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On a scale of 1 to 10, it was about a 3.
In the scheme of things, it could have been a lot worse. Both of our fathers are thankfully still alive and well. We don’t live near them, sure, but we talked with one and Skyped with the other.
Josh and I are also blessed to have two healthy sons, ages 4 and 2, who are great at doing normal kid things like beating each other up and sleeping late only on weekdays. To them, Josh is a loving, hands-on father (which is especially noteworthy on Father’s Day).
And, that’s pretty much where I should stop with the good stuff accounting.
There was no cookout or family gathering. We didn’t go to the pool. Instead, we ran errands to Costco and our storage facility. And, we bickered over dinner in front of our foreign exchange counselor.
For context, Josh had been traveling all week for work. And on Saturday, I had given him a free pass to play golf. All day. Did I mention he slept in on both weekend mornings?
In hindsight, I guess I should have done more planning. But, he never told me where he wanted to go for brunch or what he wanted to do on Father’s Day. And, he’s the spontaneous one. If I had planned, he surely would have wanted to do something else.
So, by 9:00am on Father’s Day, I was, shall we say, crispy. I went down for a nap and woke up two hours later to Josh complaining, “What kind of Father’s Day is this?”
We went out for bagels, which was sort of fun. If you overlook the fact that our sons ate woefully little of their $10 nova bagel and $7 turkey sandwich. And, the fact that by the end, I was covered in a blue, 0% juice drink called “Tum-E Yummies.”
The infamous, 0% juice drink.
That afternoon, Josh took a solo bike ride, which was a nice Father’s Day treat. And then, at 6:45pm, against our better judgment , we took the kids out to dinner. When it comes to things like this, we tend to have short memories. We think it will just be fun. What the heck? It’s Father’s Day!
What we overlooked was how dangerously close this was to bedtime, and that the kids would be starving by the time we got to the restaurant.
Given that it was Father’s Day, I watched the kids on the playground while the restaurant cooked our food. (Yes, there was a playground in the middle of the shopping center. This IS Charlotte we’re talking about.) I also ran interference during dinner when the dumbass kitchen brought the kids food out after the adult food.
But, when Ian refused to eat the miniscule Chicken Satay skewers when they finally arrived at the table, and he also refused the veggie squeezie packet I offered him, Josh barked the equivalent of backseat driver orders for me to Just. Give. The Squeezie. To Ian. Already. After all, He’s just two!
And this is when I let Josh have it. In front of Roni, the 20-year-old Israeli counselor staying with us for the month.
It’s always nice when you yell at your husband on Father’s Day. Or, rather, give him some lingering silent treatment with a healthy dose of internal cussing.
Things sort of got better on the way home. We saw lightning bugs everywhere. And, after we hosed down the kids in the shower, they fell asleep quickly. Then Josh and I watched part of a truly incredible TV documentary about North America.
Wild and crazy times.
When we thought about the day elsewhere — about Josh’s family gathered for the weekend on Cape Cod, and my dad in Florida going for brunch with my mom and friends because my sister and I don’t live near them — we realized the full extent to which the day sucked.
And that’s the truth of it. There were no smiling photos or witty comments posted to Facebook. No memorable gift giving.
Just errands, bickering and stressful meals out with young children. Happy Father’s Day, Sweetie.
Nothing’s as bad as the Mother’s and Father’s Days when we were struggling to start our family. But this was pretty close.
Next year: let’s plan on barbequing. I’ll buy the grub if you grill it up. And, maybe, we’ll even take the kids to the pool.
I have my son’s blood on my jacket, my jeans.
The phrase “falling on your face” has new meaning for our family, after Max, 4 ½, fell last Friday while running toward the playground and didn’t get around to bracing himself first. I was talking with my friend Michelle when it happened, so I didn’t witness the fall. But the aftermath was a scene from a war film.
Max rose from the ground and ran toward me wearing horror in his eyes and coughing on the blood streaming into his mouth. My younger son, Ian, clung to my leg where he’d stay during the moments it took to seek help and get Max cleaned up.
NOT AGAIN.
