October 8, 2011

Fasting… Revisited

 

 

 

 

 

 

This article first appeared here on kveller.com.  

I wrote it as a response to the articles and comments that were posted on Kveller.com after my first post, in which I wrote about my decision not to fast.

Yom Kippur is now over, and as promised, I didn’t fast.  On the one hand, it did make the day easier.  On the other hand, I felt like there was something missing.  I’m still not sure how I feel about my decision, and I hope for the opportunity to revisit this issue again next year. 

Anyway, here is the Kveller post:

Yom Kippur starts tonight, and we here at Kveller have been struggling with it mightily this week. Stephanie wondered how hard it will be to fast while caring for a toddler, and I wrote that I’m not planning to fast. Mayim shared her reasons for fasting, and Jordana created an incredible version of the Viddui, focused on the confessions of parents. (I might print it out and put it in mySiddur before the holiday starts.)

All of these posts, and the comments our readers left, got me thinking. One person wrote the following regarding my decision not to fast: “I hope that she… reexamines her stance on fasting, parenting, Judaism, & the role of Judaism in her home.”

That is precisely what I have done. And am still doing.

Why have I decided not to fast? What does that say about my own commitment to Judaism, to keeping a Jewish home, and to parenting Jewish children? I’ve gone back and forth. I’ve read and written and thought and talked to my husband, my partner in creating our Jewish home and raising Jewish children. I’ve imagined how I would explain such a decision to my daughters. I don’t have a clear answer. Not yet.

My perspective is still evolving, and I hope that it continues to change and develop throughout my life. Right now, here is what I think I believe. I am not ahalachic Jew, and I do not profess to be one. As a Reconstructionist Jew, I believe “the past has a vote, but not a veto.” The words of the Torah and the Talmud, and the practices of our ancestors, are central to my understanding of Jewish beliefs and practices, but they aren’t, well, my law.

And so I struggle. I care deeply about integrating Judaism into my life and my parenting in meaningful, relevant ways that reflect my values and those of my husband. We don’t eat pork or shellfish, and we don’t mix milk and meat on the same plate. However, we don’t have two sets of dishes. We light the candles and say the blessings on Friday nights, and we don’t use our computers, watch TV, or run errands on Shabbat, but we will drive in the car and spend money on food that we are going to eat immediately.

My husband and I didn’t randomly choose these lines in the sand of observance; we came to them after years of conversations, years of working to find the right fit for our values.

As for fasting on Yom Kippur, well, I’m still figuring it out, and I’m grateful to have the Kveller community to help me struggle with this. This year, my intention is still not to fast. I’m going to eat as little as possible, and I’m not going to eat for pleasure. Perhaps I’ll feel ok with this choice, perhaps I won’t. And perhaps the most important part of all of this, perhaps the most Jewish decision I can make right now is to continue to care about and struggle with this issue. As for now, I have a lot to think about on this Day of Atonement… as do we all.

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October 5, 2011

I’m Not Fasting on Yom Kippur

For the past four years, I’ve either been pregnant or nursing on Yom Kippur, so I got a pass on the whole fasting thing. Yes, I was that super classy pregnant woman waddling her way out of services every couple of hours so I could hide behind the building and scarf down my nuts and cheese and take long, satisfying gulps from the water bottle I had hidden in my purse. It felt so wrong, and yet so, so right.

But this year is different. I’m not knocked up and I haven’t needed a nipple pad in months. (Can I get a Hallelujah here, people?) But the joy of having my body back is somewhat tempered by the Big YK. I’m supposed to fast this year.

And I’m not going to.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not going to be chowing down on pasta or burgers, and I’ll summon the willpower to steer clear of the coffee maker and the Chunky Monkey. But I will be snacking from time to time, and I’m not going to feel guilty about it. Probably not.

The thing is, I’m a crappy faster. Within a few hours of my last meal or sip of water, I get grumpy and snappy, and by mid-afternoon, I’m downright bitchy. I lose patience and composure, and my problem-solving skills pretty much disappear. I can generally make it through the day when all I have to do is sit alone in contemplation. But this year I’ll be running around with a husband who fasts (and cooks while fasting) with a smile on his face, and a preschooler and a toddler who will be eating every two or three hours. You can imagine how well that’ll go for all of us.

