Girl Detective

If the definition of insanity is doing the same thing more than once and expecting different results, than I’m not sure why my husband G. Grod and I keep taking our son Drake out to restaurants. Amnesia? Hope? Insanity? The Convention Grill is one of the most kid-friendly restaurants on earth both in menu and atmosphere. It is an old-style grill that primarily serves burgers, fries, shakes/malts, and sundaes. Prices are reasonable, service is matter of fact, and quality is good. Yet even in such a place, our two-year-old Drake will not eat, will not sit still, and does not have the patience to last a few minutes, much less the time it takes for a meal to be ordered and consumed. Other parents assure me that this is normal and will pass, but it saddens me that Drake is so immune to the charms of eating out. I, however, am such a sucker that the temptation of a cheeseburger (american cheese, pickles, lettuce, mayo, mustard and ketchup), those fries (as long as they’re not underdone; I loathe a soggy fry), and a hot fudge sundae with bananas and whipped cream will every time cloud my judgment and make me believe that maybe, just maybe, this time Drake will be OK. He refused his burger and fries, though he mysteriously was able to hang out long enough to partake of the sundae.

I got a speeding ticket yesterday because I was close to home, driving back after lunch, looked in the rear-view mirror, and saw that Drake had fallen asleep. I knew if he continued to sleep, he wouldn’t nap when we got home. I’d had a bad night’s sleep the night before, and he’d had a rough morning, so we both needed naps.

Immediately, I reached back, jiggled his foot, started singing the ABCs at the top of my voice, and hit the accelerator. Alas, I wasn’t able to multi-task just a bit further to make sure my acceleration was within the speed limit, or notice the police car. I was written up for “unwarranted acceleration.” I guess that depends on your point of view. Kid falling asleep in car just before nap time within twenty blocks of home sure seemed warranted to me.

I feel as if I should come up with a standard disclaimer for when I haven’t posted in while. Kind readers, please know I don’t take you for granted. The last few weeks have been filled with pregnancy-related rest (I’m fine and Swimmy’s fine; we just need to rest) and crafting my very first query letter so I can finally send out the manuscript for my novel.

Stunning insight of yesterday: the more pregnant I get, the more rest I need.

Stunning insight of today: the more I rest, the less I get done.

But I continue to read, write, and watch movies and TV. I continue to challenge my brain into activity. Remember, the law of inertia concerns bodies, not minds.

A few weeks ago, my two year old Drake had trouble sleeping, but didn’t seem sick. I decided to keep an eye on things, then ended up at Urgent Care on Sunday morning. He was diagnosed with infections in both ears and pink eye. He improved rapidly with the antibiotics, but was left with a lingering cough. Again, I decided to keep an eye on it, and congratulated myself when it went away. But when it popped up again after a week (the cough, not the sleep problems), I didn’t even hesitate. I called the pediatrician’s office and made an appointment for the next morning.

The doc listened to Drake’s lungs and peered into his throat and his ears. Drake was a champ, and underwent it all without a yell. The doc then said that the lungs were clear and he probably had another virus, and that his ears looked so clear that he doubted whether Drake’s ears had been infected last month.

I took this all in calmly. At previous points, I would have been railing at myself for wasting my and the doc’s time over just a virus, gnashing my teeth over unnecessary antibiotics, berating myself for having crappy mom instincts, etc. That day, though, I thought the co-pay was well worth it to confirm that Drake didn’t have a bacterial infection. In my experience, the only one who can confirm it is the person with the otoscope. As for second guessing the previous doc’s diagnosis, it didn’t matter to me. If Drake has trouble sleeping nowadays, it’s usually something more serious than a virus. I believe his ears were infected, and that the drugs cleared him up. His behavior and my previous experience backs it up. I don’t rely on the person with the otoscope to retroactively un-diagnose infections. Don’t care. He was sick, he took drugs, he got better. He got sick again, I took him in immediately, and he didn’t need drugs. I grabbed Drake two lollipops on the way out (Dum-Dums, cream soda) for being such a good boy. I kept him home for the next 24 hours, and his symptoms have faded yet again.

Keeping an eye on things is fine, sometimes. But second guessing and self-berating? I’ve got no time for those.

