhythm of our lives and, if not exactly forgotten, accepted as the norm.
I was reminded how far she’d come a couple of weeks ago, when I knocked her down at my nephew’s party. Intimidated by the strange surroundings and the horde of unknown people, Regan had reverted to a longheld security measure and took up residence about an inch from my right leg. There was a time when Regan’s position there was simply part of my own body awareness, when her presence was just a part of me, and I didn’t even need to think about where she was. There was a time when I never would have knocked her down by turning too swiftly, forgetting that I would need to compensate for her. I would have just known she was there, hovering silently, and I would have instinctively moved with that awareness.
Those days are long gone. It began slowly, subtly moving farther and farther away to explore the world around her–trailing behind me at the mall, playing on her own at playgroup…baby steps for the Zen Baby. Now, Regan almost always occupies her own space, not mine. And so, I was unprepared for her presence at the party, unused to this quiet creature who I used to know so well. This shy child, looking up at me from where she’d fallen, was both achingly familiar and wonderfully foreign. I remember that little girl, so serious and silent, and even think of her fondly, but I don’t miss her.
Happy Birthday, Regan! You’ve come a long way, baby! And I can’t wait to see where you go next.
It’s cupcake time again.
This time they’re for the Zen Baby, who already understands the importance of The Cupcakes. For the past week, whenever I have asked her what she wants for her birthday, her answer has invariably been, “cupcakes.” Which I swear, I did make for her.
But my mom got her a cake and you have to check out my newly minted three year old daughter blowing out her candles. After you do, I’m sure you’ll have a better grasp of my affinity for the birthday cupcake.
You know what I’m going to miss about this winter? Regan’s “glwubes”
Not the gloves themselves, although their fingerpuppet pattern is wicked cute, but the fact that she calls them her “glwubes.” Next year, they will simply be “gloves,” and that tiny part of my baby will be gone, filed away in my memory beside the child who loved “pollymops” and the little girl who needed “boo boo sticks” to make it all better.
I’m gonna miss those glwubes.
Tickets to Charlotte’s Webb: $11.00
Mini Combos for everyone: $15.00
Dinner at McDonalds: $12.00
The Ladies’ decision to give their dinner to the homeless man at the bus stop: Priceless*
*Well, not exactly. In reality it cost me another $10.00 to buy him a sandwich and a coffee from the Tim Hortons down the street, but it was worth it give my daughters in a real life lesson in generosity and in being part of the solution, not the problem.
We are very lucky, The Ladies and I. According to any sort of financial definition, at best we qualify as “working poor;” we have more than we used to now that I’m working again, but like most single parent families, we don’t have a lot of money. Thanks to a phenomenal support system, we do have enough, however. More than enough, really. Our family is incredibly generous, showering The Ladies with cool toys and cute clothes for Christmas, birthdays, and sometimes “just because.” Handmedowns from friends, and even classmates, mean that their wardrobe is quite possibly nicer, and definitely more expensive, than mine. So, I never really worry that The Ladies will have to go without toys or nice clothes while I struggle to make the rent or put reasonably nutritious food on the table (and the occasional pizza).
Diva Girl doesn’t really get it, the financial realities of our lives. Which is great; I really don’t want her to be burdened with the type of responsibility that comes with knowing where the money comes from and where it goes. I mean, I’d like her to appreciate what she has, of course, but I don’t want her childhood to be tainted by my adult responsibilities. What I do want is for her to grow up knowing that she has a responsibility to her community. To confront the problems she sees and seek solutions rather than simply accept that this is the way things are.
We all had a lesson in that tonight as I try to rush us past a panhandler on our way to the movies. Clutching our fast food bags, pressed for time and half frozen, I barely noticed the man, simply shaking my head “no” as we hurried past his doorway. Sabrina saw him though, and wanted to know what he was doing, sitting out there in the cold. She was shocked to find out that that was his home, that he didn’t have a nice apartment, a warm bed, and good, warm food to eat; in her childish innocence, she thought that everyone had that. I was shocked when, after digesting this information, Diva Girl demanded that we return to the man, so that she could give him her Happy Meal.
We didn’t give him her chicken nuggets. Or Regan’s either, although she offered. We did buy him a dinner of his own, however. Because, even though it was a pain in the ass to go back, and it nearly made us miss our show, Diva Girl was right: We had a responsibility to do something. To see this man and acknowledge his value. To commit a small act of kindness that shows him that he matters, that we care. And I had a responsibility to my daughters. To live the way I want the world to be. To show them that convenience should never trump conscience and that what we can do, we should do. Which, I’ll admit, is not how I always live my life. But I’m going to do better now. I owe to The Ladies, and to every person who has ever helped me to keep me from struggling to provide a good life for them.
