Sharing

Last night MAS decided his little sister needed a train sticker, too. And you know what? She seemed actually pleased when he carefully placed it on her forehead.

Watching the two of them interact--which they've only really started doing the last few weeks or so--makes me so happy I can't even begin to describe it.

When You're The Bad Mommy

At least once a week MAS and Eggberta and I go to a playspace at a church not far from our Carroll Gardens apartment. The space is open and the woman who runs it friendly. The first two hours are open play, followed by snack time, clean up time and circle time. Once circle time is done, we go home for lunch. They both usually fall asleep on the way home. All in all a good deal for $12.

But something happened there Monday that’s got me thinking.

First off, let me say that MAS is a spirited child. He’s just got more energy than any of the other kids we’ve run into here in Brooklyn. Second, my kids are only a year and a half apart. (Not 100%  planned, but that’s a post for another day.) Third: I don’t always handle my current situation with the grace I’d envisioned I would when I was on bed rest with Eggberta. There. I said it.

Enough preface, here’s the story. (It’s a small one, mind you.)

MAS had a temper tantrum when we had to put our toys away and go to circle time. He’s 2. It happens. But as he was writhing on the ground—very dramatic of him, no?—he banged his head on a chair. After another struggle, I finally got him into the rug where all the other kids were assembled for circle time. Phew, I thought to myself. And we settled in: Eggberta on one knee, MAS on the other. We sang one song. We sang another. Then he got up and darted across the room to the toy house. I got up to retrieve him and said, “Honey, it’s circle time.” Repeat three times. After the last retrieval, I started to frustrated. Eggberta started fussing. The other mothers stared at me. And—here’s the crux, folks—I was embarrassed. All the other kids were sitting quietly for circle time and my son was pin-balling around the room. I got up one more time, retrieving him, but this time he sort of collapsed and threw himself to the floor crying. And in that moment I felt angry, really angry at him for not sitting quietly like the others. Then the woman who runs the playspace and who leads the circle time, the woman I think is so nice and so kind, said in an exasperated voice, “Oh, please, he’s just playing. He’s teasing you.”

I felt called out and judged in the worst way. And for the remainder of circle time I felt ashamed, like the most terrible mother in the whole world.

But as I was walking home, pushing my ginormous stroller with two now sleeping kids, I realized that she was actually right. Yes, it’s important for him to learn to follow the rules and yes it was right to retrieve him and not let him run wild. But to get embarrassed? To get angry? Especially because I felt judged by other mothers? I wasn’t acting in the best interest of my child in that moment; it was all about my own ego, about how I was being perceived as a mother.

Of course it wasn’t right for her to call me out that way. If she thought I was overreacting then a better approach would have been to take me aside after the session… I’ll go back—choices in Winter are few and far between here in the wilds of Brooklyn—but still my enthusiasm for the place has definitely cooled.

Have there been any times you’ve lost your cool as a Mom and reacted in a way you’re not proud of? Or felt judged by others in a non-constructive, non-helpful fashion?

Valentine's Day, Brooklyn-style

We just had the most awesome Brooklyn Valentines's Day weekend.

Friday: While mother-in-law watched the babies, we went for coffee at Brooklyn Farmacy & Soda Fountain. We made Valentine's Day cards for each other while we waited for our red velvet Twinkies. (Yes, to die for.)

The we headed to the gym for a workout.

Had a drink at Henry Public.

Then went for a couples massage at Element. (Champagne, One Girl cookies and chocolates from The Chocolate Room...) One of the masseuses was late so they kept pouring us champagne as a form of apology. I was in a sad state by the time the massaging began. Still! All sorts of awesomeness.

Saturday: We get a babysitter and go to see True Grit. Then a drink at the bar across the street from Frankies that I can never remember the name of. Then home. Babies already in bed, so we relax & order some sushi.

Overall? Best Brooklyn Valentine's Day yet. Or--er. Weekend.  ;-)

6 Months Ago Today

She's amazing. And growing so damn fast. Taking my breath away, it is.

