I love my Eli. I love that he is goofy and enjoys a good laugh more than anybody else I know. I love that he still vigorously enjoys peekaboo and demands tickles and pretends to read his favorite books to me at bedtime. I love that he loves bagels and "Wheels on the Bus" and vehicles of all kinds.
But I hate his pacifier.
Our family affair with the pacifier is long and storied. Before Eli was born, when I was going to do everything right and establish the perfect breastfeeding relationship, I decided we weren't going to introduce bottles or pacifiers for at least a month. When my mother tentatively inquired as to whether we had any pacifiers in the house, I self-importantly told her that I hadn't purchased any, because we weren't going to be needing any. Just boobs for my kid, thanks!
(She later took it upon herself to buy some pacifiers and thrust them on me "just in case." Thanks Mom!)
As a newborn, Eli was jaundiced (boobs were not enough for my kid, apparently), so he had to go under the bili lights at the hospital. There are few sights sadder for a new mom of an otherwise healthy baby than your tiny infant with a big black mask over his eyes under those scary lights. (Remember when Scully did an alien autopsy on The X-Files? It's like that.) Apparently Lenox Hill is not one of those "baby-friendly" hospitals you hear about, because at some point a nurse gave Eli a pacifier to comfort him. (They also gave him formula, at which point I had a total breakdown.)
When we were packing up to leave the hospital, we strapped Eli into his carseat. He started crying. Phil and I looked at each other. Suddenly Phil disappeared and, in a flash, reappeared with a pacifier he had apparently begged off a nurse in the hospital nursery. And just like that, our obsession with the pacifier was born.
Newborns have a biological need to suck. It's comforting. It's soothing. (That's why the British call pacifiers "soothers.") Some parents take their kid's pacifier away after they've mostly outgrown that need but before it becomes a major addiction, around the time they recognize that they're getting up multiple times a night to reinstall it in their kid's mouth. Not us! We persevered through that stage until Eli could find his mouth with that pacifier blindfolded, and then we bought pacifier clips to ensure that it would never be more than six inches from him anyway. On Eli's first day of daycare at 10 months old, I brought him into the classroom with his pacifier clipped onto his collar. "You're going to need this," I told his teachers.
Once, we brought his school pacifier home for a weekend to wash it and forgot to send it back on Monday. His teachers literally gave him the empty cap to a bottle to suck on at naptime.
Now Eli is 2 years and 4 months old. He's getting to the age, in other words, where we really should think about losing the pacifier. He is theoretically only supposed to have his pacifier for sleeping (which in our laissez-faire parenting attitude also means the first hour after he wakes up and sometimes the last hour of the day before bedtime). He knows he's theoretically only supposed to have his pacifier for sleeping, so when he wants it he pretends he's going to go to sleep and lays down on the floor just so he can take a hit. But he also likes to have it in the car, sometimes in the stroller, and when he's watching Daniel Tiger's Neighborhood on TV -- when he's bored or relaxing, in other words, like his pacifier is a glass of wine or a good Scotch. This often means it feels like I'm battling with him to give up the pacifier: "No pacis during playtime," or "You may have your pacifier back if you want to get into your crib with it."
One of the parenting philosophies I became interested in after Eli was born is something called Resources for Infant Educators, or RIE. RIE is also called "mindful parenting" and it's based on the idea that we should be respectful and authentic in our interactions with children. (Sounds good, right?) There's a lot about RIE that I think is over the top and untenable -- RIE parents, for instance, don't believe in placing their babies in any position they can't get into themselves, so they don't do tummy time, babywear or even put their babies on swings at the playground (since they can't get up there themselves). That's a little much, right?
But one thing that does ring true for me about RIE is the idea that we should respect our children as autonomous beings. And I have to be honest, it feels a little disrespectful for me to poke holes in all Eli's pacifiers and claim they broke, or for me to encourage him to leave his pacis for the paci fairy, or to tell him that pacifiers are for babies and he's not a baby anymore so he doesn't need one.
(Except I know of people who have done these things and guess what? Their kids don't have pacis anymore and they're not pulling their hair out while their kid wails, "I want my paaaaaaci!" for the millionth time, so who am I to judge?)
And also hypocritical, because in the past few weeks Eli's also become enamored of a little blue blanket (which I'm 99% sure happens to be the blanket he was wrapped in at his bris) that he calls "Soft Blankie," and I have zero problem with him taking Soft Blankie places, so why do I have such an issue with the pacifier? I sucked my thumb until I was 6, why should Eli have to give it up now?
And also, if I'm being honest with myself, kind of selfish. Because when Eli is damp from a bath and runs off to find his paci and Soft Blankie and then crawls up into my lap with his pacifier in his mouth, it reminds me that he's such a little boy, that he has the rest of his life to grow up. It's not affecting his speech. He's going to need orthodontia anyway. Why not allow him this comfort? No one ever went to college with a pacifier, right?
Last week we read Leslie Patricelli's Binky, about a boy looking for his lost pacifier. "How would you feel if you didn't have your pacifier anymore?" I asked Eli.
"Crying," he said.
"Why do you love your pacifier so much?"
He sucked thoughtfully. Then he said, "Because I have to go to sleep!"
This weekend we had one battle after another about the pacifier; I must have said the words, "It's not pacifier time now!" a dozen times. In my frustration I thought, maybe it's time. Maybe it's time to take all the pacifiers away.
The truth is, though, I couldn't do it. It's a big, bad world out there. We all need a little something to help us cope.
