July 2008 Archives

So here I am yesterday explaining all the end of the year school stuff that's coming up to Kate. Her preschool closes for a few weeks in August, probably so the teachers can get electric shock therapy and be refreshed for a new school year in September. And really, who can blame them.

Anyway, there are all these little events happening like a pot luck (blech) and one of those useless-for-any-reason-other-than-parental-nostalgia "graduations"--she's not even off to Kindergarten next year, just more preschool. And as I'm in the process of telling her about all these items on her social agenda, I realize that after her three-week break she'll be going back to a different classroom, a different set of teachers--the same school but a whole new scene. She'll no longer be a Duckling, but a Wood Duck. Or is it a Gosling? The classrooms there are as confusing as their non-parallel naming structure.

This was a dramatic realization for me, since Kate is blindly devoted to and some would argue co-dependent with one of her teachers. Had I realized sooner that this change was upcoming I'd have started an elaborate debriefing process to ready her for A) not being in that teacher's classroom and, B) having to deal with some other woman who will no doubt be nurturing and kind, but whom Kate will eventually reject like some disfunctional kidney.

I mean, I for one am not a fan of change. Or maybe I just don't even get why anyone would ever want to change anything, never mind actually welcome it. Call me the gal who grew up in the same house, went to the same school for nine years with the same  40 other kids, and has worn her hair the same way since it grew out from my newborn crew cut. Be it nature, or nurture, in all things other than, say, fresh underwear, my default switch is set to No Change, Thank You.

So, not only did I need to wrangle with my sudden realization about Kate's imminent new classroom, and the fact that I'd been remiss in bracing her for the change, I also had to come to terms with the fact that I was doing exactly what I'd vow I'd never do as a parent. Since, it was what my mother did to me. Or rather, didn't.

It all goes back to my own elementary school experience, at the hallowed halls of The Rockwell School in fair Bristol, Rhode Island. On the playground the different classes lined up in military-like rows after recess to file into our classrooms. For some reason on our first day back at school the fall after Kindergarten, we all had to line up this way when we first arrived in the morning. But when I went to stand in the line my Kindergarten teacher was heading up, she laughed and told to go stand in another line with the First Grade teacher. To which I thought, "Wait, what?"

Although this Childhood Traumatic Incident (TM) seems fairly 'lite' it somehow threw me for a loop. I guess I was just more confused than anything. The thing was, my mother hadn't thought to tell me I'd be going into a different classroom, a different grade. And, when you're a kid, if no one tells you stuff, then you often don't know it.

I know that sounds like a basic premise, but I have other Mama friends who clearly weren't neglected this way by their parents when they were kids, and are just realizing this now. My friend Becca recently posted in her blog about reading a library book about bees to her son. As she read it--stuff about hives, honey, yadda yadda--she was shocked by how fascinated and blown away her son was. It dawned on her that he didn't know anything about bees. And she thought, "Well, why should he? We haven't told him any of this stuff."

And here's the thing: The kid is 16! Well, not really, but my point being, I feel like I've been pretty good about trying to put myself in Kate's shoes and explain to her things she has no background on. I'm not saying I'm a better parent than Becca--okay so maybe I am a little--but really, since I realized at a tender age that parents need to tell kids about the obvious-to-us-adults things or else they may find themselves trying to convince the teachers at school that, really, they are supposed to still be in Kindergarten, and could they just let them come back into the same classroom again, and please let's not make a scene here.

I mean, I'm grateful those teachers found a way to get through to me back then or God knows how many classes I would have held myself back in over the course of my academic career.

So here I am. Tragically I've somehow managed to almost stumble into the same parental snake pit that is perhaps my legacy. Though Kate will likely outshine all her Mama's childhood foibles and sashay into the Gosling?/Wood Duck?/Mallard? room in September all cool and easy and down with the different teachers and the whole new scene.

For her sake, and mine, I hope that's the case.

Was it sheer coincidence that on the last day of the Tour de France Kate took possession of her new Big Girl bike?

Well, it's true. Yesterday, with the help of Mark's fervid encouragement and a set of training wheels, Kate rode about one-twentieth of a mile and .5 vertical feet.The sidewalk by our house wasn't lined with spectators waving flags and shaking noisemakers, though our neighbor Tom was out doing some gardening.