Don’t get me wrong. I wouldn’t bail on fasting just because it’s going to be hard. (Well, probably not.)  I just can’t imagine that G-d expects parents of young children to fast.  Or maybe G-d couldn’t care less, and s/he’s laughing at all of us who are making such a big deal out of this. Either way, and from what I can tell, the whole point of fasting is to be present in your body, in the moment, to fully experience and repent for the sins of the individual and the community. The reality is, I’m going to spend the day herding my little cats from home to the kids’ services, back home again in time for lunch and naptime, and hopefully back toshul in time for the break-fast. There will likely be some suffering in there, but I’m not anticipating a whole lot of time to just sit and be present, to meditate on how and when I have missed the mark in the past year, where I have room for improvement.

I’m not bailing on all of Yom Kippur, though. Josh and I are ditching the kids on Friday night to go to Kol Nidrei services (we Jews really know how to rock date nights), and I’m hoping to take advantage of nap time on Saturday to spend some time on my own, thinking about what I have done this past year, and how I can do it better in the future.  That might even include fasting next Yom Kippur.

This article first appeared here on kveller.com.

Kveller.com offers a Jewish twist on parenting, everything a Jewish family could need for raising Jewish children–including crafts, recipes, activities, Hebrew and Jewish names for babies…and advice from Mayim Bialik.

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October 4, 2011

It Takes a City

In her recent blog post on Kveller.com, Jordana Horn noted that it takes a village to raise a family.

She’s mostly right.  The truth is, it takes a city.

Villages are filled with neighbors, family members, and friends who support each other on a daily basis. That’s certainly been true for me, but in some of the most difficult moments of my parenting life, I have relied on the kindness of strangers—the kind of strangers you find in cities.

I remember when I was about 8 months pregnant with my second daughter. My 19-month-old was sick with the croup, and having difficulty breathing. At the same time, I was cramping badly. While I was on the house line with the midwife, my husband was on the cell phone with the pediatrician. A few minutes later, we were all in the car, heading to the hospital.

After we checked in at triage, I was told to go up to labor and delivery, while Josh took our daughter to the pediatric emergency room. Perhaps it was the exhaustion of being in my 3rd trimester and taking care of a sick toddler, or perhaps it was a normal reaction, but even though I knew that my daughter was safe with my husband, I began to cry. Walking away from my wheezing toddler was one of the hardest things I had ever done, but I was equally worried about the child I hadn’t yet met.

An older woman stepped into the elevator behind me, and she was noticeably calm for someone in an emergency room lobby. She took my arm, and asked me how I was. Normally I’d be irritated by the touch of a stranger, annoyed by the intrusive question.  But this woman was different, and I was grateful for the connection. After I told her about leaving my first baby so I could take care of my next one, she put her hand to the cross around her neck, and said she would pray for me and my babies.

I’d like to think that in the end, we’re all praying to the same God, but either way, I found great comfort in her words over the next hours as I waited for the news of both of my children.

A few months later, the girls were healthy, but my mother was not.  Within a few hours of getting the phone call, I was headed to the airport with my infant in the backseat. She was still nursing, and not yet mobile, so we decided she would come with me and Josh would stay home with our big girl. I made it to the gate just as we were boarding, and struggled onto the plane balancing a diaper bag, a rolling suitcase, my dinner, and the baby.  I was tripping over the straps of my baby carrier, which was hanging off my waist—I’d had to take the baby out at security, and I didn’t have time to put her back in.

I made it to my seat and realized that I had nowhere to put the baby. In my frantic state, I couldn’t figure out how to balance everything. Then I noticed the woman sitting in the seat next to mine. She had a soft look, a kind look, and the next thing I knew, I was putting my daughter into this woman’s lap. “You look like you’ve held a baby before,” I said to her.

It turned out she was a mother of 3, and a grandmother of 7.  She didn’t seem surprised to have a baby dumped in her lap, and she helped me with my daughter throughout the entire 5 hour flight. Once again I was grateful for the kindness of strangers, for the city that is helping me raise my daughters.

 

The article first appeared here on kveller.com.

Kveller.com offers a Jewish twist on parenting, everything a Jewish family could need for raising Jewish children–including crafts, recipes, activities, Hebrew and Jewish names for babies…and advice from Mayim Bialik.