Last time – just seven months prior – I hadn’t seen the fall, either. It was on the stairs at camp while Max walked down to meet me at pickup. He tripped on his backpack straps and fell nose first into the banister.
Max and his crooked nose, June 2012.
By the time I reached Max at camp, the staff had already cleaned him up, and he was holding an ice pack to his freshly crooked nose. For the week it took to surgically straighten it, I fought nausea and found it difficult to look at Max below his eyes. But I didn’t witness the bloody mess. Last week, it was the initial gore whose imagery now lingers.
These things have a way of imprinting on us parents. They add lines to our brows; they take moments, perhaps years, off our lives.
The ENT calls Max an “active” child. My father was one, too. He would eventually channel his energy through baseball and basketball, which he played throughout college. But as a boy growing up in Brooklyn, he got into a few bloody messes of his own.
At three, my dad went to the butcher with my grandmother and ran outside to swing on a gate. His thumb got caught in a hinge, and the tip was almost amputated. My grandmother, while nursing this wound and many others, yelled at him: “Why are you doing this to ME?”
The boo boos that rapidly heal on our children leave longer-lasting marks on their parents. The wrestling, rough-housing, falls and blood are all new to me having grown up with a sister and no brothers. My sister’s falling off her bike and breaking her hand was the only substantial injury I recall from both of our childhoods. I’ve already sought emergency medical care for Max twice, and he’s not even five yet.
People say boys are easier to raise – especially compared to girls’ hormones. But the grisliness of boys’ childhood injuries is emotionally wrenching for parents, too.
On Friday, after he was all cleaned up, a whole-body hug seemed to recharge Max. He smiled and asked if there would be a TV at urgent care; after all, there had been one in the emergency room over the summer. Children are more resilient than their parents. He reminds me of this often.
I practiced yoga breathing the rest of the afternoon and recharged with a bear hug of my own – from my husband. In the days that followed, I was grinding my teeth to the point of a tooth ache.
When surrounded by our children, there’s no time for parents to be visibly stressed. Those expressions must wait – often for subconscious moments. My dentist asked me recently if my gums and teeth felt more sensitive after stress. This time, the answer was evident.
This time, the urgent care doctor and Max’s ENT both came back with good news: Max broke only capillaries in his nose. A week after the bloody mess, the only scars remaining are of the mental variety. We were lucky.
The washing machine has lifted all evidence of blood from our clothes. I wish it were that way with my memory, too.
Library and movie time on the road
August – the Sunday of summer months – has never been my favorite. I prefer June with all of its optimism, the summer stretching its tan limbs out ahead. This August in particular was more trying than usual.
On paper, it sounded idyllic: A week-long beach vacation with oodles of family, followed by three weeks of unstructured fun time with the boys. I pictured filling the last weeks of summer with playdates and the kids and I winging it. Truthfully, I was wary of the stretch of time without schedules, but I kept pushing off the thought of it all. Truly August wouldn’t come for a long time yet.
Here’s what transpired: August began with a combined 28-hour drive with our preschooler and toddler in tow – the kids did great! – but we spent only two hours, tops, at the beach. We came home to develop a double ear infection (Ian) and two upper respiratory infections (me and Josh). Then, the A/C unit broke upstairs, which is where we sleep, and it took two out of our three “free” weeks to research and replace it. Did I mention that during our family road trip, Max got motion sickness and puked once in the car and once at my sister’s dining room table? (Sorry Stace!)
On the bright side: I finally covered with protective foam the razor sharp edge of the sofa table behind the couch. Now the boys will never realize my fears of cutting their faces open while making forts with the couch cushions and jumping across the “moat” to “safety.”
This August I also took the kids to a Children’s Theatre of Charlotte performance of Psshh!, a production created for the under-3 set, which was Ian’s first time in the theatre and which both boys adored.
We did have three play dates in August once our family was healthy again. And Max attended two amazing backyard birthday parties – one that taught him the finer things about super heroes, namely how to put the bad guys in jail. The other included a bounce house, a singing farmer, balloon figurine design and snow cones, all out back behind our friends’ house.