My two-year old son Drake makes me aware on a regular basis. Of what, it’s hard to say, exactly, but most definitely aware. There are some incidents that are so beautiful, or so gratifying, that they leave me speechless. Tonight, some milk leaked out of Drake’s cup. He said “Oh, milk,” then went running off to the kitchen. My husband G. Grod followed him, only to find he had grabbed a rag and was running back to wipe up the milk. Drake then turned around and returned the rag to its place in the kitchen. G. and I stared at each other in pleased disbelief at our capable, responsible son. Yet this was also a day in which I had to give him yet another time out for yet another head butt to me–ow. He also threw a screaming fit at the grocery coop, even though he said he wanted to go there, and at each diaper change and car seat strapping in. The range between beautiful and enraging is huge, and I go back and forth along it daily.

My two-year old son Drake is having a hard time with pronouns. For a long time during diaper changes, I’d ask him, “Who do I love?” Then, when he wouldn’t answer, because he didn’t talk until well past 18 months old, I’d say, “You!” Of course, when he did finally answer me, he answered as I did. When I hold out my hand to help him down the stairs, he says, “No, do it yourself.” Often, when he does something for which we’ve praised him in the past, he’ll jump up and down and say, “Yay, you did it!” (I don’t sense he’s hurting in the esteem department.) The past few weeks I’ve been correcting him, which has proved awkward.

I say, “No, Drake, you say, ‘I want to do it myself.’ Or, “No, Drake, you say ‘me’.”

These get confusing even to me, so I’m sure it’s clear as mud to him. He’s a mimic, and I’m sure understanding will come eventually, but for now I think it’s best to just model what I think he means, rather than cluttering it up with more pronouns.

When I went to get my two-year old son Drake up from his nap, he smiled at me, called out “Mom!” excitedly, then said “I love you, mommy,” unprompted by his dad, for the first time. It was such a simple thing with such an emotional wallop that it nearly knocked me over.

I won’t write, and I don’t believe, that moments like this “make it all worth it.” I think life is a complex series of ups and downs that are impossible to nail down onto some karmic balance sheet. It was a moment of great joy and no ambivalence. Moments like that have great worth of themselves, not in comparison or contrast to other things.

Finding books that both our two-year-old son Drake and his parents like to read is sometimes a challenge. Also, sometimes a book has a good story, but so-so illustration, or vice versa. So books that we all like and that are beautiful both to look at and to read are something of a trifecta.

I came across Mo Willems’ books during a search at www.amazon.com. I find amazon’s links to “people who bought this also bought this” is useful to learn about books and music that I haven’t heard of. Many people dismiss amazon and its links out of hand–”oh, anybody can write a review, how can you tell anything by that”. But I use the links to browse, and I can often readily identify more and less reliable reviews. I usually only attend to the editorial ones, anyway.

There are four Mo Willems pigeon books–two hardcovers and two board books. In Don’t Let the Pigeon Drive the Bus, the pigeon begs the reader to drive while the bus driver is away. It’s an interactive story that allows a toddler to yell “No” with abandon, unless s/he’s feeling sympathetic to the pigeon. In The Pigeon Finds a Hot Dog, a cute duckling heckles the pigeon before it can consume the serendipitous weiner. The board books are shorter and sturdier than most, and quite charming. The Pigeon Has Feelings, Too! shows an interchange between the pigeon and the bus driver. The Pigeon Loves Things That Go caps toddler-fascinating vehicles with a clever appearance by the duckling.

Willems’ two other recent books, Knuffle Bunny and Leonardo the Terrible Monster, are very good, but did not inspire the mad repetition Drake demanded of the pigeon books. Willems worked at Sesame Street, and was the creative mind behind the strange but charming and short lived cartoon Sheep in the Big City. His simple but engaging illustrations combined with the clever, odd humor make for a great set of books.

#82 in my book challenge for the year, The Panic-Free Pregnancy, was recommended to me by a food critic, because it debunks common pregnancy myths such as “don’t eat sushi.” (Why? Sushi may cause food poisoning, but not listeria, the only kind of food poisoning that can cross the placenta. Ditto for rare meat.) The book is divided into sections of pre-, during, and post-pregnancy. I found it most effective in the “during” sections for things like what drugs are safe. The author, a doctor and researcher, debunks many commonly held beliefs such as avoiding ibuprofen entirely, and avoiding cold medicines. One of the most interesting factoids he attacks is the “8 glasses of water a day” rule. According to him, there is absolutely no study or test to back this up. It was put out as a nutritional guideline at one point, and people adopted it and now never question it. Instead, he advocates drinking if you’re thirsty. What a concept.