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May 19, 2011

Road trip! Again!

The girls have five living great-grandparents.  Yes, you read right.  Five.

Fortunately for us, four of them live within 40 minutes of each other, but unfortunately, that’s nearly four hours away.  There are very few people on this planet for whom I would drive eight hours round trip with a toddler and an infant (Jake Gyllenhaal and a young Paul Newman top the list), but the great-grandparents are definitely worth it.

I think the girls know there is something special about these trips.  They tolerate schedule disruptions and hours strapped into car seats that would otherwise result in endless tantrums and a Mommy on the verge of a nervous breakdown.  (Who am I kidding? That’s most days, road trip or not.)  We deprived them of their naps and opportunities to run (and crawl) around and stretch their tiny legs.  We let them eat massive amounts of sugar (courtesy of aforementioned great-grandparents).  Yet despite our best efforts to completely destroy our daughters in the service of family, they were amazing.  We had one (joint) meltdown in 12 hours.  (I know.  I’m tempting fate by telling you all this.  The rest of the week will undoubtedly suck.)

What a day it was.  There were cookies and ice cream and noodles and strawberries and blueberries for the girls, and obscene amounts of smoked fish for Mommy and Daddy (the joys of Jewish grandparents!).  There were new toys and pink teddy bears, and a flowery rocking chair that sent my toddler into such a fit of ecstasy that I thought she might have a seizure.  The girls played with Chatty Kathy (the original), and read new books about being sisters. Best of all, and most importantly, there was attention—that doting, endless, joyful attention that only grandparents can give (probably because Mom and Dad are too busy daydreaming about eight hours of uninterrupted sleep).  The girls loved it.  They reveled in it.  I ate some more smoked fish.

There are days when parenthood feels overwhelming, when I’m so tired I wonder how I’m ever going to get dinner on the table, when I feel like if there is even one more tantrum I might just pick up and start a new life in Las Vegas.  (Nothing like a post-partum Mama in a feather head-dress and sparkly bikini, right?)  Fortunately, there are also days when I am reminded of the bigger picture, of life beyond leaky diapers and ear infections.  Fortunately, there are days when I get to see my daughters through the eyes of their great-grandparents, and when I can remember how happy my grandparents made me when I was growing up, and how happy they make me and my daughters now.

It was a ridiculously long day.  And we paid for it today.  But it was a great one, and in a few months, we’ll do it again.

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March 24, 2011

In Which I Wean. And Then Rant About It.

A milestone of sorts has come and gone, and in the craziness of daily life, it has gone unacknowledged.

I have weaned Rosie.  She is no longer nursing.

In some ways, it was a fairly unremarkable event.  We had decreased the number of times she was nursing each day, until we were down to just twice a day.  And then I came down with the flu (despite having been immunized), and I was extremely worried about Rosie catching the flu as well, so I made the decision not to nurse her for the three days I was really sick.  I didn’t pump during that time.  She didn’t seem to miss breastfeeding, and to be honest, neither did I.  And that’s how it happened.

It’s hard to know what to say about this.  On the one hand, I am so relieved.  Since October of 2008, I have had exactly one month when I wasn’t nursing or pregnant.  Although Josh and I chose to have children relatively close together, and I feel very blessed that it worked out, I’m really damn happy to have my body back.

On the other hand, I feel guilty.  As I write this post, I feel this overwhelming urge to explain, to justify my decision to wean.  And I’m pissed about that.  I shouldn’t have to justify a choice I made about my body and my daughter.  This is a topic for me, my husband, and my doctor (should I choose to involve her).

Yet my entire experience with breastfeeding has been tainted by the angry discourse out there.  From the moment I found out I was pregnant with baby #1 and joined a few Mommy list-serves, I was flooded with opinions and advice.  Needless to say, the opinions weren’t mild and the advice wasn’t nuanced.  It quickly became clear to me that Good Mothers nurse for at least a year, and Bad Mothers don’t.  There didn’t seem to be much middle ground.

I so desperately wanted to be a Good Mother.  (Two and a half years and two babies later, I’ll be psyched if I’m Good Enough.)  Of course I was going to nurse baby  #1.  In the end, it wasn’t easy, it wasn’t fun, and I didn’t really enjoy it.  But I worked my ass off, and together we made it to almost 9 months of nursing.