Tuesday, December 30, 2014
Monday, December 29, 2014
"How we spend our days is how we spend our lives"
"How we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives. What we do with this hour, and that one, is what we are doing....There is no shortage of good days. It is good lives that are hard to
come by. A life of good days lived in the senses is not enough. The life
of sensation is the life of greed; it requires more and more. The life
of the spirit requires less and less; time is ample and its passage
sweet." --Annie Dillard
I have a new Facebook cover photo. It's a picture I took of Eli riding his scooter on the boardwalk at Long Beach (that's Long Beach, Long Island, not Long Beach, California) at sunset, bundled in his red winter jacket against the chilly December wind.
The picture is perfect. In fact, I'd be lying if I said I hadn't considered the photo opportunity when I spontaneously decided to load Eli in the car that afternoon. (And I had two dastardly ulterior motives: (1) Eli had taken a random 10 a.m. nap that morning and I knew he'd sneak in another one in the car and (2) I knew it would make Phil jealous.)
But what you see on Facebook is of course not the whole story. Earlier that day, we had gone into Manhattan so that Eli could see his 11-year-old cousin, whom he adores. Then we split up so that Phil could go with his family to a football game while I took Eli home. I found myself in the middle of thousands of tourists in Bryant Park, and all of them were behind me trying to squeeze by the line for the carousel, the line for the ice skating rink and the line for the food truck while Eli insisted on trying to push his stroller himself through the crowds. In desperation I snatched him up and took off while he kicked and screamed, alternately crying for his pacifier and telling me that he wanted to go on a "venture" (adventure -- I have no idea where he picked that up). Somehow I shepherded him onto the subway, where his pacifier fell on the floor a few stops from home. There are not enough wipes in the world to clean the subway floor off a pacifier that's going into my child's mouth, so the whole car (and then the whole neighborhood) had to listen to Eli wail for his paci until we got home, at which point he disembarked for his stroller and casually announced, "I'm going to play."
I think I may have actually bellowed, "I THOUGHT YOU WANTED YOUR PACIFIER!" I have been planning to let Eli decide when he's done with his pacifier, but at that point I wanted to throw them all out the window.
So then Eli was happily playing with his extensive play-doh collection, but it was unseasonably warm and I couldn't bear the thought of staying inside. I figured we could sneak in another nap in the jogging stroller, so I told Eli I wanted to take him for a run. To my surprise, he said, "I don't want yellow signs" -- our usual running route through Forest Park is full of yellow signs that Eli takes great delight in pointing out at each turn.
I said, "Well, where do you want to go?" and he said -- I swear to you -- "I wanna go a place magical!" (I have no idea where he picked that up either.) So I thought a minute and said, "Well, what if we go to the beach?" Because what's more magical than the beach in December?
He literally jumped up and down and yelled, "YEAH!"
So I grabbed his scooter out of the closet (at which point a large keyboard fell on my foot, temporarily crippling me) and hustled him to the car. He fell asleep, as I predicted, and just as I was turning onto the street that leads to the beach I heard a sleepy voice say, "Hey! We made it!" I installed him in the jogging stroller with his blanket and pacifier and we took off down the boardwalk, running extra fast to warm up against the cold. After a short run, I yelled, "Anyone who wants to go onto the sand raise your hand and take your pacifier out of your mouth!" and we ran down the ramp to the sand, where Eli giggled and said, "Take my shoes off!"
We tickled and cuddled and rolled around in the sand. We shivered at how cold it felt on our feet and we admired the sunset and the airplanes. Our noses ran and our toes tingled. I felt heart-stoppingly happy.
It was getting cold and dark, so I let Eli scoot on the boardwalk for just a few minutes before it was time to go.
And then, the car ride home. Google Maps informed me the trip would take a long 45 minutes. Eli polished off most of a box of peanut butter crackers and tossed the remainder up in the air, where they rained down on my head like confetti. Then he started requesting that effing pacifier again. I knew, I knew it was somewhere on top of him, because I had handed it to him along with the peanut butter crackers, but he kept yelling that he couldn't find it, and I kept yelling back that I couldn't find it either because I was driving, and then he begged me in a small, sad voice, "Stop driving, Mom, please, Mom," and I kept telling him that there was nothing I could do and I didn't have it, and finally I dug his LeapPad out of my bag and tossed it on top of him, but after a few minutes I heard, "It can't work!" and he handed it back to me at a red light at which point I saw that he had been entering "xksxkkwskkewk2wk2" into the calendar (who knew this thing even had a calendar?), which I quickly exited out of and gave it back to him.
At some point during the maniacal drive it occurred to me that our whole day had actually been a perfect encapsulation of parenthood. A frustrating, embarrassing, exhausting morning followed by an hour or so of shining, heart-exploding joy followed by more teeth-grinding and hair-pulling. When we got home, I opened a bottle of wine while cooking macaroni and cheese and shooing Eli away from the burners while the pasta cooked, but then we sat down at the table together and Eli made polite, mature conversation ("You have macaroni and cheese, Mom? Eat more macaroni and cheese, Mom!") and we smiled at each other over our bowls of bunny pasta. A parenting roller coaster.
It's a complete cliche to say that moments like the one on the beach are what makes all the aggravation worth it. In fact, it might be more accurate to say I'm driven to manufacture moments like those because I need to feel compensated for all that aggravation, like, I had a miserable morning so we are going to do something zany and epic and we are going to enjoy it, damn it! At the end of the day, feeling drained, I found myself trying to analyze what had gone wrong, as though if I had just been a calmer, more patient, less selfish parent in the first place we would have had a more even-keeled day. Sometimes -- and I'm sure I'm not alone in this -- I feel like I respond to toddler behavior by sinking to that level myself: But I don't want to be responsible for convincing you to use the potty this morning! But I don't want to sit here while you demand that I play play-doh a certain way! At least once a day I find myself surprised to be thrust into the position of decision-maker, of responsible adult, of Mom.