The book is useful, but it’s not world-shaking. Ultimately, much of what he says is common sense, and much of it is able to be found elsewhere. It upholds some of the common advice, such as avoiding deli products, soft cheeses and blue cheeses for listeria. He also is not able to confirm that topical creams that contain retinol are safe, so there are still plenty of common things that are off the list for pregnant women.

This book should be used with caution. A topic can be discussed in a few places, not all of which are listed in the index. For example, in one discussion of listeria that’s not in the index, he recommends avoiding blue cheeses, but not in any other. Additionally, my doctor disagreed with his assertions about ibuprofen. She agreed that it might be used occasionally as needed early in pregnancy, but said that the further on in pregnancy one goes, the more of a detrimental effect it has on the circulation of the developing fetus. Broder’s book is more cavalier than cautious on this point. While this book sells itself as the grain of salt that one should take with the conventional wisdom about what to do or avoid during pregnancy, it should also be used cautiously.

A friend asked me recently if I’d do anything differently during my second pregnancy than I did during my first. Ha! I thought. Any one thing? I have a few.

The biggest change is that I do not have a job. I resigned mine when my son Drake was 9 months old, because he kept getting sick in daycare. Note that I did not say, “I do not work.” I care for Drake and our home full time. I much prefer dealing with a pouty, fussy two-year old to managing a pouty, fussy so-called adult, as I was often called to do at my former job. Also, most of my deadlines, and decisions to adhere to them or ignore them, are now almost always my own. Finally, I divide my time between family and writing, and do not have to juggle the awkward third party of work as I once did. I am much more fatigued this pregnancy than last, likely because of wrangling Drake, yet I have much less stress than I did. We have much less money than we did, which is an ongoing challenge, but the tradeoffs have been worthwhile.

Against all conventional wisdom, I am exercising less. During the first weeks of my first trimester of this pregnancy, I continued to go to power yoga classes. Then I stopped, and have switched to infrequent prenatal yoga tapes and walking. During my first pregnancy, I did power yoga until the day before I went into labor, which I entered exhausted and perhaps dehydrated, both of which probably contributed to a lengthy and difficult labor. This time I’m exercising, but I’m also resting. I try to take a short nap when Drake does. I want to do what I can to enter labor reasonably well-rested.

To assist with labor, I am going to meet with a hypnotist and work with a doula. When I checked into the hospital last time, all the rooms were full, and I wasn’t seen for a long time. This time, I’d like to have a birth assistant with my husband and me the whole time.

Finally, I know now that planning has limited value. Many of the things that people assume are birth “choices” aren’t, when it comes down to the actual event. Many people think that things like drugs, cesareans, and episiotomies are outdated choices enforced by conventional medical practitioners. Certain books and gurus enforce this perception. But they aren’t always things that are foisted upon you. Instead, they are sometimes medically necessary to protect the health of the mother or the baby. So I’m not going to go overboard on planning or preparation. If things continue, I will be less stressed, less tired, and more supported than I was last time. I think these things will increase my odds for a decent labor and delivery.

We’ve had a rough couple days in our house. Thursday Drake was sick. He seemed better Friday, but didn’t nap. I should’ve been tipped off that he didn’t have a standard virus. Alas, it took another day and a very rough night to convince me of that a trip to Urgent Care was in order. Both Drake’s ears were infected, and he was just starting with pinkeye. So we’ve procured drugs aplenty and he should be better soon.

But no nap on Friday meant no blog, and I’m reminded of my dad’s favorite phrase, “all of life is a compromise.” I’ve been steadily editing my novel, a chapter per day during the week. The good news is that I’m making progress. There’s a cost, of course, though. I haven’t read other blogs in over a week. I get easily frustrated when I’m not able to do everything that I want to, or that I imagine I should do. I have to keep reminding myself to take a long view. Just because I can’t get something done today doesn’t mean I won’t get it done.