After a long end to summer, I admit I spent several days in bed, recovering from it all. And now, tomorrow, school starts. With that, I say a fond farewell to August. And hello, September!
Ian woke up today and suddenly likes bananas. This is the same kid who, for the first year of his life, hated them. As a baby, he would reject the spoonful of mashed bananas. As a new toddler, he would flail his arms to knock the banana pieces away. Or better yet, he would dangle them over the side of the highchair tray, look you right in the eye with a smirk on his face and then release them.
Ma nishtanah? Why is today, Saturday, March 24th (at 7:10 am, of course) different than all other mornings? What made him decide to try – and like – banana?
Perhaps, at 13 months old, the sliminess no longer bothers him? With eight teeth, he likes that I can give him larger chunks than before? Could his taste buds have changed?
Almost four years into this parenting thing, and my kids still amaze me like the first time I saw them. Often, I’m at a loss for words or understanding. I’m just happy to be along for the ride.
Gotta run. My little monkey is grunting at me, for guess what, more bananas. And there he goes. He finished the whole darn thing. What an amazing turn of events.
Back in the day with Mr. Early Riser.
It’s Saturday morning. 5:06 a.m. I curse at the clock and look into the monitor. Twelve-month-old Ian is tucked into the corner of his crib. Tushy in the air.
His being awake and in this position could mean one of two things: He’s cold. Or he’s wet. At 5:06 a.m., neither of them is good. It’s also thundering outside. Option three: he’s scared.
I feel an elbow in my back from Max, who trotted into bed with us a little earlier when awoken by the storm.
I start wiggling my toes. It’s like yoga, I tell myself. You slowly start to move your extremities, and then the rest will follow.
Then I’m up.
Sure enough, Ian is wet. And petrified. He cries and cries from the change table like a baby possessed. He’s not still asleep. It’s not a nightmare. But he needs. Something.
When he’s dry again and his new PJs zipped, I pick him up and he settles into my chest. He hasn’t done this since he was an infant. My pajamas dip down a little, and he’s found a warm patch of skin. I imagine he’s listening to my heartbeat. Perhaps I’m listening to it, too. It feels so good to hold him like this. I almost don’t mind being up at 5:00 am on a Saturday morning. Almost.
He whimpers once or twice more and then exhales. Ahhh. Comfort. When his breathing settles, I put him back down. He sleeps again until 6:40 am, when he’s up for good. No need to decode that one. He’s just an early riser.
What we purchased this weekend at the farm.
I just spent $456 on vegetables. I signed up for an organic CSA. Basically, I bought a ½ share of a farm’s summer crop. Every other week from May through October, a box of local, freshly picked, certified organic produce will be delivered to my temple – where I happen to work, anyway. How great is that?
Josh and I took the family to the farm this past weekend to take a tour and go shopping at their market. It was windy and we were late, so we pretty much missed the tour. But in our brief time there, we saw all we needed to: Drip irrigation (which was created in Israel!), vibrant mixed greens sprouting, a huge compost, and beautiful communal buildings for events and group dinners.
The clincher was learning that the farm sends out an e-newsletter on Thursdays before deliveries. It lists the foods that will be in the next delivery and gives recipes for cooking some of the more obscure items. This way I can still plan ahead and shop over the weekend.
A few of our friends have signed up too, and we’re going to share best practices. A CSA support group of sorts. Veggies united!
I don’t think I’ve ever been this excited about produce before. But it’s more than that. It’s Jewish ethics. Reducing our carbon footprint. Supporting a wonderful, local farm. Veggie philanthropy! And it’s an interactive way to teach our children where their food comes from.
Hopefully, Max will actually try the collards next time. He turned them away this week, even though they were covered in peanut sauce. But I wasn’t upset. It meant more for me! Who knew collards and crunchy peanut butter would make such delicious partners. Can’t wait to see what else I learn this summer!
