Archive for January, 2008

As soon as she sat her baby, who looked to be almost a year old, in the little firetruck, he screamed, twisted, turned red, and tried to claw his way out. So the mother picked him up, and she made her way through the overpriced, cutesy kid haircut place to a chair she could sit in while holding the child on her lap. He was just as furious. More kicking, clawing, and screaming.

In a packed waiting area, two compassionate souls stared at her and discussed:

“Why is she putting him through this?”

“Why doesn’t she just go?”

“The kid doesn’t even have any hair.”

“Why is she getting her picture taken?”

“What a waste of money.”

“Obviously her first kid.”

Perhaps these two have never had a difficult moment with their children, or have had them only in the privacy of their living rooms. What a dangerous game to gloat while another parent is having trouble; one stuck in the middle of a group of impatient people, no less, with nothing else to do but stare at her.

Really, how dare they.

Maybe she did just pay half her grocery bill for the “First Haircut Package”: We’ll take your picture with this crappy old camera that won’t even turn out well! We’ll let you take a lock of hair! We’ll charge you almost $30 for this! Maybe she’ll kick herself for it–or maybe she’ll treasure that picture.

Maybe she planned her whole weekend–all the naps, meals, snacks, car time–for this First Haircut, only to fall victim to the always fascinating unpredictability of babies.

Maybe this afternoon will roll right off her back–be nothing more than a funny story to tell her friends. You know how little Parker never cries, right? Well, you wouldn’t have believed the screams! I swear!

Maybe she was fighting back tears until she got to the car.

What does it matter? Since when do the parents whose children are impeccably behaved at one particular moment in time and space get to revel in another parent’s struggle and decide they know better?


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Don’t Let the Fetus Win

Alright, little two inch long sort-of-baby fetus creature–I’m not going to take this lying down anymore (under a blanket on the couch, begging my kids not to breathe their chicken salad breath near me or drool peanut butter spit on my cheek before I run into the bathroom). You can’t defeat me any longer. So what if my husband said “sour cream” today and I stumbled to the sink to be sick? I can take whatever you can dish out, and you’ll give up sometime this spring, just like your brothers did. Speaking of them, gone are the days when they’d rush to my side to console me. Now, if they even notice I’m off being sick, they might deign to mention, to anyone or to no one, “Mommy’s throwing up,” and then get back to playing. They’re no longer impressed with this, and neither am I. So, little tiny fetus, as well as you’re doing at creating a cranky, nauseated, and lethargic woman in my image at present, and a fairly poor mother at that, enough already.  You need to at least be born before you get to be in charge.

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I’ve actually written quite a bit on here lately, despite what that nagging calendar on the sidebar says. But, happily for anyone who chances upon this page, I have kept most of it marked draft because there seems to be very little happening in my head or my life unrelated to throwing up and pregnancy nausea. I’m following, so far, the precise script of the first two times, so should be eating happily again in April. As much as I wish I was one of these glowy, energetic, and blissful pregnant types, I’m more the type who shrieks, “Oh, god, did someone just mention wheat bread?! I’m gonna be sick!as I run to the bathroom.

And while the lovely people with whom I am lucky enough to communicate through blogging would surely say kind, compassionate things and have good advice in the midst of day after day of listen-to-how-I-got-sick-today posts, I can’t, in good conscience, take up their very few extra minutes with woe-is-me, I’m-so-sick stories. Not that I complain, though. . . (Wow!–did you hear that derisive and mirthless laugh from close friends and family from coast to coast? Fine–I complain to them, but they are stuck with it because they’re stuck with me, and I’ve given up self-censorship and excessive politeness with them many years ago–the beauty and price of very long friendships . . .)

The good part: When a four year old races into the bathroom behind you to pat your back and murmur: “You’ll be OK,” with a little brother behind him screaming: “God bless you, Mommy! God bless you, Mommy!” even throwing up can be fun.

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That blob is, so they tell me, not a seahorse attempting to grow limbs, but a little tiny baby-to-be. 8 weeks down, 32 million weeks to go.

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