Two-year-old Drake woke at 6 this morning crying, then threw up on me when I tried to comfort him. I felt so bad for him. Throwing up is such an alarming thing when you know what it is and have words to describe it, but for him it is understandably quite upsetting. He had a tough morning with lots of crying, and I find I’m much more patient with lengthy crying when I know what the reason is. He took a morning nap on the couch, and is having his second nap of the day, so I know he isn’t his normal self. We skipped music class and going to the park and instead stayed in to read. I made a batch of Jello, and diluted some of the liquid for him at lunch. He calls it “geggo.” I may let him play in the back yard when he wakes up if he seems better.

Sick days are kind of weird as a stay at home mom. I don’t have a boss or employees that I need to inform, I don’t need to worry or email. I need to give some of the same regard to myself as I’m giving to Drake, such as rest and fluids. Because whatever he has, I’m likely to get, and that’ll only make things more difficult for both of us. That hasn’t been enough to restrain me, though, from a load of laundry (the vomit clothes), the dishes, emptying the garbage, sorting the recycling, and sweeping the kitchen floor. Other than all of that, though, as of now I’m resting.

My husband G. Grod brought home an article from his daddy and me class last weekend that has been on my mind ever since. It’s a publication of the College of Education and Human Development of the University of Minnesota, and titled “What is Meant by ‘Infant Mental Health?’” The article centers around the phrase “good enough”:

…children’s development depends on their parents and other caregivers to provide a “good enough” environment. British pediatrician and psychoanalyst D. W. Winnicott coined the term “good enough” when he described an environment where parents respond consistently enough and well enough to their children. From those consistent reponses, children learn to expect care, comfort, and pleasure in their achievements. And “good enough” means just that–good enough. It would not be good for babies to have their every uncomfortable feeling sootheed from the outside, because then they would not learn how to wait, to tolerate some discomfort, and to soothe themselves.

The article is short, but worthwhile, and contains the kind of information that I find rare as a parent–realistic, human, and the kind of common sense that sometimes has to be learned. I think the phrase “good enough” is a remarkable help both as a parent and as a human being. I won’t be perfect, so I needn’t bother exhausting myself as I try to be, or worse, second-guessing and overanalyzing mistakes of the past.

I thought of this when a friend asked me recently if my husband’s and my night out for our anniversary was romantic. It wasn’t, really. Rain and a rushed dinner made things a little hectic. But we had a nice time, and appreciated the time out together. It was better than good enough, even if it wasn’t romantic. And after seven years of marriage, good enough is pretty good, and romantic will happen when it will, not on demand.

Unless, of course, they don’t. Friday night I had what seemed very much like a gall bladder attack, after indulging in the Modern’s famous pot roast, which includes fork-tender meat, garlic mashed potatoes, melting carrots and veggies, all topped with a dollop of horseradish sour cream. Our family is pretty familiar with gall bladder symptoms, since G. Grod had them on and off for years before having his gall bladder removed earlier this year. Fortunately I had a prenatal checkup already scheduled for this week. When I described symptoms and said that this was the second time this had occurred during the pregnancy (the first at about 12 weeks), I was swiftly given more blood tests and signed up for a gall bladder ultrasound.

The good news is that I received an all clear–none of the tests showed anything to be concerned about. The bad news is that no one knows why I have had two episodes in 8 weeks that seem so gall-bladder-y. The best guess is a virus. I am worried, because I feel as if I’m waiting for a shoe to drop, wondering if I’ll have another episode. I am relieved, though, since I had lurid visions of having to undergo the same surgery that G. did, only at 20+ weeks pregnant.

In the meantime, I’ll follow the usual pregnancy advice to eat several small meals a day. I’ll also avoid especially rich or fatty foods, at least at night. Alas, no more post-dinner ice cream. I’ll have to fit it in after lunch, I guess.

Shopping with Drake is a challenge. He is easily bored, averse to sitting still, shrill in his displeasure, and can easily defeat the strap in shopping carts. One time he even fell backward over the toddler seat into the cart. But we went to our local food coop yesterday and had NO screaming. Here’s how I did it:

String cheese in aisle 1.
Pirate’s Booty in aisle 3.
Spiced meat stick before checkout.
Pear nectar sample on the way out the door.