Recipe for Greens in Peanut Sauce
Care of Poplar Ridge Farm
1 medium onion (I didn’t have one on hand, so I didn’t use it)
2-3 cloves of garlic
1 medium tomato, diced (optional, I used it)
½ tsp ground coriander (I didn’t have this, cumin or cloves, so I left them out)
½ tsp ground cumin
¼ tsp salt
1/8 tsp ground cloves
1 lb kale, collards or turnip greens (I used collards, I think. It may have been kale…I’m a veggie in training!)
2-3 tbsp chunky peanut butter
1-2 tsp hot water
In a large pot, sauté onion and garlic in 1 tbsp oil. Add tomato and simmer 2-4 minutes.
Add greens and steam until greens are soft but not mushy. Avoid overcooking. Stir occasionally to coat greens with the spices.
Combine peanut butter and water and add to greens at the end of the cooking.
Enjoy!
My phone got run over by a car last Sunday. I discovered it at night, my car’s headlights shining down on the bright pink case as though it were a throbbing heart. Only, it was a heart no longer beating.
My obsession was gone. Just like that. No warning. Little backup. My calendar and lists – including medical ones – had vanished. You could call it a divine Crackberry intervention. I called it annoying. The humorous hindsight would come later.
Fortunately, I had insurance. Unfortunately, the insurance company sent me a defective replacement. So, for the better part of a week, I found myself a computer’s reach away from all things immediate and organizational. How did we function 15 years ago? Driving without cell phones, walking around without the ability to reach each other – and our calendars – constantly?
For the first time since I became addicted to Facebook while nursing baby Ian, I found myself free from the constant check-in. Free from feeling like I ought to be accessible to my part-time job at all times. Free to focus on my kids without feeling like they were pulling me away from THE DEVICE.
Besides for being physically run down and mentally scattered last week, I have to say I felt healthier. I actually sat down to write a little. I took a few cat naps. The kids and I watched less TV, too. Coincidences? I’m not so sure.
Yes, my bright pink temptation has started functioning properly again. Will I have the willpower to stick to my resolution – to check email and status updates only twice a day, in the morning and at night? Only time will tell.
But God, please grant me the courage to change the things I can…
Ian and his Paddington Bear-painted cranial band.
When my older son, Max, was about eight months old, we had a play date in the children’s section of Barnes & Noble, near the Thomas the Train table. The other boy was a toddler and was busy at play with the trains. I held Max as I chatted with the toddler’s mom. At one point, the boy took a train in his hand, and in his excitement to show it to Max, chugged it at full force into Max’s head. I saw it coming with maybe a second to spare, and I braced both Max and myself for the impact. With my eyes squeezed tight I heard the thunk of metal against…plastic. For Max was wearing his cranial band, and it saved the day.
When my husband and I first learned Max needed a cranial band, we had many worries: Was the flatness at the back of his head really just a cosmetic concern? Would re-molding his skull affect his brain, too? What did we do wrong? Could it have been uterine positioning? Too much sleeping on his back and reclining in the bouncy seat? Would people make fun of him while he wears it? Would they wonder what’s wrong with our precious child?
We learned over time and from the birth of a second flat-headed son, that yes, my funky, T-shaped uterus could be blamed for squashing my sons’ heads. (Add it to the list of things they’ll blame me for in the future.) And no, the reshaping of their crania does not appear to have changed our sons’ behaviors or mental capacities, not one bit. (Max is still too smart and mechanical a three year old for his own good…turning on the TV and stereo equipment himself, reciting prayers in Hebrew, I could continue bragging, but I’ll stop now.)
We’ve found that most people don’t poke fun at the bands; they just ask a lot of questions. They call them helmets. Head bands. They bless my sons’ hearts. And they wonder about the bands. What they’re for.
As a result, I’ve become a novice cranial band educator. I explain its length of wear (about 3 months, at least for our kids) and other details. Did you know, for example, that the American Academy of Pediatrics’ Back to Sleep Campaign in 1992, which re-directed parents to put their kids to sleep on their backs instead of their tummies, has resulted in a dramatic increase in cases of plagiocephaly, the medical term for malformation of the head?
I also commiserate with parents whose children wear the bands. We find each other, sigh in relief and smile. We chuckle together about our initial worries. We agree: It’s really not that bad once you get used to it.