Really, it's only a matter of time before she develops her following.

In the meantime Mark is working to put together a customized training regimen for her, and has equipped her with all the latest protein goos and energy bars, not to mention state-of-the-art heart monitors and GPS systems.

We're looking forward to being so proud of her.

Sponsorship, anyone?

We think that Paige might be participating in some sort of underground Baby Fight Club.

I know. I know exactly what you're thinking. Serves us right for raising our kids in Oakland.

Be that as it may, it's still distressing to put an otherwise unmarked baby to sleep, then fetch her in the morning to see that her face and head are covered in scabs and bloody scratches. It so terribly sad, until Mark makes some comment like, "Yeah, but you should see the other baby." Then you can't help but laugh at your little cherub's expense.

And before you suggest that we clip her fingernails, we have. On a nearly hourly basis.  In fact, several times we've considered taking her to a vet to get de-clawed. Unfortunately our insurance doesn't cover that.

But seriously, it's a bit of a mystery. Sure, there was a time when Paige had legitimate reason to scratch. But the eczema and cradle cap that for so long plagued her appear to be--please please don't return just cause I'm writing this--gone. Is there some kind of phantom limb phenomenon at work here? Is she clawing at the memory of a dry itchy patch?

Or worse, is this some sort of compulsive behavior, like that sad polar bear at the Central Park Zoo who spent day after day swimming back and forth in the same exact rhythmic pattern? Sure, he delighted scores of schadenfreudian New Yorkers who came to gawk at something who was clearly more miserable than themselves. Despite the community service he was providing, I still wouldn't want to be that poor bear's Mama.

Call me a silver-lining seeker, but I can't help but wonder whether all this self-mutilation means Paige is poised for greatness. I mean, take Angelina Jolie. She was a cutter in her younger years and look at her now.

When we were up in Pawt-land a few months ago, Kate and Paige and I went on a little road trip to see a friend and her kids in Eugene. After a weekend of family fun Mark had meetings to go to, and far be it from me to sit in a hotel with two children waitin' for my man.

As someone who A) grew up in microscopic Rhode Island, and B) had parents who opted exclusively for air travel, I haven't logged many miles in the car. But I figured what could be more come-what-may wacky and romanticizable than a road trip? Granted with a two-year-old and a three-month-old we weren't exactly yucking it up at campy roadside attractions, shooting pool at honkey tonk bars, or flashing truck drivers the old fried eggs. Still, it was an adventure.

Our one-night visit was brief but totally worth the travel. When our hosts headed out early the next day for work and school, it seemed wrong to hit the road without seeing a bit more of Eugene. Since one of the things I love about not 9-to-5ing is the mini-indulgence of weekday breakfasts out, I got a tip on a good local spot and made my way across town with huevos rancheros on my mind.

Now everyone has their limits for what's reasonable to do with two kids. I certainly don't want to count breakfast out as one of those things. Mostly because I enjoy it so much, but also because if we can't eat at a greasy spoon full of vegan college students and bearded men, what can we do? I might as well not leave the house. And I, for one, never understood why motherhood and the hermit lifestyle seem to go hand-in-hand for some women.

At the restaurant, when we're about 80% through our good but not to-die-for brekkie, I realized I should nurse Paigey in the hopes that she'd sleep on the drive back to Portland. I've snarfed down many a meal crouched over a breastfeeding baby, at home and in public. But for some reason that day Kate sensed my mobility vulnerability, and saw an opening for some attention-getting of her own.

At first she just got down off her seat and started walking away from the table while looking at me tauntingly. My upbeat-Mama-voiced entreaties to "Come back to the table please, Sweetie" quickly turned to "Get over here, Kate" commands hissed between clenched teeth. At which point it seemed that Kate decided: Game on.

A couple times I managed to get up while propping up a latched-on Paigey with one arm to lug Kate back to the table. But then, like all sly toddlers, she decided to up the ante. It pains me to even recollect--never mind share--this. Since it was clearly so delightful to see me lose my patience, Kate went for the big guns, and while standing a few feet away from our table, got my attention somehow then puckered up and, well, she spat at me.

I was mortified. Open up the earth and swallow me now mortified. Mortified that this diner full of breakfast-eating collegiates, hippies, and misanthropes who I didn't know and would never see again were witnessing my daughter's ghastly behavior--as well as my inability to make it stop.