I never intended to be a co-sleeping parent. In fact, for the first two years of Diva Girl’s life, I wasn’t. She had her own crib in her own room and she happily slept there every night. Then came the toddler bed, and the end of bedtime as I knew it. Gone were the days of popping a sleepy baby into her crib at 7 pm, turning out the light with a cheerful “night night!” and then happily going about my business for the rest of the evening. Instead, I now spent what seemed to be all night, every night, trying to get Sabrina to stay. in. that. bed.
It soon became clear, however, that the only bed Diva Girl would sleep in was mine. I could have continued the fight to force her to sleep in her own bed–in fact I did for awhile–but. . . I’m nothing if not a pragmatic mama, and I realized fairly quickly that I cared a lot more about getting a good night’s sleep than I did about where Sabrina slept. And after all, it’s not like there wasn’t enough room in the bed for her. It did get a wee bit crowded when we added the Zen Baby to the mix, until I had the brilliant idea of shoving Sabrina’s unused twin bed up against my overloaded double. After that there may not have been much room to move around the bed, but there sure was more than enough room on it. I’ve tried a couple of times over the years to get Bree into her own bed, but no dice. Finally, I decided that she’d let me know when she was ready and left it at that.
The upside to this arrangement–aside from the uninterrupted sleep–was that I got to use the second bedroom as a playroom. It may not have kept all the toys out of the livingroom, but believe me, when you are trying to cram all the stuff accumulated by two very lucky little girls into a small apartment, every little bit of space helps. So, even though I wasn’t planning on sharing my bed with a growing Diva forever, part of me was sort of dreading the loss of playroom square footage that would inevitably accompany regaining my bed. Until I discovered the loft bed, that is. A bed of her own for Diva Girl and the floor space; once again, what is not to love about Ikea?
Well, aside from that whole pesky assembly thing. We all know how much I love that. I have to admit, this time I wussed out and called in reinforcements: Faced with an overwhelming array of pictograms and parts, I asked my dad to do it. And not only did he put the bed together, he let the Ladies help. He let an overexcited 8 year old and her not quite three year old sister help put together Ikea furniture. The man is a saint. And the only casualty of the experience was a light fixture that I never really liked anyway.
It’s a little strange, having a room to myself again after 6 years of co-sleeping. When I first looked at my bed, sitting all alone in the middle of my room, it seemed so small–lonely even. Sleeping in it, however, was another story; it felt huge. Empty, even. After so many nights spent sleeping with 2 warm little bodies pressed against mine, dreaming of the luxury of an entire bed to myself, I find myself tossing and turning all night, unsure of what to make of this new space. I think I’m lonely. I knew that moving The Ladies into their own beds would be a transition. I just didn’t know it would be for me.
Diva Girl is eight years old. How in the world did that happen?
I mean, I know how it happened, technically. The whole birds and the bees thing followed by the bad skin, enormous belly, pushing a fully functioning human being out of my body trick, and then that business of the earth having rotated 2920 times since then. But really, how did my baby get to be eight?
One of the best things about having a family of your own is the traditions–some fondly carried over from your own childhood, others that you create yourself as you go along.
From my own childhood, I’ve taken the cupcakes and a second verse to the “Happy Birthday” song that I’ve never heard outside of a family celebration. Diva Girl’s holiday birthday lead to the traditional Santa photo (always taken on December 14), and the nontraditional unbirthday celebration. And this year, the Shaolin Toddler’s inability (or unwillingness) to grasp the “Birthday Girl” concept has started a new tradition: the family birthday.
I guess the seeds of this particular tradition were planted during Regan’s second birthday, when I allowed Diva Girl to have her very own candle on her cupcake. They took root this year when, seeking to head off a toddlerific meltdown over the presents, I gave the Shaolin Toddler a gift of her own to open.
We’ve been working on the concept of birthday with Regan for a while leading up to her sister’s big day. Each time we talked about it, telling her that her sister’s birthday was coming up, she would chime in “yeah. And my birthday too!” To help give her a sense of time, we would then list off all the birthdays that happen between now and then until she was able to recite it as her personal birthday mantra: “First S’Bina, then Mummy, then Tyler, then REGAN!” I honestly thought she understood, until the big morning when she answered my announcement that it was Sabrina’s birthday with, “And Mummy’s. And Tyler’s. And mine.”
The entire day, Regan remained convinced that it wasn’t just Sabrina’s day, it was the whole family’s. Which really, when you think about it, is a pretty awesome way to look at it. Unless you’re the person whose birthday has been co opted, that is. But the Diva Girl was surprisingly zen about the whole thing. I thought she’d lose her cool when, after the second special verse of “Happy Birthday” was finished, Regan demanded “my turn!” She didn’t though; she drew a big breath and started to sing. And then they each blew out the candles on their respective cupcakes. After which Regan announced, “soon it’s my birthday. And Mummy’s. And S’Bina’s.”
I think we’ll be following this tradition for years to come.