Tag Archives: Parenting

March 14, 2013

When Your Toddler Gives You Crazy Eyes

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Early Monday morning Waylon woke up and decided to be “the toddler.” The toddler who throws half-bit crayons and smushed up grapes and entire cups of bathwater. The toddler who doesn’t listen, doesn’t care, and pretends time-out is is a trip to Disney World. The toddler who doesn’t just have “moments,” but entire days filled with crying, whining, kicking, and then more whining.

Want to wash a dish? The toddler will scream to be held. Want to write a sentence? The toddler needs a snack! Want to fold the wash? The toddler will throw a tantrum because CLOTHES ARE FOR THROWING.

Yesterday the kid cried for almost an hour after I broke the news that no, we do not eat fruit snacks at 3pm. Tears and more tears followed by toy throwing and I just wanted to say SETTLE DOWN NOBODY DIED.

Then I took ten minutes to “take out the trash” because Moms need time-outs too.

I know it’s normal, I know it will pass, but a collective sigh for all the parents of toddlers–past, present, and future. Friday margaritas can’t come soon enough. Every week we’re still alive is a milestone.

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February 21, 2013

Is Circumcision Important?

Motley Mama Dot Com

Most adult men in America are circumcised, but the number of newborns having the operation is falling, now below 50% in some states, intensifying the dilemma for parents and causing a national (and medical) divide.

When Austin and I found out we were having a boy, we just assumed we would circumcise our newborn. It’s normal! It’s routine! Hasta Luego foreskin! Whatever.

The circumcision trend in America began in large part to keep boys from masturbating. 19th century physicians went as far as suggesting the surgery should be done without medication so that a child will associate his genitals with pain. 

In Plain Facts for Young and Old (1882), John Harvey Kellogg writes: “A remedy [for masturbation] which is almost always successful in small boys is circumcision …The operation should be performed by a surgeon without administering an anesthetic, as the pain attending the operation will have a salutary effect upon the mind.”

Today, arguments in favor of circumcision are based on science. Studies in Africa suggest that circumcised heterosexual males are less likely to contract HIV than their non-circumcised counterparts (only if they choose not to wear a condom). Proponents also argue that urinary tract infections are less likely, and that it is necessary for cleanliness.

On the other side of the spectrum, the American Academy of Pediatricians claims the medical data in favor of circumcision “are not sufficient to recommend routine neonatal circumcision,” and most American doctors admit the procedure is not medically necessary.

The controversy extends beyond America as well. This past June, Germany was shaken by a court ruling that circumcision of minors was harmful, and a violation of a child’s rights. In the UK, less than 10% of men are circumcised.

Around these parts, circumcision has historically been as normal as a vaccination. Until recently, doctors simply asked, “When would you like your baby circumcised?” Now it’s a choice, and a strange one at that. Instead of making a choice based on science, the decision is mostly cultural. What if my child looks different than his peers? Will he be made fun of? What if he looks different from me? Will his penis look weird?!?

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In the end, we did not circumcise our newborn. I left it up to Austin and he decided to forgo it, calling the procedure “cosmetic.” 

I don’t regret the choice we made, but I do avoid the discussion with my peers because really, we don’t feel strongly either way. Circumcise, don’t circumcise—your kid will be perfectly fine either way. It’s not something I lose sleep about.

This doesn’t mean I’m not interested the discussion. This topic is so heated and overdramatic in the Internet world that I crave a normal, insightful discussion without eye rolling at the words BABY TORTURE in all caps (relax Internet trolls!).

What about you? Is circumcision important to your family? How did you make the decision?

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Circumcision, the ultimate parenting dilemma on BBC

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February 19, 2013

Bragging Wars

www.motleymama.com

You know the parent.

The parent you don’t want to be. The parent telling you about their child and all their achievements and awards and early reading/talking/walking/teething/breathing. FOR THE LOVE, we all cry. DON’T LET ME BE THAT PARENT.

