Clara Meets A Cactus

Clara spends every day exploring the world around her.  She is bold and brave and gives me heart palpitations when she tries to climb up the crumbling cement stairs in the courtyard of my building. She has a very fuzzy sense of depth perception and seems to think walking off the edge of the slide works as well as sitting on her butt and going down.  It's all terrifying - but through it all I am trying to limit what I actually say no to.  For example - I say "No" when Clara reaches up and tries to fiddle with the oven burners.  I explain about it being hot and that she will get burned but I do not allow her to play with the oven knobs.  That's a firm "no."

I don't mind if she chews on sticks or leaves in the park but I do take away unfamiliar berries, small rocks, and pieces of garbage which she seems to want to chew on with equal enthusiasm.  I watch her carefully while she explores her environs.  I let her lead the way...unless she is leading us off the edge of a cliff or into the street.

Sometimes this relaxed parenting style bites me in the ass.  Take the other day.  I was showing Clara the herbs in our co-op's garden.  Anyone who lives in the building can take a few clippings of mint, rosemary, basil, oregano, or thyme to cook with.  I was bruising the leaves so Clara could smell the different herbs.  And then Clara's attention was inexplicably diverted to the one plant I didn't want her to touch - a cactus.  She squeezed past three pots and a dangling prism I hoped in vain would distract her to get to the dumpy looking cactus.  

ME: "Clara - don't touch that it will hurt - "

I should have saved my breath.  She reached down and snapped off a plump piece of cactus and held it out to me.

ME: "Clara - give that to me."

CLARA: "Hee..."

ME: "No really...give it to me"

CLARA"  "Hee hee..."

Laughing, she squeezed past the pots and toddled away, cactus in hand.  Luckily she quickly dropped the cactus in favor of a more interesting, much more squishy rotting tomato she found.

I wiped off her smelly tomato hands and picked her up.  She seemed unhurt and happy. The Cactus gods were smiling down on us.This was great.  Or so it seemed until I put Clara down and discovered a bunch of almost invisible cactus thorns up and down my arm.  The upside was almost all of the barbs seemed to have transferred themselves to my skin.  The downside - cactus barbs hurt and looking closely at Clara's hands I saw she still had some in her.

I carried her upstairs to our bathroom and proceeded to get the barbs out of her hand with  tweezers.  Tears pouring down her face, Clara looked like a bereft Hummell Doll. She was very mad at me, though she recovered quickly. 

I am torn between giving Clara the freedom to explore and trying to protect her.  Has she learned not to touch thorny plants?  Probably not. What have I learned?  Get to the cactus first.

Hi...My name is...

Gerald and I have been subscribing to the theory that if you talk to your child a lot, then she will be verbal.  Or more verbal.  I don't know.  But it has seemed to work.  So far, Clara has learned to say: Bubble, Up, A-Cup, Bye Bye, Hi, Woof Woof, Quack Quack, Yes, Mama, and Dada.

I have to credit Gerald with the Mama and Dada part.  Anytime Clara said "Dada," Gerald would respond with:  "Yes. I'm Dada.  That's Mama. And you're Clara."  I take all the credit for Woof Woof and Quack Quack.

Yesterday while I was at work, something amazing happened.  Gerald was sitting in the chair in Clara's room as she played.  Gerald said: Yes, I'm Dada and you're Clara."  And Clara looked over at him and said: "Clara."  And then proceeded to respond to the question: "What's your name?" with "Clara" quite a few more times.

When I got home that night I asked her:  "Is your name Clara?" and she said: "Clara."

I wonder how long she's been thinking about saying her own name.  It's as if I can see her brain synapses firing and building the neural pathway that means: My name is Clara." along with the ones that mean: "One foot in front of the other is walking." and "This is how to drink from a cup."

Every day with a child is a revelation.

Hi!!!!

I have always been a morning person.  I hate rushing out the door.  Pre-baby, I would get up an hour and a half before I had to leave for work so I could sip coffee, read a book, get ready at a human pace. I am also wide-awake and cheery in the morning.  In college I woke up five days a week at 4:15am to row crew and then worked in the theater department all night.  It was great. 

It comes as no surprise that Clara is a morning person too.  She happily chirps in her bed in the morning (usually sometime between 5:30 and 6) as the dawn light streaks into her room and smiles at me when I walk into the room.  I wonder if her chirps are her discussing my impending arrival with the elephant, seahorse, and Yankee Bear that inhabit her crib. 