And two disclaimers I must share. Behavior like this is, blessedly, out-of-character for Kate. And the spitting wasn't all out loogie-level gobs--more a light spraying of spittle. But still.

In my fury I don't even remember what happened next. (Or at least that's what my attorney has advised me to say.) I jarred Paigey off my boob, slapped some cash on the table, scooped a soon-screeching Kate under my arm fireman style, and lugged the whole happy McClusky family to the car, vowing to Kate under my breath that she'd never enter another restaurant as long as she lived. I thought I used to be bad at walking through lodges carrying skis, but holding a howling horizontal toddler takes that to a whole new level. To any diners whom I errantly whacked upside the head with my evil child, I extend my most sincere apologies.

So here we are months later with plenty of time to have figured out what to do if a spitting-type situation like that were to arise again. I wish I could say that that lovely behavior has ceased, never to rear its ugly head again. Instead, Kate has cataloged spitting as The Ultimate Way to Piss Us Off. And frankly, she couldn't be more right.

Not that it's happened a ton more, thankfully, but in the rare (knock wood) times she's busted out this move, we've found that denying her things that are too far removed from the situation is an utterly ineffective punishment. "That's it! No dessert for you!" we'll say at 10AM--child light years before dinner. We might as well threaten that she won't attend her prom.

The we're-not-going-to-do-what-we're-about-to-do approach is also a wash. If she doesn't get to go to the pool or the park or the zoo, then we don't get to go there either, and honestly we don't want to punish ourselves in the process. Then we all just sit home covered in spit in exceptionally bad moods.

All this talk of punishment may make it sound like we're using the ACME Abu Ghraib Child Rearing Kit, which is hardly the case. 99% of the time Kate is a pure joy--which most every other post in this blog will attest to. We try to explain why certain of her actions are inappropriate, we don't spank, yell, or waterboard. We're generally pretty mellow and groovy parents. It's just that the spitting thing is so ugly and base, we'd really love a magic bullet to make it stop. And so far the groovy tactics have fallen short.

The fact is, recidivism in the toddler set is a bitch. Just when you think you've gotten through to them, the bad behavior rears its head like some unkillable alien that bursts out of your stomach when you least expect it.

After something or other the other night, Mark asked Kate again and again to stop what she was doing to no avail. Finally he told her if she kept doing what she was doing he was only going to read one bedtime book to her--instead of the usual two. When moments later at bedtime Mark stuck to his guns on the book reading, it was devastating to Kate. Between sobs she tried the work-around of "But Mama read me books, Dada?"

Of course, Softie Parent that I am this killed me. I wanted to sneak in her room and read her endless books. (This is why Mark and I could never train a dog together.) And even though I know Kate was in the wrong and Mark gave her every opportunity to stop whatever she'd been doing, I was suspect about denying her books--something we love that she loves. Denying her reading time seems like telling her she can't eat brussel sprouts or take a nap. Like, "Okay then Missy, no math homework for you!"

But the book thing ended up to be Kate's Achilles tendon. When she woke up the next morning the first thing she said was, "I didn't get books because I spit, Mama. Dada said no books."

Of course it broke my heart and made me want to slug Mark, but also made me grateful he's willing to take on the Bap Cop role. It's both noble and no fun. And God knows I cower away from doing it.

So now that Kate knows we mean business around the 'no book' thing, there've been a couple times when we--well, Mark--has mentioned it when Kate continued to do something after we asked her to stop--like clobbering Paige in the head with a wooden toy. The thing is, the consideration of not getting her Curious George fix actually makes her stop and listen. Hey, this setting boundaries for kids thing seems to have its merits! Who knew?

Mind you, Mark is not goose-stepping around the house trying to come up with beloved things he can take away from Miss Kate. And I'm not always sliding candy bars to her when he's not looking. And, thankfully, she's not getting tattoos (yet) or sneaking out her bedroom window at night--giving us many opportunities to have to come up with appropriate behavior-snuffing consequences.

Mark and I are just feeling our way along the path to mutually-acceptable parenting techniques, and hoping that we're doing a better job of it all than a pack of wolves might. Someday when Kate gets in a fight with her college boyfriend, perhaps she'll find a better way to express her frustration than spitting in his eye.