So I want to stop trying to quantify these moments, weighing whether they are "worth it." The days are what they are: frustrating and joyful and exasperating and funny and challenging and exhilarating and maddening and meaningful all at the same time.
I have a new Facebook cover photo. It's a picture I took of Eli riding his scooter on the boardwalk at Long Beach (that's Long Beach, Long Island, not Long Beach, California) at sunset, bundled in his red winter jacket against the chilly December wind.
The picture is perfect. In fact, I'd be lying if I said I hadn't considered the photo opportunity when I spontaneously decided to load Eli in the car that afternoon. (And I had two dastardly ulterior motives: (1) Eli had taken a random 10 a.m. nap that morning and I knew he'd sneak in another one in the car and (2) I knew it would make Phil jealous.)
But what you see on Facebook is of course not the whole story. Earlier that day, we had gone into Manhattan so that Eli could see his 11-year-old cousin, whom he adores. Then we split up so that Phil could go with his family to a football game while I took Eli home. I found myself in the middle of thousands of tourists in Bryant Park, and all of them were behind me trying to squeeze by the line for the carousel, the line for the ice skating rink and the line for the food truck while Eli insisted on trying to push his stroller himself through the crowds. In desperation I snatched him up and took off while he kicked and screamed, alternately crying for his pacifier and telling me that he wanted to go on a "venture" (adventure -- I have no idea where he picked that up). Somehow I shepherded him onto the subway, where his pacifier fell on the floor a few stops from home. There are not enough wipes in the world to clean the subway floor off a pacifier that's going into my child's mouth, so the whole car (and then the whole neighborhood) had to listen to Eli wail for his paci until we got home, at which point he disembarked for his stroller and casually announced, "I'm going to play."
I think I may have actually bellowed, "I THOUGHT YOU WANTED YOUR PACIFIER!" I have been planning to let Eli decide when he's done with his pacifier, but at that point I wanted to throw them all out the window.
So then Eli was happily playing with his extensive play-doh collection, but it was unseasonably warm and I couldn't bear the thought of staying inside. I figured we could sneak in another nap in the jogging stroller, so I told Eli I wanted to take him for a run. To my surprise, he said, "I don't want yellow signs" -- our usual running route through Forest Park is full of yellow signs that Eli takes great delight in pointing out at each turn.
I said, "Well, where do you want to go?" and he said -- I swear to you -- "I wanna go a place magical!" (I have no idea where he picked that up either.) So I thought a minute and said, "Well, what if we go to the beach?" Because what's more magical than the beach in December?
He literally jumped up and down and yelled, "YEAH!"
So I grabbed his scooter out of the closet (at which point a large keyboard fell on my foot, temporarily crippling me) and hustled him to the car. He fell asleep, as I predicted, and just as I was turning onto the street that leads to the beach I heard a sleepy voice say, "Hey! We made it!" I installed him in the jogging stroller with his blanket and pacifier and we took off down the boardwalk, running extra fast to warm up against the cold. After a short run, I yelled, "Anyone who wants to go onto the sand raise your hand and take your pacifier out of your mouth!" and we ran down the ramp to the sand, where Eli giggled and said, "Take my shoes off!"
We tickled and cuddled and rolled around in the sand. We shivered at how cold it felt on our feet and we admired the sunset and the airplanes. Our noses ran and our toes tingled. I felt heart-stoppingly happy.
It was getting cold and dark, so I let Eli scoot on the boardwalk for just a few minutes before it was time to go.
And then, the car ride home. Google Maps informed me the trip would take a long 45 minutes. Eli polished off most of a box of peanut butter crackers and tossed the remainder up in the air, where they rained down on my head like confetti. Then he started requesting that effing pacifier again. I knew, I knew it was somewhere on top of him, because I had handed it to him along with the peanut butter crackers, but he kept yelling that he couldn't find it, and I kept yelling back that I couldn't find it either because I was driving, and then he begged me in a small, sad voice, "Stop driving, Mom, please, Mom," and I kept telling him that there was nothing I could do and I didn't have it, and finally I dug his LeapPad out of my bag and tossed it on top of him, but after a few minutes I heard, "It can't work!" and he handed it back to me at a red light at which point I saw that he had been entering "xksxkkwskkewk2wk2" into the calendar (who knew this thing even had a calendar?), which I quickly exited out of and gave it back to him.
At some point during the maniacal drive it occurred to me that our whole day had actually been a perfect encapsulation of parenthood. A frustrating, embarrassing, exhausting morning followed by an hour or so of shining, heart-exploding joy followed by more teeth-grinding and hair-pulling. When we got home, I opened a bottle of wine while cooking macaroni and cheese and shooing Eli away from the burners while the pasta cooked, but then we sat down at the table together and Eli made polite, mature conversation ("You have macaroni and cheese, Mom? Eat more macaroni and cheese, Mom!") and we smiled at each other over our bowls of bunny pasta. A parenting roller coaster.