In the past week she has added something to the routine.  Now when I walk in I am greeted with a happy, smiling baby who says: "Hiiiiii!" to me in her tiny, piping voice. It made me laugh out loud the first time she did it.  It seemed so adult.  And it takes the sting out of the fact that, though I am a self-proclaimed morning person, having only one or two mornings where I have slept past 6 am in the past 14 months can wear a little thin.  But my reward is a beautiful little girl who can't contain how glad she is to see her Mama. What more could I ask for?

No, Mom - I don't need your help.

Clara is 14 months.  She is a steady walker and very coordinated.  But she is still only 14 months.

A few days ago I put her on a bouncer-car thing in our toddler playground.  I showed her how to hold on and rocked it back and forth.  She like it but seemed worried and wanted to get off.

Today, she walked right over to it.

Me: "Clara, would you like to try this?"

Clara: "Esh."

I picked her up.  She immediately grabbed the handles.  I began to rock her back and forth and she yelled loudly and batted my hands away. I let go to see what would happen.  Would she fall?  Would she get scared?

Nope.  She grabbed on and rocked herself wildly back and forth, laughing her head off.  I even had time to snap a picture.  Look how her feet don't even come close to reaching the footrests.

I am amazed how independent she is becoming.

Birth Stories

I was incredible moved when I read this blog post written by the very talented Libby Emmons. (click here to read)  It wasn't about her playwriting - it was her birth story and her struggles  with her expectations of herself as a mother and the reality of being a mother.

I have organized a semi-weekly meetup in Fort Tryon park for new parents and their babies.  It's great for the children to interact and I think it's even greater that the new moms and dads get to talk with other people that are going through the same thing.  I have heard a lot of birth stories - some wonderful, some harrowing, some with a bit of both - but all of them share the fear of the unknown and how quickly we have to learn to adapt to these new, tiny lives we have been trusted with.

I think it's incredibly important to share your birth story and your experiences as a parent.  There are too many voices that scream: "If you don't do THIS you are a terrible parent." Instead, I like the women and men who say: "This is what happened to me - maybe something I did will work for you." Maybe it will.  

I went into labor at 11 am on.  Gerald and I were staying with his parents in their one bedroom apartment because the closing on our new apartment had been delayed until the week prior.  Gerald was getting ready to go into work.  We ate a nice breakfast and I said: Hmmm.  My back is really sore."  10 minutes later my back was really sore again.

Our slightly ridiculous but pretty much informative birthing class had told us to expect laboring at home for most of the day before going to the hospital.  They also said the contractions would start gently and be about an hour apart.  Mine quickly left the "uncomfortable" stage and progressed to the pretty intensely painful stage.  They were ten minutes apart for about 40 minutes.  Then they were six minutes apart.

At this point Gerald had called out of work and we decided to call our OB/GYN.  I talked to her and explained that the contractions seemed to be very intense and six minutes apart.  She thought we were probably wrong but should go to the hospital if we felt strongly about it.  The worst that would happen would be that the hospital would send us home.

Gerald started zooming around the apartment looking for what to bring but it was all already packed in a suitcase so he was just zooming around to blow off some steam.  I wasn't sure about leaving for the hospital - I didn't want to make the trip to be sent home again.  Contractions were 5 minutes apart.  A friend called to offer me free tickets to a performance of Nice Work If You Can Get It on Broadway that night.  I said: "Well, I don't think I can go.  I'm pretty sure I'm in labor."  Another friend called to catch up - and I finally ended the conversation with: "I think I need to go to the hospital now - I'm in labor."

I waddled to a cab with Gerald, hissing in pain.  In the cab ride over my contractions started getting extremely painful and were now 4 minutes apart.

We got to the hospital and went to Triage.  They whisked me inside and when Gerald tried to come with me they told him he had to wait outside for a few minutes.  They got me into a curtained section and I promptly threw up into a sink and all over the floor.  Gerald came in a few minutes later and they checked my cervix - 6 centimeters dilated.  I was taken up to labor and delivery.

At this point it had been about 2 hours.  For the next 4 hours my contractions were incredibly intense and 2 minutes apart.  I couldn't get comfortable and the pain was becoming unbearable.  I was naked except for that ridiculous hospital robe - all my sweaty lady parts flapping in the wind.  I was embarrassed for about  thirty seconds and then just gave up.  I was exhausted.  I was so sure I didn't want an epidural.  But the Doctor thought I would labor through the night.  If it was going to be this hard for that long I knew I couldn't do it.  