Paige woke me up at around 2:30 this morning and in the first instant of wakefulness I had one of those bleary-eyed "Wait, where am I?" moments. Then I realized I was home. Back in good old Oakland, C.A., in my very own bed.

We had more than a two-hour flight delay yesterday, most of which was spent in the plane on the tarmac with Mark furiously tapping away on his iPhone to get to the bottom of why we weren't leaving (or being given any information). All he managed to find was something that said we'd already departed, which only spiked his blood pressure further. 

The girls did am impressive show of resisting sleep through most of the flight, a particular feat seeing as it was their bedtime by the time we finally went 'wheels up.' When they eventually managed to conk out they were held or propped up by Mark and I in ways that left our cramped immobile limbs feeling like they'd never come un-numb. (Yet we were still grateful for their sleep.)

It being Jet Blue, I watched something on the order of 7 straight hours of that Bravo show about the Type-A OCD gay guy who flips houses in LA--something people had told me about but I'd never seen. I now feel like I'm dear friends with the cast and if I never watch TV again it will be too soon.

We staggered through the airport bleary-eyed at 9PM with Kate bawling dramatically over something or other, waited forever in the chilly NoCal air for the parking lot shuttle to fetch us and our eight--yes, eight--bags, and finally cracked open the door to our neglected stuffy house after 10PM.

Everyone crawled into their beds in short order. I think we were all sucking our thumbs and asleep within minutes of hitting the sheets.

Sometimes it takes a harrowing trip home to make you appreciate the end to an excellent vacation.

Sure there's your wedding day, and the days your babies are born. Those are fun and memorable and all. I'm not saying July 4^th has a leg up on those days. It' s just that I've lived through so many of my hometown's famous Forta Julys--so many of those days with so many great happy silly patriotic friend-drenched food-filled and sometimes boozy celebrations. And this year I came frighteningly close to adding one really horrible memory to all the others.

It was after the parade, which we watched this year by the Demopulos casa, since the famous Connery party has sadly ceased with their family home being rented out. Post-parade we ambled back to Dad's where a good selection of family and friends convene--some non-parade-watchers who hang at the house all day, some who just come for the post-game barbeque, and those like us who despite exhausted children (and their parents) do it all with childhood glee.

Back at the house, after critical diaper changes, drinks of water, and potty breaks, Mark rolled up his sleeves to do some grilling and Joan and others got the spread all laid out buffet-style on the long table under the tree. Jill and Kevin, formerly SF friends are now RI residents. They and their three boys have become fantastic die-hard fans of the parade and the Bristol celebration shenanigans in general. So, happily, they were there as well. The kids were running around on the lawn, playing some stompy-rocket kinda game.

So after greeting all the guests and introducing Miss Paige to eager relatives, and doing the Mama thing tending to everyone else's food, fun, and fecal needs, I finally sat down to eat a lunch it felt like I might never eat.

I joined Jill, Mark, and some of the kids on a blanket on the grass, and in the midst of some little chat about something, or maybe helping Kate cut her meat, or whatever--in the midst of that totally unmemorable life going along moment--a couple people from the patio scream and I look up to see my father lurching, stumbling, and nearly falling as some nearby people reached out to hold him up.

I looked up and had the sickening thought that this was it. This was the way my father was going to go. With me not even paying attention, just biting into my chourico and pepper sandwich and otherwise having a lovely day, and then totally out of the blue something could happen and he could be gone.

Trust me, this is the most sickening scary feeling. I sprinted into the house on pure adrenaline, quickly taking stock of the situation as I ran past. It seemed like he was talking to people, like he hadn't lost consciousness. Was it too presumptuous to assume he was okay? If I paused for even a moment to assure myself of what I wanted to feel---that it was nothing and he was totally fine--would I be wasting precious help-getting time if suddenly in the next minute he clearly wasn't alright?

In the kitchen I squeezed behind the chair my Uncle Joe was sitting in as he and Aunt Mary ate their lunches, and fumbled for the phone dialing 911 as I craned to look through the window to see what was happening outside.

As I heard myself talking to the 911 person I was overcome with how utterly plausible it could be that something like this could happen. "My father. He's 79 years old. He nearly collapsed, but I think he might be okay now but I'm not sure. Please send someone quickly to take a look at him."