It's a complete cliche to say that moments like the one on the beach are what makes all the aggravation worth it. In fact, it might be more accurate to say I'm driven to manufacture moments like those because I need to feel compensated for all that aggravation, like, I had a miserable morning so we are going to do something zany and epic and we are going to enjoy it, damn it! At the end of the day, feeling drained, I found myself trying to analyze what had gone wrong, as though if I had just been a calmer, more patient, less selfish parent in the first place we would have had a more even-keeled day. Sometimes -- and I'm sure I'm not alone in this -- I feel like I respond to toddler behavior by sinking to that level myself: But I don't want to be responsible for convincing you to use the potty this morning! But I don't want to sit here while you demand that I play play-doh a certain way! At least once a day I find myself surprised to be thrust into the position of decision-maker, of responsible adult, of Mom.
So I want to stop trying to quantify these moments, weighing whether they are "worth it." The days are what they are: frustrating and joyful and exasperating and funny and challenging and exhilarating and maddening and meaningful all at the same time.
Tuesday, December 23, 2014
My lionheart
It's Saturday afternoon at our temple and we're all gathered in pajamas for a Shabbat/Hanukkah (or "Shabbatukah," as Phil likes to call it) celebration. On the rug, a group of one-year-olds is shaking jingly instruments while someone sings Hanukkah songs; a few feet away, the cantor is lighting Hanukkah candles with some older kids. On the other side of the room, everyone else is engaged in various stages of constructing a menorah out of modeling clay and popsicle sticks.
Everyone, that is, except one toddler, who is racing around a large round table, faster and faster, like a tetherball whipping around a pole. He appears, much like a hamster in a wheel will never tire, to have been running around the table since Judah and the Maccabees first defeated the Greeks, and the look in his eyes says he is prepared to keep running around that table until someone procures some jelly donuts; that might entice him to stop.
That one? Is mine. Phil and I sat there watching, half amused and half dismayed, as a tween volunteer tried to entice Eli to sit down and color on some dreidels. Part of me thought I should help her out, but part of me also wanted to see how long Eli could keep running in circles around that table. (The answer: Longer than you would think.)
Maybe it's the looming winter or maybe it's just those terrible 2s, but these days Eli seems to be more of everything than ever: louder, faster, more insistent, the highest of highs and the lowest of lows. At 6 a.m. every morning, I hear his voice hollering for me from his room, and when I enter in a sleepy stupor his arms are already reaching for me from his crib. "I wanna go in the bed," he announces, and once installed beneath the covers, I can feel his toes poking insistently into my flabby side, his hands moving restlessly over my chest. Every few minutes he pops up like a groundhog to peer out the window and make some observation ("It's dark out! The cars are moving! A siren!") until finally he's had enough and he declares, with all seriousness, "I have to go play."
Sometimes, while I'm frantically trying to open a container of yogurt or a new package of play-doh before his whines ascend to wails while he sits close to me practically panting like a dog, I can feel him vibrating with energy and I'm overwhelmed by the force of his desire. "I want it. I want it!" he'll repeat doggedly, and I'm left spinning out the same platitudes about patience and waiting just a minute. The other night he shrieked through a public menorah lighting because he was desperate for a jelly donut, which I had said he could not have until the menorah was lit. In these moments it's hard to decide when to dig in and when to let go, what's not worth engaging in a power struggle over and what might be spoiling him for life.
Bedtime is my favorite time of day. Not for obvious reasons (ha, ha), but because Eli and I kick ass at our bedtime routine, which he has succeeded at lengthening in ever-incremental steps over the past year. (We used to read a few books, get into the crib and sing a night-night song. Now I read a few books, say "Last book!" at least twice, then Eli gets a turn reading a book, then we "sit for a minute," then I "rock a baby," then we do crib and night-night song, which Eli interrupts every single night to inform me that he will be playing with "toys and chuggers" tomorrow.)
Usually I'm in sort of a rush to speed things along, because I have this idea that it's like now or never, if he doesn't get into the crib and go to sleep now he'll never let me leave. And usually Eli is popping up off my lap to choose another book from the shelf, or playfully tickling at me with his fingers, or whipping his blanket over his head to hide.
But the night of the Hanukkah celebration I was struck forcefully as we sat there together by how still he finally was. There was no squirming against me or feet sticking my sides or palms gently patting my cheeks. Literally the only sound I could hear besides the classical night-night music was that little squeak-squeak from his pacifier, the same rubbery sound it made when he was a baby and I had to hold it in his mouth so it wouldn't pop out from the force of his sucking.
The first time I ever heard Eli sing along with a song that wasn't a nursery rhyme, we were in the Gap and they were playing a song called "King and Lionheart." "Howling ghosts, they reappear in mountains that are stacked with fear, but you're a king and I'm your lionheart." It was the "lionheart" part that Eli was repeating, and ever since then I've thought of him as my lionheart: strong and brave and intense.
Eli was never all that interested in being held. As a baby, he would arch his back against us, as if to say, "Put me down!" He disliked being carried, snuggled or rocked, any of those things that babies are supposed to crave. Now, it feels like a rare treat when he'll sit in my lap, and even rarer when he'll sit there, still, and let me wrap my arms around him.
So that night we just sat there. I resisted the urge to make conversation, to chat about our day. I just breathed him in, kissing his soft hair, trying not to caress him too much and ruin it. He was heavy against me in a way that felt reassuring and familiar, like: This is the weight of my child. As I always do, I felt a quick flash-forward to the future -- Someday he won't wait to sit in my lap like this and someday it will be weird and creepy even if he did -- and nearly burst into tears. Instead I just burrowed further into the chair and nuzzled him into me like a Russian nesting doll, his head tucked under my chin.
"I love being your mommy," I murmured, and it was true. But I love some moments more than others, and that moment felt like the sweetest of all.