2nd time around, everything seems easier but also faster. I know everyone says that about the second child, but for some reason I'm feeling it so acutely with Eggberta.

Somehow it seemed to take so much longer for Mas to reach this point: eating with gusto, sleeping through the night, getting ready to sit up... Part of it was the preemie-ness: I was always adjusting for his actual birth and when he was supposed to be born. There was always this lag while I waited, prayed, for him to reach each milestone. For there to be no delays, no developmental problems.

But also I just don't have time to focus on her the way I did with him. I mean, I've got a toddler pulling at my pant leg. And my family business is ramping up in ways that are exciting and stressful all at once. (Want to know what we do? Check it out here.)

Let the weaning begin...

I love Brooklyn, I really do. But in Winter? I understand why so many older New Yorkers flee to Florida as soon as they can.

Why?

Take a look at this picture I took outside my building.

That's the sidewalk & street.

Now, okay. Forget about driving. Who wants to dig a car out anyway? But walking? Try getting a single stroller through that mess, let alone my clunker of a double. So instead Mas, Eggberta and I have been trapped inside our once-spacious-seeming apartment for DAYS. All of our toys are boring.

But thank god for facebook/twitter: one status update and two friends I haven't seen since high school graduation in May '91 sent me a couple of recipes for home-made playdough. Sweet!

Mas is napping now--in his stroller, which is the only place he'll nap post toddler-bed transition--and so I took the opportunity to give little Eggberta her first taste of solid food: sweet potatoes. She loves it. In fact, take a look:

See that? She's grabbing the spoon and pulling it toward her face!

Unlike Mas at that age, who, upon his first taste of avocado promptly spit it out in disgust.

He likes food now, mind you. Particularly ice cream, but he'll also eat beans, lentils, and edamame. But man was it a hard row at first. He prefered mama's milk, you see. And food he could take or leave.

But I have high hopes for Eggberta. Two more days of sweet potatoes then we're moving on to avocados. Exciting times chez nous, non?

Required Reading

Last night, after three rounds of The Hungry Caterpillar, I told now two-year old MAS that he could have one more book, then, yes, yes, it was bedtime after all. (Now that he's in a toddler bed, bedtime has become a series of carefully orchestrated negotiations and trade-offs. More on that in the coming weeks, though.)

So MAS toddles off to the bookcase where a series of his books & ours live intermingled. He spends a good minute or two carefully scanning the choices before he selects one and bounds back to where I'm sitting, a shit-eating grin on his face.

"Read," he commands and hands me this:

You're not going to believe it

Funny, reading that last post.

Two weeks after uploading that inspired little essay, I was put on modified bed rest. Fourteen weeks later my darling daughter Eggberta (don't worry, not her real name) was born via another emergency/scary c-section. How scary? They nicked my bladder during the surgery. I had to wear a catheter for a week while it healed.

The bed rest?  Sucked as much as you might imagine.

And here we find ourselves at the end of January. Little Eggberta will be 6 months old next week. Man. My mother was right: time speeds up as you age.

So yeah I lept. Lept and fell. Flat on my face.

Of course, there are a million stories lurking behind all that.  So many thing to tell, in fact, that I've been hesitant to even start. Plus, there's the full on catastrophe of trying to raise two kids so close in age in New York. Which also sucks as much as you might imagine. Especially in Winter. (For the record: snow + strollers do not mix.)

But I'm ready now. Ready to get back to blogging and writing and art-viewing whatever else it was I did before I stopped being just MinervaJane and became MinervaMommyJane.

So stay tuned. I have a lot to say.

And So I Leapt

I’ve spent a lot of my life being afraid. Afraid of what you may ask? Well, everything. Anything. How I appeared to others. Whether or not the various projects I was working on would fail or not. My writing career. My love life. My sometimes troubled sometimes close relationship with my parents. My depressions. My anxieties. My regrets.

Yada. Yada. Yada.