I sat still for the epidural for a half an hour.  The intern or resident mis-threaded it and someone senior had to come in and do it.  Blessed, blessed relief.  

A few minutes later the OB/GYN came in.  She told me my labor had slowed (it hadn't, the belly monitor had fallen off unbeknownst to both of us), and though she thought I would labor for another 10 or 12 hours she was going to check me out.

She looked inside and said:  Forget what I just said.  You're going to give birth in the next fifteen minutes.  Would you like to know what color her hair is?"  

10 sets of pushes, an episiotomy, and a slight poop accident later, Clara was born - lying on my chest while we waited for the placenta to stop pulsating before cutting the cord.  I wish I had known I was that close to giving birth, or that they had checked me out before giving me the epidural.  I would not have gotten it had I known I was that close. 

It took five days for my milk to come in.  Angry night nurses yelled at me that I was doing it wrong as I tried to breast feed every two hours.  When we took Clara home when she was three days old she spent the entire night crying.  Nothing was coming out of my breasts.

At our first doctor's visit the next day Gerald and I were jittery with fatigue and worry.  The pediatrician said: "She's hungry.  Why don't we give her a bottle? "  And we did and our little girl stopped crying and promptly fell asleep.  We gave her formula until my milk came it two days later and then I was in full on breastfeeding mode.

All those feelings they describe in books of your breasts feeling full enough to burst never happened to me.  Those pads you put in our bra to sop up milk leaks collected dust in the linen closet.  I seemed to be making enough for Clara but that was it.  I couldn't ever pump enough out for a bottle.  When I went back to work part time when she was three months old I couldn't pump more than a couple of ounces at work.  We had to supplement.  I met a lot of mom's who were exclusively breastfeeding and not using bottles.  They crowed: "My child has never even seen a bottle" or urged me to only breast feed with vague fears: "breast milk is the only way to go or their development will lag." They were very critical and it worried me.  What choice did I have?  What was the point in making me feel bad?

I had the intention of breastfeeding Clara for a year.  But one day, at nine and a half months - Clara walked away from my boobs. Well...she crawled.  She refused to breastfeed.  She was done.   It didn't matter that I wanted to breastfeed for another two months.  She was good to go.  "Bottle, please, Mama."

Every child is different and we all have become experts in our own children.  I have used quite a few tips proffered by other parents.  Some have worked: (a bowl of pacifiers by the bed so you don't have to hunt for the one that ended up under the bed in the middle of the night) and some haven't.  (Endless recommendations for sippy cups have all been rejected by Clara who would prefer to drink from a grown up cup at all of 13 months."

We need to do more of this for each other.  I want to hear your story.

Sometimes They Teach You.

I have been trying rather sporadically to introduce Clara to the art of drawing with very little success.  She would wave the markers around and look at me as if to say: "This is supposed to be fun?  Lame, Mom."  The noted exception was Gerald's birthday card in January which Clara helped me with.

I love drawing.  I studied art.  I want Clara to love it too.  This morning as I was doing some work at my desk Clara came over and started pulling stuff off the bookshelves, as she is wont to do.  After a few minutes I looked down.  Clara had discovered a package of markers.  They were scattered around her and she was holding one in her hand, cap off, poised to draw.  

Amazed, I opened up a pad of paper for her.  I showed her how to draw with a green marker.  And that was it - Clara was drawing.  A dash of yellow, she would throw the marker away and grab another.  There were some stops and starts as she tried to figure out which end to put to paper and she colored her skin as much as the paper. But there she was - drawing.  She took a break to toddle around and try to eat the marker, then she went back for some finishing touches.

After she was finished with her matserpiece, she promptly went down for a nap.  I guess all those artistic brain synapses firing for the first time wore her out.

Yay!  We have art for the refrigerator!

The First Pass.

Finishing Touches.

The Masterpiece.

Clara, don't do this.

A short piece I wrote about my childhood was published in the 2013 Summer issue of The Southampton Review.  Reading it makes me remember at how much trouble my sisters and I got away with as children and in hindsight, it’s all extremely funny. But then I tallied  up all my bad kid karma points and  wondered when my “what goes around, comes around” karma will come back to haunt me.

And then it hit me.  Clara.

She’s a kid, like I was a kid.  I have been witness to the mischievous glint in her eye as she toddles over to the nightlight and contemplates pulling it out of the socket. Looking at me with a sly smile that seems to say: “You lady, just look over there for a minute, will ya’?” 

All I ask is that Clara waits a few more years before discovering how awesome matches can be.