And then your 16 month old is randomly reading Mandarin or your four year old is finally eating her vegetables and all of a sudden: OH. You are bursting at the seams. My child! Look at my child! HE SHAT SOMEWHERE OTHER THAN HIS PANTS!!

This month the New York Times published an article on the infamous mommy (and daddy) BRAG. The piece hit especially close to home as my dear son has recently learned his letters and it’s all I can do not to shout it from the rooftops. My son! Look at my son! He is a genius!

Of course he’s not actually a genius (probably just a side effect of too much PBS), yet here I am sitting on my hands, trying to keep it to myself. Why? Why do I want to share? Or more importantly, why should I keep it to myself?

About a year ago, when Waylon was still a gooey baby, I remember reading an excited Facebook status from a mom whose baby was sleeping through the night. The child was a newborn, much younger than Waylon, and had been sleeping 12 hours through the night since birth. My reaction was less than gracious; 1% because why put that on facebook and 99% because my child is still getting up every hour, you jagweed!

Undoubtably my feelings were born out of jealousy and fear of failure because that’s what parenting does to us. Here we are given these most precious beings with the small caveat to definitely not screw this up. How else are we to cope?

Of course there is some validity and truth to wanting to brag about your kids. After all, parenting is hard. Why not, as New York Times author Bruce Feiler puts it, do a victory lap once in a while?

Part of it is the age we live in. With Twitter, Facebook, blogging dashboards, and Instagram at our fingertips, it’s easy to overshare. It’s also easy to get caught up in the look at my life and look at how great we are living it. To put it mildly, it’s easy to only show the good stuff.

What I’m learning is that the best medicine for the brag-itch is to celebrate with those who care. Every time Waylon does something extraordinary, I grab my phone and hit up my dream team: my mom, my dad, and of course–Baby Daddy. They always, always care. They are always excited, always impressed, and always happy to hear about Waylon eating his peas and brushing his teeth.

That’s the reaction you want.

Not an eye roll or an under the breath mumble to “shove it,” but pure, unadulterated joy and the reassurance that we’re not screwing things up.

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For more tips on how to brag (or not brag), check out the Times article here.

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February 5, 2013

When Your Toddler Baby Has Surgery And Nobody Has A Xanax

MM

Waylon had surgery yesterday for what is commonly known as a “tongue tie” or ankyloglossia. It was something he was born with but had remained undetected until he was over a year old. We chose to have the surgery now because we were told that a) it’s no big deal and b) he is young enough that he won’t remember it later.

The thing about surgery being “no big deal” is that it’s always a big deal when it’s your toddler-baby being gassed and butchered by a meaty handed surgeon wearing crocs. It’s also really inconvenient.

For example: we left the house at 8am only to end up waiting until noon for surgery to actually begin. This meant four whole hours of distracting a whiny toddler who hadn’t eaten or drank since we stuffed him full of pasta the night before. Apparently operating rooms are always running behind. Who knew? (Austin) (I didn’t believe him).

The nurses were helpful. They brought out bubbles and coloring books and puzzles to help pass the time. Waylon was excited about BUBBLES because toddlers love BUBBLES like hipsters love juicing. At one point the entire room stood around to watch Austin blow bubbles while his son had mini panic attacks trying to destroy them. It was exhausting.

Nurse: “He’s never going to wake up after he goes to sleep!”

Me: THIS IS MY NIGHTMARE, WOMAN

Three bubble containers later, the docs came in and ordered pre-meds which is just a fancy way of saying they were going to make my kid drunk enough to carry away without him slitting their throats. It only took one tiny syringe of pink goo and Waylon turned into a college girl at her first party. Silly, slurry, and incredibly clingy. When he finally collapsed into my lap, he just sat staring straight ahead with a quiet grin on his face.

Austin: Look at him! He’s so cute.

Me: THIS IS THE LAST TIME I’LL EVER HOLD HIM!!!