All of this amorphous fear had one clear result: I was a ruminator, a hesitator. I spent hours and days and years contemplating a move before I made it. It was almost as if I had to run down every possible What if… scenario in my mind before I acted just so I’d know beforehand what I’d do in any given set of circumstances.

Example? I met Ebronis when I was 24, moved in with him when I was 25. There wasn’t a doubt in my mind that 50 or 60 years later we’d be relaxing by some lakeside cabin, anticipating the arrival of beloved grandkids. And yet we didn’t marry for another 6 years. Had our first child 11 years out. And even then, I worried: was I doing the right thing? Was I rushing things?

Yeah. I was that kind of person.

But on Thanksgiving 2008 everything changed. MAS entered my life in a lightning bolt of fear and pain and taught me that no matter how intricate your plans, no matter how careful your preparations, life will take you on paths you never even thought to anticipate. Those paths may indeed be frightening, just as I had always thought. But what I didn’t know was that those frightening paths, those unexpected detours into tragedy, could also change you in startling and beautiful ways. That hardship could actually make you a better person, not just sadder and more scarred.

So here I am today. Not anything like the Minerva Jane of before. I look like her. Sometimes I even act like her. But inside? She’s gone. Someone else—someone stronger, someone fearless--lives here now.

All of this is to say that when MAS hit the 12-month mark Ebronis and I talked about trying for a second baby. We both wanted a large family and felt a sibling was the greatest gift we could give to our son. (Our own families are sparse and disappointing in so many ways.) 

Besides, I was about to turn 37. It had taken us a year to conceive the first time.

Time, after all, waits for no woman.

So, despite the depression MAS’s birthday had brought on with its memories of the NICU and emergency C-sections and NEC, we stopped using birth control. 

Maybe a year, we said to each other. At least 6 months. And if it doesn’t happen, that’s fine too. We have MAS. And despite his rocky beginning, that baby is wonderfully, miraculously—normal.

But pregnancy after a preemie? A 28-week preemie? Weren’t we being irresponsible? Weren’t we taking a grave risk you may ask? (I asked myself that, after all, so why shouldn’t you?)

My answer was no. There wasn’t anything wrong with me—like an incompetent cervix or a clotting disorder—that would increase the risk the second time around. I’d had a urinary tract infection and had been dehydrated. A fluke. A random brush with potential tragedy. Besides, if it happened again I’d know what to do. I’d be able to handle it—even better than I had the first time. A second baby, a sibling for MAS, would be worth doing it all again. Despite everything.

Still. This time I’d drink water nonstop and take cranberry extract and see a high risk doc. I’d get weekly p17 shots. I’d take it easy.

But I wasn’t afraid. I mean at all.

Of course, if you know me in real time, or have any sense of how stories like this always end, you know this: four weeks later we were pregnant. Not a couple of months or a year. 28 fucking days.

You’d think I’d be nervous. Especially now, as we close in on week 20. Fast approaching the dreaded 28 weeks when last time everything went awry.

But no. Nothing. No fear. No anxiety. Nothing. If anything, I’m more relaxed than I was the first time around. More confident.

Strange how life works. How beautifully strange.

Leap

 

Yummy tricycle.

True. I’ve been quiet.

But not still.

MAS turned 1 the day after Thanksgiving. Only now, looking back on the last month and a half, can I see that that event sent me into a sort of tailspin. All those memories! Most of them unsettling. Just a patchwork of images, really, all laden with guilt, anger, fear, anxiety. And then I’d look up from whatever reverie I’d sunk into to see my amazing son, giggling and laughing and playing. Against all odds so normal I couldn’t help but feel stunned by it.

He’d moved past his premature beginning. But me? I was still stuck. Stuck in a loop of self-blame and regret.

So. That was my holiday season. Very merry indeed.

I finally came to about a week ago, after New Year’s. The day I turned 37.

Again, I started making my daily rounds in the blogosphere. All the old lives I used to inhale. And came across this concept on Shmoopy’s space.