Here’s the  story from my childhood. (Clara…don’t do this)

Water Bombs

By Jeannine Jones

A friend made on the other side of the building first introduced us to the thrill of throwing something out an open window.  Katherine would glob up a giant wad of toilet paper with her mother's Noxema face cream and throw that hellish snowball out the window onto unsuspecting passerby on Broadway. From her eleventh floor apartment we could occasionally hear the faint cries of outrage as Katherine's Noxema Bombs hit home.

            Back home in our ninth floor apartment, Becky and I lacked the courage to throw anything out the window that might actually hit someone.  Lucky us, our dining room overlooked a nearly-always empty courtyard.  The (almost) sure knowledge that no one was ever down there proved an impossible temptation to resist.

            Our weapon of choice began small - the foldable sandwich baggies we used to pick up our dog's poop up off the street, due to the recently passed Curb Your Dog law. One small baggie filled with water, dropped out the window made a satisfying PLIP. This was soon followed by two, then three, then even four at once - increasing the PLIP to a CLAP as the water made contact.

            Friends invited over for playdates and overnights would marvel at our daring.  Weren't we afraid of being caught?  The answer, simply, was no.  Located conveniently one apartment below us were two brothers, close in age, whose parents got regular visits from the doorman complaining of water bombs in the courtyard.

            Over the years, the sound of small, water-filled baggies striking the ground was no longer novel.  We graduated to plastic produce bags (THWACK!) and even to the larger bags our groceries came in (WHUMP!).

            One night, inspiration struck. I ran to the kitchen to get a trash bag.  Not one of those wimpy white ones for small apartment trash cans, but a HEFTY Lawn and Leaf bag.  With the help of my friend Rob, we filled it as far as we dared in the bathtub. Double knotted and too heavy to carry, it undulated across the floor like the Blob as we pushed it towards its demise.

            It hung there a moment, suspended in the sill, as if deciding which way to go. It slowly gained speed, oozed out the window and sailed into the night air. Endless seconds of silence passed.  Then - like a cannon firing off a shot we were greeted by a reverberating BOOOOOOOOM that rattled windows in their frames.

            We stifled screams and hysterical laughter and hid beneath the Dining Room table - safe in the knowledge, that in a few short minutes, the boys who lived downstairs would be getting a knock on their door.  I would like to say this was the juvenile act of a child.  I was 19.

Milestones They Neglect To Mention

For the most part I have tried to stay away from the books and blogs that inform you (in excruciating detail) what your child should be doing at this or that age, and whether the vaguely alarming rash on your baby’s butt means “allergic to laundry detergent” or “symptom of smallpox”.  I have to admit,  I have occasionally  flipped through my What to Expect in the First Year and gotten some good tips out of it. 

For example: I never would have thought to start playing catch with Clara as soon as I did had the book not recommended it. And I got some good ideas about how to transition Clara from our room to the crib.  Other than that – any other reading I do seems to be of the alarmist DON’T DO THAT! OH NO! variety and I try to avoid it.

Occasionally, though, something happens to me that I think they should put into these books because my 37 years on earth have not prepared me - in any way, shape or form -  how to respond.

Take this example.  The other night I was giving 13-month old Clara her nightly bath while Gerald put the dinner dishes away.  She was happily splashing and drinking bathwater out of a cup.  I was sitting on the edge of the tub talking to her. She moved into a semi-crawl position, and I chuckled to see a tiny air bubble fart rise to the surface and pop.  Before my chuckle had a chance to fully emerge from my throat – tiny baby turds started shooting out of Clara’s butt with machine-gun rapidity.  Suddenly she was surrounded by at least twenty, floating poop balls.  I shrieked incoherently for Gerald and stood up – flapping my arms in horror. Gerald arrived to help.

 “What?” He asked.

“Poop!  There’s poop!  Grab a towel!”

I scooped up Clara and handed her off to Gerald and the towel.  Clara’s shrieks of displeasure at a bath cut short faded away as Gerald carried her off to her room and I kneeled down and spent the next ten minutes fishing poop out of the tub with my hands.  Yes – my bare hands.  I wasn’t thinking – I was operating of some basic animal instinct to clean.  I guess. Where is that in a book, What To Expect people???!!!!  I would have like a little heads up for this horror show.

But after I gave myself a chance to stop hyper ventilating, I began to think about what had just happened.  In a weird way – it was kind of awesome.  Here is this little baby – totally uninhibited -  totally incapable of controlling her bowels – but she doesn’t care.  She’s cool with it.  It’s Mother Nature, man. 