Luckily, our coop is on the small side. The woman at the register was very nice about ringing up toddler-mangled, empty food packages.

With our son Drake just past two and another kid due in February, I knew a double stroller purchase was on the horizon. I’d begun to research our options, side by side or front/back, cheap or expensive, etc. My brief research indicated that there weren’t that many good options, rather ones that were better than others. Then G. Grod, obviously hard at work, send me a link to this profile at Salon. Not only does this sound and look like a great stroller, but the profile is written by Marjorie Ingall, my favorite writer from the late, lamented, Sassy magazine. Perhaps I don’t have to do much more research, just start clipping coupons and saving pennies.

I swear, I didn’t teach him this. On purpose, at least.

Drake was playing with the bottle of nose drops when he pointed to the black dot with the black ring around and said very clearly, “Target.” I stared at him as if he were possessed. I teach Drake the names of lots of things. He is currently able to identify not just fire trucks and police cars, but also Beetle Bugs and PT Cruisers. But I have never directly identified Target, though he’s accompanied me on countless errands there.

I forgot about this till the other day we were at a store that had a toy delivery truck with the Target name and logo on the side. Sure enough, Drake pointed at it, and said, “Mommy, Target.”

He’s two. And he can identify the trademarked bullseye design.

What have I done?

#67 in my book challenge for the year is also Drake’s new favorite book. I’m not sure I can say it’s his first graphic novel, because he has quite enjoyed the Edward Gorey books we’ve read to him, The Doubtful Guest, The Epiplectic Bicycle, and The Gashlycrumb Tinies, the latter at least before G. Grod, being squeamish, “disappeared” it. I found The Clouds Above, which is published by Fantagraphics Books, at the comic book store, and was drawn by the shape, size, cover, paper quality and charming illustrations. The story is the adventure of a boy named Simon and his cat, Jack, who escape school into the clouds above. They encounter clouds both good and bad, a villainous teacher, and some very cranky birds. Drake has requested this book by name almost every day since we brought it home. While long to read aloud, it’s great fun for me, too.

I am currently obsessing about the Entertainment Weekly TV preview issue and why the heck I haven’t been able to get a copy yet. I’ve considered getting a subscription so I can stop this annual haunting of the newstands, but the Minneapolis post office can be slow, and it IS only this one issue that I crave.

I am currently paranoid about listeria. It is the one food poisoning that can cross the placenta, and in the past few weeks I’ve been laughing in the face of danger, consuming lunch meat, blue cheese, unpasteurized honey. I figured, hey, it’s rare and I’ll know if I get it within 48 hours. Apparently it can take WEEKS to manifest, and while rare it is usually deadly to the fetus. So I’m regretting my blithe, “this is my second pregnancy; no need to be paranoid like the first” attitude, and will be paranoid for the next month, at least.

I am currently fretting about pants. My regular pants and skirts don’t fit in the waist. Maternity wear looks as if I’m playing dress up. I’m in that awkward stage, which I hope I grow out of soon.

I am currently looking forward to watching TV tonight. My husband G. Grod and I call it “Sci-Fi Friday.” After Drake goes to bed we watch the Tivo’d Firefly then Battlestar Galactica, which has gotten crazy good.

I am currently between books, having just finished two whoppingly good ones, Francine Prose’s A Changed Man and Muriel Sparks’s The Driver’s Seat. Haven’t committed to the next book yet. Candidates include Other Electricities by Ander Monson, Tricked graphic novel by Alex Robinson, and The Skin Chairs by Barbara Comyns.

I am currently feeling a bit better from the cold, and a strange but not uncommon-for-me home-economy resolve has surfaced, which is to clear out the fridge, the freezer and the pantry of the stuff that’s been sitting around for weeks or longer and use it up. I have a LOT of rhubarb, though. And I don’t even like rhubarb.

Drake has been napping sporadically lately. Often I will put him down at the usual time, and if he’s not ready to go to sleep he’ll talk and sing and holler until he does, or until he sounds unhappy enough for me to go get him. Yesterday he sang the ABCs several times (with a bewildering “ah-go, sah-go” for W-X), then amazed me when he launched into the Philadelphia Eagles fight song and sang every word. He did not sing it again, but I called G. Grod at work to let him know. I’m not sure I’ve ever heard G. sound much happier.