No resolution, but a word.

I too abandoned Resolutions years ago. I just got tired of making promises to myself that I could never follow through with.

But a word? A guiding principle to guide me through the year?

That I can get on board with.

So. My word this year is Leap. I even bought one of Stacie D’s pendants to wear around my neck so I can remind myself of it daily.

Wanna know more about choosing a Word of The Year for yourself, visit Christine Kane's site.
 

At some point  I’ll talk about why I chose that word, what intentions it conjures for me, the ways in which I hope to embody Leap in the coming months, and how it relates to a new blogging project I'm embarking on sometime in late Spring.

Another Thing Mamahood Taught Me

After 36 years, 9 months, 20 days and 34 minutes on this planet, being a mother finally taught me the secret to peaceful living: proper planning & organization!

My friend Mark would be proud, I think.

Carroll Gardens In Fall

This morning, on the walk back to my apartment after working for some hours at the local cafe I caught myself thinking: my god I love my life... After so much angst--a moody adolescence; lost & confused early 20s and the difficult road to mamahood--everything in my life just seems to be falling into place.

If this is how my 30s feel, I can't wait to see what my 40s bring.

    My walk home... 

    And the munchkin who awaited me...

What Do All Of These Have in Common?

Calypso
Kiewit Stinks
lovedoves
Nacho
Sharmaville Network
bxk

Usernames of all the wifi connections in my building!

I have to admit I'm intrigued by Kiewit Stinks. Who is this kiewit--the twentysomething hipster who lives on the first floor or the newborn daughter of the nice editor husband and wife team across the hall? And why does he/she smell so bad?

How we roll (to music class)

Right now I'm loving:

the bibbity;

anything by gapbaby;

happy baby's grrreat greens;

and the beautiful photos over at Progressive Pioneer.

MAS on Smith Street. En route to Music For Aardvarks.

Enter The Nanny

Our new very part-time nanny started this week.

Let me say that again: the nanny started this week! An event filled with joy, relief, a little fear and a little guilt.

She comes from 8-11 on Wednesdays and Thursdays. Not a lot of time, I know. Barely enough time to get started on the million and one projects I'm either late finishing or late starting. But still. Already its making a huge difference. I'm astonished how much more I can get done in three hours compared to before MAS was born. I've become efficient, folks. Before? I was a typical creative: scattered; distractable; prone to sudden insights while doing the dishes. Now? I sit down and do it now because I know I've only got 2.25 hours left and I have X to complete and Y to outline. Yet another way in which I'm not the same Minerva Jane as I was before he so dramatically entered my life.

Yet another gift he's given me.

Back to the nanny.

It took me eight months after MAS's discharge from the NICU to hire someone, even though I was already technically back to work a month before he came home. (Ebronis and I have a marketing firm. We shifted most of our clients over to him during my brief bedrest but I retained one or two.)

My mother-in-law comes one afternoon a week, so this isn't as bad as it seems. Besides, he goes to bed at 7.

Still, things have piled up.

But every time the idea of hiring someone would come up I would hesitate. The money! The drudgery of finding the right person! He was so vulnerable, you see... And I only needed a few hours. Weren't most people looking for full-time work?

All good points.

But behind all of this protesting, all of these compeltely logical reasons, was a deeper psychological one.

I didn't see my baby until 24 hours after he was born. Didn't get to hold him until he was a week old. He spent the first 9 weeks of his life cared for by a team of nurses, a group of predominately Philippino professionals. (I don't know why, but most of the NICU nurses at St. Luke's Roosevelt on 57th were transplants from the Philippines.)

They were all kind, competent people who had MAS's best interest at heart and without whom he wouldn't have survived, but it still felt so unnatural to be told when and how I could feed, hold, and comfort my own child. I had to ask permission every time. Sometimes it was granted, but if it didn't coincide with the nursing rotation it wasn't. By the end a weird psychology had evolved: I started to feel that it I didn't behave he would never be discharged. I tried so hard to be a good enough patient for the both of us.