As the world comes to an end
I'll be there to hold your hand
You're a king and I'm your lionheart...
Everyone, that is, except one toddler, who is racing around a large round table, faster and faster, like a tetherball whipping around a pole. He appears, much like a hamster in a wheel will never tire, to have been running around the table since Judah and the Maccabees first defeated the Greeks, and the look in his eyes says he is prepared to keep running around that table until someone procures some jelly donuts; that might entice him to stop.
That one? Is mine. Phil and I sat there watching, half amused and half dismayed, as a tween volunteer tried to entice Eli to sit down and color on some dreidels. Part of me thought I should help her out, but part of me also wanted to see how long Eli could keep running in circles around that table. (The answer: Longer than you would think.)
Maybe it's the looming winter or maybe it's just those terrible 2s, but these days Eli seems to be more of everything than ever: louder, faster, more insistent, the highest of highs and the lowest of lows. At 6 a.m. every morning, I hear his voice hollering for me from his room, and when I enter in a sleepy stupor his arms are already reaching for me from his crib. "I wanna go in the bed," he announces, and once installed beneath the covers, I can feel his toes poking insistently into my flabby side, his hands moving restlessly over my chest. Every few minutes he pops up like a groundhog to peer out the window and make some observation ("It's dark out! The cars are moving! A siren!") until finally he's had enough and he declares, with all seriousness, "I have to go play."
Sometimes, while I'm frantically trying to open a container of yogurt or a new package of play-doh before his whines ascend to wails while he sits close to me practically panting like a dog, I can feel him vibrating with energy and I'm overwhelmed by the force of his desire. "I want it. I want it!" he'll repeat doggedly, and I'm left spinning out the same platitudes about patience and waiting just a minute. The other night he shrieked through a public menorah lighting because he was desperate for a jelly donut, which I had said he could not have until the menorah was lit. In these moments it's hard to decide when to dig in and when to let go, what's not worth engaging in a power struggle over and what might be spoiling him for life.
Bedtime is my favorite time of day. Not for obvious reasons (ha, ha), but because Eli and I kick ass at our bedtime routine, which he has succeeded at lengthening in ever-incremental steps over the past year. (We used to read a few books, get into the crib and sing a night-night song. Now I read a few books, say "Last book!" at least twice, then Eli gets a turn reading a book, then we "sit for a minute," then I "rock a baby," then we do crib and night-night song, which Eli interrupts every single night to inform me that he will be playing with "toys and chuggers" tomorrow.)
Usually I'm in sort of a rush to speed things along, because I have this idea that it's like now or never, if he doesn't get into the crib and go to sleep now he'll never let me leave. And usually Eli is popping up off my lap to choose another book from the shelf, or playfully tickling at me with his fingers, or whipping his blanket over his head to hide.
But the night of the Hanukkah celebration I was struck forcefully as we sat there together by how still he finally was. There was no squirming against me or feet sticking my sides or palms gently patting my cheeks. Literally the only sound I could hear besides the classical night-night music was that little squeak-squeak from his pacifier, the same rubbery sound it made when he was a baby and I had to hold it in his mouth so it wouldn't pop out from the force of his sucking.
The first time I ever heard Eli sing along with a song that wasn't a nursery rhyme, we were in the Gap and they were playing a song called "King and Lionheart." "Howling ghosts, they reappear in mountains that are stacked with fear, but you're a king and I'm your lionheart." It was the "lionheart" part that Eli was repeating, and ever since then I've thought of him as my lionheart: strong and brave and intense.
Eli was never all that interested in being held. As a baby, he would arch his back against us, as if to say, "Put me down!" He disliked being carried, snuggled or rocked, any of those things that babies are supposed to crave. Now, it feels like a rare treat when he'll sit in my lap, and even rarer when he'll sit there, still, and let me wrap my arms around him.
So that night we just sat there. I resisted the urge to make conversation, to chat about our day. I just breathed him in, kissing his soft hair, trying not to caress him too much and ruin it. He was heavy against me in a way that felt reassuring and familiar, like: This is the weight of my child. As I always do, I felt a quick flash-forward to the future -- Someday he won't wait to sit in my lap like this and someday it will be weird and creepy even if he did -- and nearly burst into tears. Instead I just burrowed further into the chair and nuzzled him into me like a Russian nesting doll, his head tucked under my chin.
"I love being your mommy," I murmured, and it was true. But I love some moments more than others, and that moment felt like the sweetest of all.
As the world comes to an end
I'll be there to hold your hand
You're a king and I'm your lionheart...
Monday, December 15, 2014
The evolution of mom guilt
It usually begins the same way: I hear coughing over the monitor,
mixed in with a little wailing. Then the coughing turns to retching. By
the time I sprint through the door of Eli's room, the damage is done:
it's a Code V (for vomit, of course) all over the sheets.
The next morning, Eli is warm and flushed and instead of galloping into the living room and insisting we "play chuggers," he crawls pitifully into my lap and lets me stroke his hair. Over his head, Phil and I are giving each other The Eyes. The Working Parent eyes. The "Which one of us is going to stay home with him today?" eyes. The "I have an important meeting today" eyes. The "Whose turn is it?" eyes.
I had never intended to be a stay-at-home mom, so I was relieved and excited to land a new job and go back to work when Eli was 10 months old. But as a stay-at-home mom, I never -- or very rarely -- felt guilty about leaving Eli to go to the gym when Phil came home from work or to go shopping on the weekend. After all, we were with each other all the time.