It was a lot easier with Rosie, but I still didn’t love it.  I’m not sure why, and I’m sure there are several reasons.  I suspect it has something to do with the context in which I originally started nursing, and the feedback I got when I needed support.  I remember talking to a lactation consultant about my low supply with baby #1, and she told me I need to nurse her more often.  This was after I had explained how I was already nursing for 45 minutes every 45 minutes.  I really wasn’t sure how exactly I was supposed to feed the baby more often.  Although I’m sure the lactation consultant was trying to be supportive, the message I got was, “You’re not doing it right.  You’re not doing enough.”

The truth is, I didn’t need to nurse more often.  It wasn’t really even possible for me to nurse more often.  What I needed was someone (other than my husband and mother) to tell me that I was doing enough, that I was a good enough mother.

Flash forward to a couple of weeks ago, when I was being seen at my doctor’s office for flu symptoms.  The covering doctor and I were discussing medication options, and I told her that I had decided to wean Rose because I didn’t want her to get sick, and I was hoping to get some relief with cold medications.  The doctor asked how old Rosie was, and apparently decided that 9 months was an acceptable age to wean, as she commented, “Well, you’ve nursed her enough, I suppose.”

Gee, thanks, Lady Who Knows Nothing About Me and My Relationship With My Body or My Daughter.  Thanks for your judgment.  Because I totally asked for your opinion.

I continue to be baffled by how bitchy this whole conversation has become.  The vitriol that has pervaded the Mommy discourse is overwhelming.  It’s also silenced many, many women.  The Good Mother (and maybe even the Good Enough Mother) either nurses her daughter for a solid year (or longer), or she has a damn good reason for stopping earlier.  (For the record, multiple bouts of mastitis and a low milk supply just barely count as a good reason.) If you don’t fall into one of these two categories, then you had better keep your mouth shut (unless, of course, you enjoy being verbally abused).

Even Ayelet Waldman, the ultimate Bad Mother, didn’t cross that line.  In her memoir, she describes how her son was born with a palate abnormality which made it impossible for him to nurse.  Waldman admits to giving her son formula, but only after describing “a punishing pumping schedule” that lasted six months, and several visits to the lactation consultant.  And of course, it wasn’t actually her decision to wean the boy – it was her husband who stepped in and rejected the LC’s advice to use a tiny syringe to feed the baby (a two-handed process which took 20 minutes to transfer an ounce of milk).  Waldman finally agreed, but only after realizing that this feeding technique would add another 12 hours to the 6 hours a day she spent pumping.  She may be trying to tell us that she is a Bad Mother, but she also makes damn sure we know just how hard she worked to nurse her baby.

This broader conversation has unnecessarily and unfortunately tainted my experience of breastfeeding my daughters.  Rather than feeling good about what I accomplished, I feel guilty for not doing more.  Rather than feeling supported in my decisions, I feel like I have to justify them.  And rather than wanting to share my story, I’ve often felt like I should keep my mouth shut.  And I’m pretty angry about that.

Sure, breast is best.  I’m not questioning that.  But I also think that other factors need to be considered—factors that are personal and different for each Mother.  Factors such as post-partum depression and physical, financial, and employment issues that all influence a mother’s experience nursing her child.  I agree that education about breastfeeding is important, and mothers who need and want support should have access to it.  I also agree that we do need more supportive work environments and better maternity leave policies.  Beyond that, we should all remember that motherhood is incredibly difficult and nursing isn’t necessarily easier.  Beyond that, we need to just shut the hell up.

Ultimately, we need to trust that our fellow mothers are going to make the decision that is right for them and their babies.  If we can’t do that, then we’ve got much bigger problems than breastfeeding.

So, my Rosie, that’s my rant in honor of your 9th month birthday, which is coming up in just 2 short days.  Should you ever become a mother, I hope you feel informed, empowered, and supported in whatever decision you should make.

 

 

 

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March 22, 2011

Well, So Much For That

My little foray into the Four Hour Body Diet lasted about 48 hours.

Shockingly enough, I didn’t have a problem with the willpower part.  I went cold turkey on pretty much everything except meat, veggies, legumes, eggs, decaf coffee, and water.  I won’t bore you with the details of what I did eat on Sunday and Monday, but I will tell you that I sat through a two-hour birthday party at an ice cream store, and didn’t touch a bite of Frieda’s ice cream or the pizza that she rejected.  (My kid is a weirdo.  What freak passes up on pizza?  Oh.  Wait.  Nevermind.)