So when I got him home? It was like I was making up for lost time. I encircled him, protected him in ways I wasn't able to during that last trimester-cum-first two months. And I was reluctant to let anyone else in...


But now? MAS needs more interaction than what I can give. And I need to figure out who this new Minerva Jane is. And get back to the non-mommy parts of myself...

So today she came at 8, fed MAS his breakfast of organic DHA- and probiotic-enhanced brown rice cereal, and took him to the park where they played on the swings and slide. He returned rosy-cheeked and exhausted from the playing. And now? He's napping peacefully in his stroller while I get back to my old bloggy self.

The Sick Baby

MAS woke up this morning with a runny nose.

Mid-morning it morphed into a stuffed nose with a possible low grade fever. (First reading was normal; second reading was slightly elevated; third, he was a little chilly!)

Our pediatrician thinks this is a cold and a minor one at best. Nothing to worry about. MAS also seems to think a cold is nothing to worry about: he spent the morning happily banging his green plastic egg on everything he could find. After a mid-morning snack of sweet potatoes and prunes and milk he's contentedly sleeping on my bed while I type this.

But me? I'd be lying if I didn't admit to a frisson of fear when I saw that clear snot snaking down his upper lip. It could be: flu, swine flu, RSV... ?! Anything, really. But it also could be nothing.

Yes: I know that overprotecting him will never be the answer. Kids need to get sick so they can develop immunities. Put MAS in a bubble now and his first year at school will be a disaster.

Still. I thought I'd put the whole NICU roller coaster behind me, you see. At the beginning of the summer I made such a huge effort to not talk about it and to brush it off as nothing nothing, a little blip whenever it came up. He was born early but he's fine now. Quick, let's change the subject. Have you guys started solids yet? I even stopped blogging here because I didn't want to think of him that way. I wanted to pretend that MAS started life like all the other babies.

All it takes is a whiff of a cold, a whiff of allergies even, and all that comes tumbling down. MAS's story isn't like the others'. I can't change that. No matter how much I would like to.

It will always be there in one way or another. No matter how robust MAS is, there will always be some part of me that remembers my first glimpse of him: my 2 lbs 5 oz half-cooked baby hooked up to god knows how many wires, his nose irritated from the CPAP and his soft mewling cries more feline than human.

During our NICU stay my challenge was to step up to the plate and be there for him in as positive and consistent a way as I could. I spent hours by his side and even more hours holding him in kangaroo care, telling everyone--myself, my husband, my in-laws, the nurses and all the other grief-srtiken parents--that MAS would not only survive but thrive. If I could WILL him better, I would.

But now? My challenge is to step back a little and let him be... With all the flus and colds and scrapes that come with any normal childhood.

As one of the neonatalogists told me when she discharged us that last cold day in January: "Well, he's not a preemie now. He's a former preemie. Now he's just like everyone else."

We Moved!

From Cobble Hill to Carroll Gardens.

Hence the radio silence.

Stay tuned: we'll be back on air shortly.

In Which I Talk About Poop

Be forewarned.

MAS, like a lot of preemies, was anemic in the beginning. He even had a blood transfusion at 30 weeks gestation, two weeks after he was born. And several rounds of some drug I've since blocked out that stimulated his bone marrow to produce red blood cells. And he's been on iron supplementation ever since and will be for his first year.

Iron, as we all know, slows your system down. And so it is with MAS. He only poops about once or twice a week, which to be honest I'm grateful for. Granted that poop is always a massive black mess, but he's not constipated nor in pain.

Here's the thing, though: the bigger he gets the bigger those weekly poos get.

This morning? He had a full diaper and so, when I saw what I was dealing with I called The Husband in from the other room for reinforcement. (Despite having two cats and a 6 month old, poop frankly grosses me out.) As we were both cleaning MAS off--and before a new diaper could be secured--he projectile pooped all over the room.