Even after I started working, I felt zero guilt about bringing him to daycare. He had always been a sociable baby who seemed to crave the company of other kids and adults who weren't Mommy, and as I expected, he thrived in daycare.
But as he got older, things got trickier. He grew funnier and cuter and more interactive and more human every day. I enjoyed talking to him and hanging out with him. I craved being around him. I started to feel like I was missing out when I wasn't with him.
For most of my first year back at work, Phil was the default stay-at-home parent whenever Eli was sick or daycare was closed, since I was trying to be a responsible new employee and also save up my days. Now that I've built up a little stockpile, and now that our second winter of daycare illnesses is upon us, we have the awful task of grudgingly canceling meetings, rearranging schedules (Phil arrived at his office one morning at 7 a.m. so we could go halvsies on missing the day) and trying to talk to VIPs on the phone while Eli yells "MOMMMYYYYYY Mommy Mommy Mommy!" from 1.5 inches away.
And now, like any good Jewish mother, I get to feel guilty all the time. I feel guilty FaceTiming Eli from my desk instead of being there in person, but I also feel guilty racing out the door of my office at 6 p.m. sharp while my co-workers -- some of whom are also parents -- stay late. I feel guilty when Phil has to take the day off and take Eli to the doctor, but then I feel guilty when it's my turn to take the day off and my office is shorthanded.
Last week, I had to leave work early to pick up Eli from school. It was naptime when I got there, so his teacher carried him out to me already bundled in his puffy red jacket. His cheeks were streaked with tears. I put him in his stroller and covered him with a blanket and he said in a small voice, "I feel better!" as if all he had wanted was to be with me. When we got home, I tucked him into our bed with his soft blanket and promised him I would sit right next to him while he slept. I had my laptop open and a Styrofoam container of halal chicken beside me. He slept for three hours (an eternity in Eli-time) and I worked. I felt like Supermom, like I had achieved the ultimate in flexible working conditions.
The next day, Eli was home again, only this time he was feeling a lot better -- not well enough to go to school, but well enough to be desperate for my company while he played. I shifted my attention frantically back and forth -- "We only use crayons on paper! If you push the easel like that, it's going to fall over! Hey, maybe it's time to watch another episode of Daniel Tiger" -- culminating with me apologizing to a director on the phone while Eli yelled at the top of his lungs. When Phil came home and it was my turn to head into the office, I had to escape through a crack in the door while Eli stood in the hallway and wailed for me. I could hear him crying as I waited for the elevator, swallowing my own tears, utterly exhausted without having set foot out of the building yet.
I had promised I would be working from home that morning, and I had done as much work as I could. I had been a great employee, I reflected, but I hadn't been a great mom. And that made me want to cry all over again.
Last year there was a blog post that went viral that was written in praise of stay-at-home moms. I saw it shared all over my newsfeed and each time, it made me want to punch my computer. I hated it. There was a small line in it that basically said, in effect, that moms should stay at home so other people wouldn't be raising their children. I am raising my child. I AM!!!!!!!! I would scream in my head. The truth is, I went back to work because I wanted to go back to work. But there are days when I worry that I'm being selfish, that I'm squandering days I'll never get back, even though I know that if I stayed home full-time all I would really be squandering is my sanity. Meanwhile, on the flip side, on the weekends all I want to do is have fun with Phil and Eli, but then when does the laundry and grocery shopping get done?
Most days, Eli runs off to his classroom with barely a glance back. But on Mondays, he cries and clings to me, as if he can't let go of the weekend we've just shared. I always feel part flattered and part guilty, part exasperated and part despairing. I rush to the door so I won't prolong the separation and then I walk slowly to the subway, sweating in my puffy winter coat, my heart heavy. By the time I get to the subway, Eli is probably all perked up, eating breakfast with his buddies or helping his teachers clean up. But all morning long I'll see his face in my mind and feel like something is missing until I get home again and Eli races out into the foyer to see me.
"Mommy!" he often exclaims, as if he is surprised to find me there. "You home!"
The next morning, Eli is warm and flushed and instead of galloping into the living room and insisting we "play chuggers," he crawls pitifully into my lap and lets me stroke his hair. Over his head, Phil and I are giving each other The Eyes. The Working Parent eyes. The "Which one of us is going to stay home with him today?" eyes. The "I have an important meeting today" eyes. The "Whose turn is it?" eyes.
I had never intended to be a stay-at-home mom, so I was relieved and excited to land a new job and go back to work when Eli was 10 months old. But as a stay-at-home mom, I never -- or very rarely -- felt guilty about leaving Eli to go to the gym when Phil came home from work or to go shopping on the weekend. After all, we were with each other all the time.
Even after I started working, I felt zero guilt about bringing him to daycare. He had always been a sociable baby who seemed to crave the company of other kids and adults who weren't Mommy, and as I expected, he thrived in daycare.
But as he got older, things got trickier. He grew funnier and cuter and more interactive and more human every day. I enjoyed talking to him and hanging out with him. I craved being around him. I started to feel like I was missing out when I wasn't with him.
For most of my first year back at work, Phil was the default stay-at-home parent whenever Eli was sick or daycare was closed, since I was trying to be a responsible new employee and also save up my days. Now that I've built up a little stockpile, and now that our second winter of daycare illnesses is upon us, we have the awful task of grudgingly canceling meetings, rearranging schedules (Phil arrived at his office one morning at 7 a.m. so we could go halvsies on missing the day) and trying to talk to VIPs on the phone while Eli yells "MOMMMYYYYYY Mommy Mommy Mommy!" from 1.5 inches away.