No, the hardest part wasn’t the cravings, as I didn’t really have any. I felt like crap the entire time.  My body and head were aching, I was dizzy and nauseous, and I was bitchy as hell.  I started having weird pains in my lower back on Sunday night.  I was thirsty all the time, even though I was drinking water constantly.

The kind folks on the 4HB message board reassured me this was normal, it was just my body detoxing from the carbs.  I decided to stick with it on Monday.  Everything got worse, and I felt horrible all day.  I couldn’t concentrate and I got nothing done. I was grumpy and feverish, constantly feeling like I might throw up.

I woke up this morning feeling even worse.  I was starting to doubt whether or not this diet was the right match for me.  I decided to step on the scale, just to see how it was going.

I was horrified by what I saw.

I had lost five pounds.

Yes, I know.  The goal of this whole thing is to lose weight, but not that fast.  Five pounds in two days (and I was weighing myself at the same time of day, same scale, everything) is too much too quickly.  That’s not healthy.  The reason I felt so horrible wasn’t because I was detoxing (although that may have been part of it), it’s because I wasn’t eating nearly enough.

On both Sunday and Monday I had three large and two small meals.  At least, they seemed pretty big to me.  I felt full after each meal. I didn’t feel hungry or want to eat more, in fact, the thought of another bite of eggs or broccoli or chicken or beef or beans (oh, for the love of Gd, no more beans) made me want to vomit.  Literally. But clearly I wasn’t eating enough. The diet had to end.

So, this morning I had a piece of toast with my eggs.  It was just dry toast, but it tasted so incredibly good that with each bite I imagined wrapping myself in a giant toast blanket.  It was fabulous.  I also had a banana today, two clementines, and a whole wheat bun with the turkey and veggie Sloppy Joes I made for dinner.  (And a big salad with piece of salmon for lunch, in case you were concerned.)  Needless to say, I feel a whole lot better. My nausea cleared, my headache went away, and my back pain is gone.

Clearly, the Four Hour Body is not a sustainable or healthy diet for me.  Perhaps I wasn’t following it correctly, but after two days of trying, I’m not so interested.  So, I’m going to try to just be smart about my diet going forward: focus on fruit, veggies, whole grains, lean meats and fish, and at least until I lose the weight, no simple sugars.  No bread with dinner, no pizza, no brownies, no ice cream, no candy, no cookies.  Given my inability to moderate my chocolate intake, I’m definitely going cold turkey on those bad boys.  But once I get back down to a weight I feel comfortable with, I’ll let myself have a tasty treat once in a while.  That feels a lot more manageable to me.

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March 20, 2011

Mama Makes a Change – The Four Hour Body Diet. Day One.

I feel like you get nine months.  (Ok, maybe a year, but really 9 months).  Nine months in which friends and family nod and smile and tell you, “It’s ok, you just had a baby.  It took 9 months to make the baby, it’s going to take at least that long to drop the weight.”

But what happens when 9 months has come and gone, but the weight is still there?  That’s exactly where I am right now.  The good news is that I am back to my pre-baby #2 weight, but the bad news is that I’m still not where I want to be.  Part of it is that I was heavier than I wanted to be before I got pregnant, but part of it is that my body shape has changed quite a bit after having two babies in less than 2 years.  And I’m not really loving the new shape.

It’s time for a change.  A 20-25 lb change.

I wish I was one of those people who could just sort of start eating better.  You know, cut down on carbs and sweets, cut out snacking at night, etc.  I’m pretty good at increasing my exercise, but you need to exercise a tremendous amount to lose 20 lbs, and quite frankly, I don’t have the time (or, to be honest, the desire).

They say an alcoholic is someone who can’t leave any alcohol left in the glass.  I walk away from half-full beers all the time, but if there is chocolate within a mile, it will be consumed.  All of it.  Moderation doesn’t work for me; abstinence is the only way I’m going to drop all the weight.