Every year for as long as I can remember, since being a little kid, seeing the rescue squad--the Rhode Islandism for ambulance--make its way through crowded streets on July 4^th was part of the whole steamy hot, crowded throngs, hectic activity tableau. I'm sure at times I stopped what I was doing for a second to take note of the siren blasting past. But only ever for a brief moment before returning to whatever happy-go-lucky thing I was doing. Never able to empathize that a family could be dealing with a crisis, a stomach-wrenching tragedy, a loss.

But when it's you in that mode, it's too late to get the karmic benefit of having concerned yourself with all those other people. The best you can do is just hope hope hope that this isn't happening, that it's all okay, that in the midst of a lovely easy afternoon of no particular importance you haven't been shot through a cannon and to your utter shock and disbelief landed in a devastating and unforgettable day.

And somehow, blessedly, my internal mantra of "no no no no no" together with a huge dose of luck worked. 

By the time I stuttered my way through the 911 call and their follow-up call to me (since I'd hastily hung up before giving them all the necessary information), Mark came in from the patio holding a scared bewildered Kate to give me a hug and let me know my father seemed to be totally fine. He was sitting in a chair in the shade, no doubt embarrassed by all the hoopla, and making jokes.

Sure enough by the time I went out and saw him with my own eyes he was eating fruit salad from a plastic cup and stubbornly refusing the bottle of water I was handing him. It felt good, normal even, to feel annoyed with him that he wouldn't take a drink. He was back. 

As the adrenaline drained from me I broke it to Dad that the ambulance was coming, fearing his annoyance that I'd called them. It seemed that he'd gotten up too fast, felt a bit woozy from heat, a late lunch, a drink. He never actually passed out--just got wobbly and light-headed. But I was still too scared to trust the party attendees' non-professional assessment. 

Surprisingly he said he wasn't mad; that it was okay. They'd just check him out and if everything was okay, no harm done.

Maybe Dad felt enough of a jolt of fear himself from the whole thing. Maybe like me the years of hearing ambulances cruise through town on Fourth of July headed to other unlucky families we barely stopped to think about made him take stock. If this year they came our way but left without any real work to do, in the grand scheme of things that'd be just fine.  

Dear Paige:

Here we are in Harrisburg, PA at Daryl and Christian's house on the third leg of your first East Coast Tour. It's getting late and I really should be sleeping since it's my turn to wake up early with you and Kate tomorrow. But instead I need to write you a love letter.

Some people thought it was ambitious of us to travel with a five-month-old and three-year-old for over two weeks and to four different places. (So, if the train travels at 80MPH and makes three stops, how many miles did it go?) Of course it'd be easier to just stay home, but we're parenting with the educated guess that giving you and Kate new experiences will be enriching even if Dad has to stagger though endless airport terminals strapped with carseats, bags, and overtired babies, and we have to pack and unpack a really-too-small-for-us rental car every few days.

You know. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Besides, we were really excited to show you off, Little Miss Paige.

Going to Rhode Island each summer is more than a good vacation for me. It's like a pilgrimage that refreshes my spirit. Aside from it being home, and beautiful and beachy, and the setting for the beloved historic Forta of July parade, many of the people who I love most in the world happen to live here.

So, take a trip that I look forward to all year, and add you, my new little Love Dumpling, who most everyone has yet to meet, along with your big sis and Dad. I get the Del's Lemonade, the garlic-icious spinach pies, time with my father, Aunt Mary and Mimi, and my Big Sis, Marie--all this and I get to present to them this beautiful sweet sweet sweet baby--you!--and tell them, "So, here's my baby. Don't you just love her?"

Sure, I was proud of the leather jacket I got when I was a kid that had a real-fur collar (yeah yeah, throw some ketchup on me), but I've never experienced pride in something--or the desire to show something off--in the way I have with you and your sister. As a parent I now understand my father's "Did I tell you about my daughters...?" M.O. that always slightly embarrassed me.

Don't worry, I hope to some day refrain from the "My kid is on the honor roll" bumper sticker. I'll just have to let everyone know about that verbally.

So this trip. On this trip you have traveled like a champ, Paigey, sleeping through long car and plane rides, teetering on awkward, cramped and God knows immodest places to get your diaper changed. You've camped out in various porta-cribs in home offices and guest bedrooms, and sweated through hot nights with staggering humidity, insufficient fans, and ear-splitting firecracker blasts without waking up once. You watched two-plus hours of an Independence Day parade, sitting contently through loud marching bands, over-crowded streets, and being handed from cooing friend to cheek-pinching relative. You even rocked two different red-white-and-blue outfits, because at one's first July 4^th parade how can you wear just one?