And now, like any good Jewish mother, I get to feel guilty all the time. I feel guilty FaceTiming Eli from my desk instead of being there in person, but I also feel guilty racing out the door of my office at 6 p.m. sharp while my co-workers -- some of whom are also parents -- stay late. I feel guilty when Phil has to take the day off and take Eli to the doctor, but then I feel guilty when it's my turn to take the day off and my office is shorthanded.
Last week, I had to leave work early to pick up Eli from school. It was naptime when I got there, so his teacher carried him out to me already bundled in his puffy red jacket. His cheeks were streaked with tears. I put him in his stroller and covered him with a blanket and he said in a small voice, "I feel better!" as if all he had wanted was to be with me. When we got home, I tucked him into our bed with his soft blanket and promised him I would sit right next to him while he slept. I had my laptop open and a Styrofoam container of halal chicken beside me. He slept for three hours (an eternity in Eli-time) and I worked. I felt like Supermom, like I had achieved the ultimate in flexible working conditions.
The next day, Eli was home again, only this time he was feeling a lot better -- not well enough to go to school, but well enough to be desperate for my company while he played. I shifted my attention frantically back and forth -- "We only use crayons on paper! If you push the easel like that, it's going to fall over! Hey, maybe it's time to watch another episode of Daniel Tiger" -- culminating with me apologizing to a director on the phone while Eli yelled at the top of his lungs. When Phil came home and it was my turn to head into the office, I had to escape through a crack in the door while Eli stood in the hallway and wailed for me. I could hear him crying as I waited for the elevator, swallowing my own tears, utterly exhausted without having set foot out of the building yet.
I had promised I would be working from home that morning, and I had done as much work as I could. I had been a great employee, I reflected, but I hadn't been a great mom. And that made me want to cry all over again.
Last year there was a blog post that went viral that was written in praise of stay-at-home moms. I saw it shared all over my newsfeed and each time, it made me want to punch my computer. I hated it. There was a small line in it that basically said, in effect, that moms should stay at home so other people wouldn't be raising their children. I am raising my child. I AM!!!!!!!! I would scream in my head. The truth is, I went back to work because I wanted to go back to work. But there are days when I worry that I'm being selfish, that I'm squandering days I'll never get back, even though I know that if I stayed home full-time all I would really be squandering is my sanity. Meanwhile, on the flip side, on the weekends all I want to do is have fun with Phil and Eli, but then when does the laundry and grocery shopping get done?
Most days, Eli runs off to his classroom with barely a glance back. But on Mondays, he cries and clings to me, as if he can't let go of the weekend we've just shared. I always feel part flattered and part guilty, part exasperated and part despairing. I rush to the door so I won't prolong the separation and then I walk slowly to the subway, sweating in my puffy winter coat, my heart heavy. By the time I get to the subway, Eli is probably all perked up, eating breakfast with his buddies or helping his teachers clean up. But all morning long I'll see his face in my mind and feel like something is missing until I get home again and Eli races out into the foyer to see me.
"Mommy!" he often exclaims, as if he is surprised to find me there. "You home!"
Two thoughts on growing up
Me: "How did you get so big and heavy?"
Eli: "Because I grew up!"
At bedtime, Eli always sits in my lap while we read stories.
Eli: "I can't sit in your lap. I'm too big!"
Eli: "Because I grew up!"
At bedtime, Eli always sits in my lap while we read stories.
Eli: "I can't sit in your lap. I'm too big!"
Friday, December 5, 2014
Your American skin
Last week, to keep Eli entertained on the train to Thanksgiving in New
Jersey, I bought him a box at Barnes & Noble. Inside were nine
miniature board books, all of them about different emergency
rescue vehicles.
I was telling my mother, somewhat flippantly, that I didn't wholly enjoy reading him the one about police cars. Because it begins: You call the police when you need help...
And I didn't feel so sure about that anymore.
My mom, who is a 4'10" middle-aged white woman who enjoys (a) Seinfeld, (b) Cathy cartoons and (c) the Off-Broadway show 25 Questions For a Jewish Mother, looked around self-consciously as if she was afraid someone would hear her and then whispered furtively: "I don't trust cops."
Should she? Yesterday at my desk I was transfixed by these powerful photos of protests around New York City following the grand jury decision not to indict the officer who choked Eric Garner. There's one of a black man holding a large sign that says I COULD BE NEXT. There's a young black boy holding a sign that repeats: Black lives matter. Black lives matter. Black lives matter. There's a man with a rag over his mouth whose sign says AFRAID OF THOSE WHO SWORE TO PROTECT ME.
Because I grew up white and middle-class in the northeast, the racial narrative of my childhood hinged on two major historical events: the Civil War and the civil rights movement. Black people used to be enslaved, and that was wrong. One hundred years later, Martin Luther King, Jr. and Rosa Parks said, "This isn't fair!" and then black people were allowed to sit in the front of the bus. The end. When I was in elementary school, I had a friend who was black. She didn't live in my neighborhood; she rode the bus to school. (They used to call this "being bussed in.") I liked to hold hands with her underneath our desks because I liked the way her skin looked next to mine. Basically I thought we would make a good Gap ad.
More than ten years later I was a student teacher in a 1st-grade classroom in the lily-white suburbs of Boston, where the school librarian showed my class a film about Ruby Bridges, the first African-American child to integrate an all-white school in Louisiana in 1960. There was one black girl in the class, and her name was Vanessa. My students kept referring to Ruby Bridges as "the Vanessa in the movie," and the film made them uncomfortable in the way only white people confronted with racism can feel uncomfortable. They felt benevolent, like rescuers: "But we let Vanessa come to our school!" they said generously. Even at 6 and 7 years old, they seemed to know instinctively that they were the ones in power.