Now that I am used to it and almost finished with two experiences, my worries are smaller in scale, though more numerous (as I guess it is with all parents as they gain more experience and their families expand). I worry about Ian sleeping with un-socked feet. Since air can’t flow out of his covered head, it must escape from his feet. Will he therefore be cold now that it’s autumn?
Cranial bands, like all unexpected but necessary medical devices, are shocks at first but then settle in to normalcy. Ian hardly notices he’s wearing it. When I take off the band, he’s enamored by it and wants to chew on it. The hardship often lands more on parents of band-wearing infants than on the infants themselves.
To reduce the stark whiteness of the naked bands, we found a wonderful local artist to paint them. I convinced myself both times that the bands were more like wearable artwork than medical devices. (By the way, the brand name is “Doc Band” and it’s generically called a cranial orthosis. So essentially, my kids wore orthotics on their heads instead of in their shoes!)
Max took to the band seamlessly, mid-winter. Ian got his over the summer in the Southeast, so we struggled to keep him cool, and he had a few tough nights learning how to sleep in it. We made several mad dashes to baby stores to get lightweight sleep sacks and long footless PJs, which were equally hard to find. (The Children’s Place and Buy Buy Baby, FYI, were most helpful.)
Similar to the other kind of orthotics, the band can smell like stinky feet if perspiration isn’t wiped away every several hours and cleaned with alcohol daily. But those tasks become part of diaper change and bathing routines, and are hardly remarkable after a while.
Ian is now down to his last week. His band therapist has reached plastic; there is no more foam for her to carve away. The molding of his head is complete. The curve to the base of his neck looks somewhat constructed, not wholly natural or full. But it’s within the realm of normal. If he chooses to shave his head as an adult, it will look as handsome as the rest of him. And that’s what we wanted.
The funny thing about Max and Ian both having had flat infant heads that were corrected, is that their heads will still have similar shapes. Their somewhat curved noggins will be one more thing for them to have in common as brothers.
The experience could have been much worse: Our insurance was stellar three years ago, so with Max I believe we paid a co-pay for a band normally running several thousand dollars. For Ian as well, even though the economy has greatly changed our insurance coverage (among many other things in life and the world) the fees were still nominal, several hundred dollars, in comparison to the full cost.
We live only 25 minutes away from the Cranial Technologies office www.cranialtech.com, so the commute to the initial weekly then biweekly adjustments weren’t that much of a hassle. A decade ago, initial measurements were taken by plaster molding: A torturous process with lots of screaming, I assume by both infants and their parents. Now, children are fitted digitally. They wear stockings over their faces looking like robbers, as five digital cameras make picture composites of their heads.
Our therapists were lovely. One is the daughter of a cancer patient and a parent of a young son. We had plenty to talk about during the brief check-in appointments.
If you are reading this blog post anticipating your child needing a band, or struggling through initial sleep or other adjustments, take a deep breath. You will all get used to it. A friend whose son is a cranial band graduate now rests the retired band on a teddy bear in her son’s bedroom. It has become part of her family’s folklore, one of those things that make her child unique. Your child’s band will, too.
Max recently asked me of Ian’s band, “Can he play football in it, Mom-Mom?” And I informed him that cranial band or not, neither of them will be playing football for as long as I can help it. (Have you seen those players carted off fields with injuries so bad they can’t walk off themselves? Back in my high school cheerleading days, we had to move aside more than once for ambulances to reach athletes.)
“But I like playing football with Daddy,” Max replied.
Max at 7 months in his Dr. Seuss-themed band
See what I mean? As a parent I have bigger things to worry about than my infant sons wearing cranial bands. Max doesn’t even remember his; that’s how big of a scar it left on him. And now he says he wants to play football. Real, scary, football. Remolding infant heads is the least of it.
As a worried mom, I know I won’t always be able to protect my boys. I know there are bigger things than Thomas toy trains that could potentially hurt them. And that their problems won’t always be fixable in three short months, as with the cranial band. So I’m looking to these experiences as moments to take pause and be thankful for fixable problems, small moldable heads and cranial orthotics.
Notes From Time Out 