So, I found the Four Hour Body diet, thanks in no small part to this Mama of 3 little ones who has had great success with this diet.  It’s not going to be fun, but based on my previous success with the South Beach Diet before our wedding, I think it should work for me.  The Four Hour Body was written by Tim Ferris, who, as far as I can tell, is some crazy dude with way too much time and money on his hands who spends his days doing weird shit like taking ice baths and getting MRIs of his entire body and tracking his bowel movements.  But it seems like he’s also done a ton of research on how to lose weight, gain muscle, and restructure your body.

It’s a slow-carb diet, which actually means no-carbs.  Yep, you read that right.  NO CARBS.  No potatoes, no bread, no rice, no pasta, virtually no dairy, none of it.  Oh, and no fruit.  For the next several weeks, I’ll be eating protein and veggies – meat, beans, eggs, and vegetables.  Except on the one binge day each week, when you get to go hog wild and eat the crap out of all the crap you want.  My binge day each day will be from Friday evening to Saturday evening (Jew calendar-style), so I can have challah on Friday night.

This diet goes against every grain (pun intended) in my body, but I’m hoping it will be worth it.  I don’t see it as a long-term lifestyle, even though Tim Ferris does.  I’m hoping to lose a good chunk of weight and then go back to my regular eating habits, which are fine for weight maintenance but not for loss.

Today was day one.  The eating part was fine – I had eggs, veggies, and beans for breakfast, beans, meat, and veggies for lunch, and meat and veggie soup and salmon for dinner.  I didn’t crave carbs too much, but I’ve been achy, tired, dizzy, and a little off kilter all day.  I’m guessing it’s just my body detoxing from the carbs, and that it will get easier in the next day or so.

So, that’s the latest in Chez Crazy over here.  Meanwhile, I’m going to sit here and think about Oreos.  Um, I mean not think about them.  Damn, I just want some Oreos.

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March 14, 2011

Confessions of a Yeller

“I’m the Mommy.  And bunny is my baby.”

Aw shucks.  How cute is my daughter?  Yes, that’s my 2 1/2 year old toddler narrating for me as she snuggled a little plastic bunny this morning while we were getting ready to head out to daycare.  And although I was beyond exhausted, I made an extra effort to engage with her, especially because I hadn’t spent much time with her over the weekend.  I had come down with the flu, and I didn’t want the girls to catch it, so Josh took over much of the childcare.

Anyway, back to this morning.  ”Oh, sweetie, that’s so nice that you’re the Mommy.  What does Mommy do?”

“Mommies love babies.  Mommies yell at babies.  Mommies play with babies.”

What?  Mommies yell at babies?  WHAT??

Yes, I do raise my voice at her from time to time.  I mean, honestly, what Mommy amongst us doesn’t?  (On the off-chance you don’t, well, then either you’re a liar, or you’ve had your vocal chords removed.  If neither of those is true, please feel free to send me your drug dealer’s phone number.  I really need it.)  But I definitely haven’t snapped at her in at least a week.  Well, not much.  And not because I’m some sort of super mom, but only because she was sick last week, which meant I was able to bribe her with Caillou (TV is a special treat for sick days), and then I was sick over the weekend, as I mentioned.

So where the hell does this “Mommies yell” thing come from?  WHERE, I ASK YOU, WHERE??

Perhaps more importantly than where it comes from is where it might lead.  As my mind began racing with a speed and fervor known only to overly-anxious Jewish social worker Mamas, I immediately imagined Frieda’s future.  She is learning that people who love her yell at her.  Clearly, this can only lead to a life of relationships with yellers – abusive partners who will scream at her. And be unemployed. And think corndogs are fine cuisine. And take my daughter to NASCAR races and monster truck rallies.  Good lord.  She’s going to end up with a Republican.

All because I yelled at her.

So, that’s where my brain went.  And went.  And went.  Until I thought back over the weekend.  And the fact that she is not only my daughter, but she is a mini-version of me.  What would mini-me do?  Well, mini-me wouldn’t communicate concerns about Mommy yelling so clearly and concretely.  Not even a two year-old version of me.

No, two year-old me would be a passive aggressive little shit, who wouldn’t actually tell Mommy that she was pissed about Mommy ditching her all weekend.  Instead she would whack Mommy in the head with a spatula after dinner (that was last night), then make a bitchy comment about Mommy yelling (this morning), and then throw a string of endless tantrums after daycare (this afternoon).  Yep, the kid is me.  Just smaller, cuter, and a lot less talented at pooping on the potty.