Everyone says this about kids and surgery and it’s true: the moment you hand over your child to the doctor is the worst. My heart sank and my instincts told me to just take the drunk boy and run. It wasn’t the actual procedure that scared me, but the anesthesia. My mind raced to all the stories I’d read about allergic reactions and unexplained complications. The doctor said, “We’ll take good care of him,” but I could only smell his head and cry. It was hard.

And then we got cafeteria sushi and a frappuccino!

It was over in less than an hour. They found us in the waiting room.

Doctor: “Well, it’s over…”

Me: WHAT IS OVER? WHAT ARE YOU SAYING? WHY ARE YOU MAKING A FACE?

We heard him before we saw him, held down by two nurses and screaming like a bobcat. They had warned us that some kids wake up very unhappy, but I’d survived colic so I wasn’t worried. Unfortunately bloody kids screaming in pain and hospital smells are two of my vasovagal triggers (fainting) so I had to leave the room to sit on the toilet and practice breathing. When I returned to the recovery room, Waylon was still writhing and screaming and Austin was still flustered and sweating.

All in all, it wasn’t great.

When we finally brought him home, our little survivor collapsed, slept for three hours, and then woke up to pudding cups and special sorry-we-cut-your-tongue bath crayons. He was pleased.

 

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It was a long day, but we are glad our tongue troubles are behind us. Waylon is fine and we are fine. Everyone is just fine. Nobody died or lost control of their bowels or shouted at any innocent medical staff. I didn’t call Austin a jagweed when he mentioned I could maybe relax and he didn’t flinch when the nurses told him things he already knew.

If I have any advice about kids and surgery, it’s this: Xanax. Next time, definitely Xanax. And maybe a shot of whiskey. My mama heart is simply too fragile.

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January 3, 2013

Our Darkest Fears

www.motleymama.com

I’ve been writing this post for a long time. Not actually writing it, but letting it float around in my mind, pick up dust, become something safe to share.

Parenting is strange. It brings out your best and your worst, all in the same breath. Suddenly I am stronger, but then I am brought to my knees. Weak with worry, weak with love, weak with fear.

My fears with Waylon started early.

It is not uncommon for new mothers to obsessively worry about their babies. SIDS hangs over us like a dark cloud, causing restless nights and panicked sprints to the nursery. I tried not to think about it when I stared at my newborn’s face, but every night I had the same prayer, “Please let him live.” A year later, my prayer is not so different. My fear consumes me at night, the darkness closes in and there I am, heart pounding, wondering what would happen if he wasn’t there the next day.

When I share this with friends, they assure me it’s normal. Of course you worry about your child. But at 1am when I’m still lying there, listening to every creak of the house, wondering if someone is creeping up the stairs–I think, “this is not okay.”

In my limited defense, I am not a person prone to worry about germs, bumped heads, or high fevers. You will not find me ringing my hands over choking or wondering “Is that chicken pox?!” But I do fear others. I worry about baby snatchers and unneighborly neighbors.  I worry about facing life without one of my limbs, because that’s what children are, an extension of ourselves.

I hesitate to write about this in the daylight. It all seems so silly now. As Austin often says, everything is the same at night. It’s just dark. He tries to be reassuring and I try to be reassured, but this fear of Waylon being taken or harmed at night is just a part of a larger problem that continues to grow. Despite a healthy and untraumatic childhood, I  am afraid of the dark. My overactive imagination kicks in and all of a sudden I can’t do anything else but picture someone who looks a lot like Kevin Bacon waiting around the corner with a knife.

I blame the movies, I blame Dateline, I blame my sensitive psyche. Mostly I just blame myself for being such an ignoramus. No matter what the cause, fear finds me every night over the hum of the monitor and noise machines. It finds me lying there and shows me horrible things. Things I would never repeat out loud.

And so I whisper please Jesus and everything is okay. I take my deep breaths and wait for sleep. It’s all I can do.

Our darkest fears are often the most revealing. My hope is that they aren’t defining. My hope is that the more we say I am not afraid, the quieter fear becomes.

We press on.

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