Through it all you've flashed your huge mouth-agape smile over and over. Never once have we had to say, "She just woke up" "She's jet-lagged" or "She must be hungry." Your default setting is Sweet/Easy/Happy. It's incredibly fun to introduce you to people because as sweet lovable babies go, you're pretty damn bulletproof. Thank you for that.

I wish our cable signal was as reliable as you.

Does it go too far to also point out the ripple effect your smile has? That whatever happy dumpling-ness makes you all shiny and bouncy gets passed on to other people who I love so very much? Let's just say seeing a smile-and-laugh-fest between you and my 94-year-old Godmother is reason enough for two 6-hour plane rides.

Thank you, sweet Paige, for being the little beacon of joy that you are. I'm truly honored to be your Mama. To be the one that doesn't only get you for a visit, but gets to come home with you, be the last to kiss you before you sleep at night, and drag my sorry ass up in the morning to fetch you gurgling from your crib. You manage to turn bleary-eyed 6:30AM into a nice time to be awake with someone.     

Thank you for all the blissed out Mama moments I have with you, doing everyday things like changing your diaper or feeding you, when I have a few just-you-and-me quiet minutes to squeeze your ham hock thighs, blow raspberries on your belly, or kiss kiss kiss your delicious neck.

Sweet Paige, you dazzle me. How lucky we are to have you. And how blessed we are that you are you.

xoxo,

Mama

It's July 5^th. For me it's like December 26^th is for many other people. The day after all the hoopla, and when you need to start counting down until it happens again next year.

It's noon but we've already done a hearty round of visiting, and all around town it's the same. It's like every Bristolian has an over abundance of home-grown tomatoes and zucchini--but in this case it's desserts from their Forta July celebrations. Everywhere you go people are either foisting off or fending off cookies, brownies and red-white-and-blue cakes. What's that joke about having to lock your car doors or else someone will load it up with stuff for you?

Anyway, what ends up happening is everyone ends up with the same amount of leftovers to eat their way through. It's just that some of it wasn't yours to start with.

So of course, we decided to order out sandwiches from Leo's for lunch. The over-stuffed refrigerator be damned.

Greetings from Rhode Island where men with moustaches manage to get dates, a place called Van's Spa purveys "mile long hot dogs" not massages, and the exercise craze of walking with Heavy Hands never died in the 80's.

We've been here since Sunday night, kicking off two-and-a-half weeks on this here coast. And if you're reading this and planning to rip off our house while we're gone, the old lady across the street assured me she'd be keeping an eye on the place. I'm not sure but she might have some mean judo moves up her sleeve, so don't try anything funny.

Little Rhody comprises the first leg of our multi-part vaycay. After this there's Cape Cod, Harrisburg, PA, and the metro DC area. Wish us luck.

Alas, despite a small inconvenience with dehydration that resulted in my visiting the town medical center on Monday (I've long contended the intake of water is overrated), we're having a lovely time. Past summertime visits home have reminded me of the famous mercurial weather that New England serves up, but thus far--knock wood--we've already gotten in two beach days. No better tonic for the soul, I say. Plus, Kate's honing some serious sand castle skills.

What else? The humidity is just above what you'd think would be bearable--though it adds some nice volume to your hair. There's a slightly annoying light layer of sand on the floors, my breath is offensively garlicky from a lunchtime spinach pie (despite a couple aggressive brushing sessions), and the Del's Lemonade cart is stationed along the bike path at Colt State park doing a brisk business.

And let's not forget the knuckleheads who ride their motorcycles through town wearing muscle shirts, shorts, and no helmets. Like many of the state's charming idiosyncrasies, there isn't a law requiring that you wear a helmet on your motorcycle. Despite my theory that--especially in such a petite state where this population is correspondingly small--this would result in the Darwinian extinction of this group, somehow at least some of them have managed to hang on.

But, like the local custom of drinking coffee milk, calling drinking fountains "bubblers," and being the exclusive breeding ground for the large clam-like quahog, things here are just not like they are other places.  

It's good to be home.