Poop everywhere! On a pile of freshly laundered sleepers! On a towel! On the goddamn window folks!

Ack! Ack! Ack!

MAS, though, seemed pretty pleased with himself, smiling and giggling away.



MAS, the previous afternoon, shows no sign of the coming storm. And yes, that's a Sophie giraffe he's holding, hip toy du jour.

13 Things About Brownstone Baby

1. He was born on Thanksgiving Day.

2. He was born 12 weeks early.

3. He therefore, like all preemies, has a double identity: Sagittarius and Aquarius.

4. He loves the stuffed loon on his activity gym.

5. He thinks diaper changes are funny.

6. He’s ticklish.

7. He abhors being hungry.

8. He finds his Fisher Price swing sometimes hilarious, sometimes disturbing.

9. He had a full head of hair when he was born; no mean feat for a 28 weeker.

10. Since he learned to stick his tongue out it’s become his favorite trick.

11. He loves bath time more than any other time of day.

12. He loves speed whether its in the car or stroller: stoplights and traffic jams make him angry.

13. He's been hitting every single milestone when he would have had he been born on his due date--sometimes earlier. (Rolling over at 3 months!)

Avian Analogies

To take the bird metaphor further: she who lays her eggs in an open field has to be more aggressive in defending her chicks than she who lays in a camouflaging tree.

Me? I laid my egg on a freshly mown suburban lawn. Danger all around: kids playing ball and dogs digging and cars speeding past.

Nestless, I used my very own puffed up self to protect him. And letting go of that? Ah. Harder than I thought.

Mountain Buggy Strollers In Brooklyn

MAS in his Mountain Buggy Urban Elite


First off, let me say that I don’t really think you can get by with one stroller or one baby carrier anymore than you can get by with one pair of shoes. Sometimes you need a sandal, sometimes you need a sneaker and sometimes only a rain boot will do.

In the best of all possible worlds you’d get a lightweight stroller for hopping on and off subways, a rugged jogging stroller for marathon training (see how funny I can be?) and a chichi but durable Bugaboo for urban restaurant and shopping excursions.

But. Financial circumstances being what they are, forced to make a compromise Ebronis and I were when MAS entered the world.

So we bought a Mountain Buggy jogging stroller. Because I had—still have—this idea that I’m going to get back in shape this summer by training for the NIKE 10k. Not that I really have all that much more to lose—skipping the entire third trimester was a really great way to forgo the whole mommybody thing. (And no: I don’t recommend it as a strategy: a 2.5 pound baby is a frightening thing.

Back to the stroller.

Things I love about my Mountain Buggy Urban Elite:

The rugged wheels handle the often-crappy Brooklyn streets & sidewalks without once jostling the baby awake.

A swiveling front wheel makes turning city corners a breeze but it also locks into place for stability on long runs.

The water bottle holder puts a cold drink at my fingertips.

The seat is extra comfy and MAS has no trouble napping out.

The entire seat and sun canopy snap off for easy cleaning.

The $50 car seat clip meant I never had to wake MAS when going from car to stroller to apartment. (If you have a colicky baby like I did, you’ll understand the true value of such a feature.)

Things I Hate About My Mountain Buggy Urban Elite:

Since it weighs in at 23 lbs there’s no way I’m lugging that thing up or down any subway stairs soon.

The wide wheelbase makes for a stable ride over a variety of terrain but also means I can’t get into certain narrow Brooklyn storefronts.

There’s no coffee cup holder. (Hello people: caffeine is the only antidote to infant-induced sleep deprivation. Sheesh.)

Keep in mind that this thing is the SUV of strollers: its overall appearance is mountain bike meets REI fashion. Not surprisingly, maitre d’s see us coming & cringe. Some, like the folks at Chestnut, mask their chagrin so well they deserve a medal for the effort.

Given all the above we’ve decided to purchase a second lightweight stroller for subways & restaurants. A used Maclaren, for example: 11 pounds or less & folds into near nothingness.

Got one?