Message received, kiddo.   I sang you some extra songs tonight, and I promise I’ll find us some good Mommy and Friedy time later this week.  I’m sorry about this weekend, too.  I just didn’t think I could handle you or your sister getting sick again, especially not with the flu.

Oh, and if you’d like to see the spatula-whack in action, here’s the video proof:

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March 9, 2011

Desperate Times…

Every once in awhile, I go blog silent for a couple of weeks at a time.  It’s not that I have nothing to say, on the contrary, I have so much I am aching to send out to the universe—there is something so cathartic about shoving all of my problems and frustrations into that tiny little text box on my blog’s dashboard and hitting “publish”.  It’s just that, well, I don’t want to bitch.  Well, not too much.  And not on my blog.  At least not all the time.

It’s not that I have some sort of rep to maintain.  Quite the contrary.  My favorite blogs are those that feel real to me, the ones that remind me that I’m not alone in the tantrums and poop and fevers and all other details that make up the daily insanity that is parenthood.

The thing is, I don’t want to seem ungrateful.  I know that I am damn lucky to be able to pursue my doctorate and work part-time from home so I can have as much flexibility as possible to be with my girls.  And I don’t want them to read my blog some day and ever doubt how much I love them.  Also, I’m a neurotic freak who over thinks everything.

But enough is enough.  This winter has been too damn long, too damn cold, and too damn snowy.  We had to cancel our warm weather vacation when the girls got sick (again).  Now that the snow has melted, the broken branches, downed limbs, and months of trash that were stuck under the snow have emerged, leaving our yard looking like a post-apocalyptic dump.  So that’s great.

And then there is the sickness.  The endless slew of colds and ear infections and croup and now strep have left me feeling exhausted and weary.  I’m tired to chasing toddlers with tissues, forcing medicine down the throats of screaming babies, and spending more time with my pediatrician than my closest friends.  Like everyone else in the greater Boston area, I need sunshine and warm weather, I need runs outside and trips to the park.

I need a break.

I know I’m not the only one.  Almost everyone I know is feeling crispy and bitter, exhausted and frustrated.  Time spent with friends and date nights with my husband help.  So does chocolate, and the occasional beer.  Happy moments with my daughters, when they play well and giggle at each other’s silliness, well, those help a lot.  But sometimes it feels like I’m slapping a tiny band-aid (and not even a Dora one) on the aching wound that this winter has inflicted on me.

So, that’s how I feel most days.  And if my blog stalls out from time to time, you can probably guess where my brain has gone.  But for now, I keep reminding myself that we’re almost halfway through March and that even though my girls are sick (again), we’re all generally healthy, and there’s chocolate in the cabinet.  (Even if it is the pink M&M’s I bought to help with potty-training, but hey, you know what they say about desperate times…)

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March 8, 2011

Fever

Fevers scare me.

Intellectually, I know that fevers are our body’s way of fighting infections.  As long as they don’t get too high, they’re a good thing.  But when my daughter’s little body is so hot to the touch, when her cheeks are flushed and the sweat has left her blond bangs stuck to her forehead, well, I get scared.

I don’t get fevers.  I never got them when I was a child, which often meant I had to go to school even though I was legitimately ill, because the mercury refused to creep up the thermometer.  More recently, I’ve had the Norovirus and H1N1, but I barely hit 100 F.  I just don’t get fevers.

Vomit, I can handle.  I don’t enjoy it, but I’ve thrown up with the best of them (and no, I don’t want to talk about it), so it doesn’t scare me.  Have a few sips of Pedialyte or Ginger Ale, and if you can keep that down, we’ll try some Saltines.  Fine.  No problem.

But a fever?  I find fevers almost intolerable.  I just want them to go away.  When they don’t, I need almost constant reassurance (usually from my extremely patient husband) that everything is going to be ok.

My little girl is up in her crib right now, and I know she has a fever.  I gave her some children’s ibuprofen, and it helps.  I’m resisting the urge to go check on her, because I know I will wake her up, and she needs to nap.  We went to the doctor this morning, and found out that Frieda has strep, and even though my beloved pediatrician told me not to worry, I still do.

Because fevers scare me.

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