When was the last time you felt uninhibited and relaxed enough to poop in a pool of warm water? (A long time, I’m betting)  Here I am – someone who would rather die holding it in than go to the bathroom in the woods – and I have a little girl who just rolls with it.  Good job, Clara.  Never be embarrassed by anything.  I mean, please don’t poop in the tub again, but don’t get held back by societal inhibitions! 

High Heels for Little Girls - what are we teaching our daughters?

While sitting down and watching Spongebob with my one year-old daughter, Clara, I saw 2 advertisements for Skechers shoes – one aimed at little girls, one aimed at little boys.

The advertisement for girls featured little girls pretending to be rock stars while wearing sneakers that hid a 2-inch wedge heel.  So these little girls could be taller and no one would know. The ad starts by saying: “Do you want to get taller?” and “have a secret wedge that only we girls know about?” Throughout we watch cartoon girls in short skirts sing on stage.  This is it: Skechers Wedge Commercial

In the next commercial block I watched a second Skechers ad for Air-Mazing Shoes.  It shows cartoon boys doing all kinds of stunts and sports.   It asks: “Are you a kid who runs fast, jumps high and plays hard?” At the end of the commercial two girls dressed as cheerleaders swoon over the boy in the cool, athletic sneakers.  This is it: Air-Mazing Commercial.  

This prompted me to visit the Skechers website to find out more about these shoes.  The Air-Mazing sneakers are only available in boys sizes – preschool through grade school.  The Secret Wedge Seakers are only available to girls – preschool through grade school which sport a 2-inch hidden heel.  There is also an adult woman version with a 3-inch heel.

Does anyone else have a problem with the fact that Skechers is marketing shoes to little girls by asking them if they want to be taller?  I know that as a parent I don’t consider teaching my daughter how to navigate in high heels as a toddler a priority or something that should be encouraged. Doesn’t this feed into the media obsession with super tall, size 0 models – an ideal that is almost impossible to imitate?

I was equally disturbed by the fact that Skechers is marketing an athletic sneaker solely to boys.  Aren’t there plenty of little girls who can run fast, jump high and play hard?  This commercial also sexualizes the boys by showing scantily clad cheerleaders swooning over the boy.  Clearly sending the message that if you have cool shoes, pretty girls will love you.

I would have less of a problem with the commercials if they were more inclusive.  I am sure as a teenage girl I would have liked the idea of a wedge sneaker but I also would have wanted a real sneaker to play basketball in.  And why isn’t there a male version of the wedge shoe for all the insecure boys out there that wish they were taller?  You might laugh at that marketing campaign but I would argue that we should be laughing just as hard at marketing a wedge sneaker to little girls.

In both commercials the girls are dressed in close-fitting outfits that show off incredibly healthy curves and busts for pre-pubescent girls.  Conversely the boys are depicted wearing comfortable clothes appropriate for playing sports.

As a woman who played sports as a little girl I am offended by this marginalization of young girls. I guess only little boys can be “amazing,” the little girls have to worry about learning how to walk in high heels.

In a discussion on this very subject it was pointed out to me that Skechers is only selling what the consumer will buy.  They wouldn’t be selling the shoes if people weren’t buying them.  True.  I think we as consumers have to consider what we are exposing our children too – especially our little girls.  If we didn’t buy the products they wouldn’t be made.  But I think these companies have to be more aware of the narrative they are telling with their product.

I remember that talking Barbie doll that said: “Math class is tough,” reinforcing the stereotype that girls have trouble doing math.  When consumers complained, Mattel removed the doll from the market.  We are all responsible for what we expose the malleable minds of children too. I would hope that Skechers might feel the same way.

Will Walk for Carrot

So after Clara's epic first few toddling steps she happily reverted to cruising, standing, and crawling.  It seemed that she would ony brave freestanding steps for Gerald until he let me in on a little secret.  Clara totally toddles towards his glowing smartphone.  She is entranced by the lure of the glowing button on the touchscreen she has figured out how to swipe and unlock.  She giggles and walks faster when Gerald turns on the camera and she can see herself walking towards herself.  

Baby.  Carrot.  Toddles.

The other day I was sitting at my desk drinking out of a one liter bottle of seltzer.  Clara happens to love drinking out of anything that's not a baby bottle.  She was hooked.  I rolled about five feet away and held out the bottle.  Clara exclaimed:  "Ticka gooey ticka AGOOOO!" and miraculously took ten steps towards me, all by herself, to get a swig out of that bottle.

Baby Carrot. Toddles.