For years, I've had the luxury of feeling nothing more than vaguely uneasy when confronted with these stories. But they thought he had a gun, or but he shouldn't have robbed that store. "People really don't get shot and killed by police officers every day for no reason," said someone on my Facebook page.
In 1999, Bruce Springsteen wrote a song about the shooting death of Amadou Diallo; the lyrics went: Is it a gun? Is it a knife? Is it a wallet? This is your life. It ain't no secret, my friend, you can get killed just for living in your American skin.
The death of Tamir Rice, a 12-year-old who was shot by police officers in Cleveland two seconds after they arrived on scene, makes me more than just uncomfortable or uneasy. It makes me angry. It makes me sad. It makes me certain that our system has failed, somewhere along the way, to train police officers to respond appropriately.
But I still have the luxury of feeling angry and sad and disappointed without fearing for my life -- because I can still say, with reasonable certainty, that even if I were to rob a store or reach for my waistband at an inopportune moment in front of a police officer, I still wouldn't be shot dead. And that seems like a fundamental inequality, an irrevocable loophole in our society. One that we haven't grappled with because the narrative is supposed to be: We are equal. We are colorblind. We treat everyone the same.
I think there is powerful evidence that this is not the case in America. I'm not sure where we go from here.
Is it a gun? Is it a knife? Is it in your heart? Is it in your eyes?
I was telling my mother, somewhat flippantly, that I didn't wholly enjoy reading him the one about police cars. Because it begins: You call the police when you need help...
And I didn't feel so sure about that anymore.
My mom, who is a 4'10" middle-aged white woman who enjoys (a) Seinfeld, (b) Cathy cartoons and (c) the Off-Broadway show 25 Questions For a Jewish Mother, looked around self-consciously as if she was afraid someone would hear her and then whispered furtively: "I don't trust cops."
Should she? Yesterday at my desk I was transfixed by these powerful photos of protests around New York City following the grand jury decision not to indict the officer who choked Eric Garner. There's one of a black man holding a large sign that says I COULD BE NEXT. There's a young black boy holding a sign that repeats: Black lives matter. Black lives matter. Black lives matter. There's a man with a rag over his mouth whose sign says AFRAID OF THOSE WHO SWORE TO PROTECT ME.
Because I grew up white and middle-class in the northeast, the racial narrative of my childhood hinged on two major historical events: the Civil War and the civil rights movement. Black people used to be enslaved, and that was wrong. One hundred years later, Martin Luther King, Jr. and Rosa Parks said, "This isn't fair!" and then black people were allowed to sit in the front of the bus. The end. When I was in elementary school, I had a friend who was black. She didn't live in my neighborhood; she rode the bus to school. (They used to call this "being bussed in.") I liked to hold hands with her underneath our desks because I liked the way her skin looked next to mine. Basically I thought we would make a good Gap ad.
More than ten years later I was a student teacher in a 1st-grade classroom in the lily-white suburbs of Boston, where the school librarian showed my class a film about Ruby Bridges, the first African-American child to integrate an all-white school in Louisiana in 1960. There was one black girl in the class, and her name was Vanessa. My students kept referring to Ruby Bridges as "the Vanessa in the movie," and the film made them uncomfortable in the way only white people confronted with racism can feel uncomfortable. They felt benevolent, like rescuers: "But we let Vanessa come to our school!" they said generously. Even at 6 and 7 years old, they seemed to know instinctively that they were the ones in power.
For years, I've had the luxury of feeling nothing more than vaguely uneasy when confronted with these stories. But they thought he had a gun, or but he shouldn't have robbed that store. "People really don't get shot and killed by police officers every day for no reason," said someone on my Facebook page.
In 1999, Bruce Springsteen wrote a song about the shooting death of Amadou Diallo; the lyrics went: Is it a gun? Is it a knife? Is it a wallet? This is your life. It ain't no secret, my friend, you can get killed just for living in your American skin.
The death of Tamir Rice, a 12-year-old who was shot by police officers in Cleveland two seconds after they arrived on scene, makes me more than just uncomfortable or uneasy. It makes me angry. It makes me sad. It makes me certain that our system has failed, somewhere along the way, to train police officers to respond appropriately.
But I still have the luxury of feeling angry and sad and disappointed without fearing for my life -- because I can still say, with reasonable certainty, that even if I were to rob a store or reach for my waistband at an inopportune moment in front of a police officer, I still wouldn't be shot dead. And that seems like a fundamental inequality, an irrevocable loophole in our society. One that we haven't grappled with because the narrative is supposed to be: We are equal. We are colorblind. We treat everyone the same.
I think there is powerful evidence that this is not the case in America. I'm not sure where we go from here.
Is it a gun? Is it a knife? Is it in your heart? Is it in your eyes?
My metaphorical morning
Sometimes cliches become cliches for a reason.
This morning I was grumpy. I've had a sinus infection for three weeks and my head is still clogged. Just as Eli and I were about to leave for school, Phil texted me in a panic and asked me to find something he thought he had left in a pocket in his jeans. Eli has been making me chase him down and tackle him in order to get his shoes and jacket on, so just getting out the door is an ordeal, and then he refuses to wear his hat and mittens and when I say, "But you're going to be cold," he responds, "I wanna be cold!" which is so irritating. Eli, it's not like you're a kid in Africa who's never gotten to experience the chill in the air, put your dang hat on.
And then Eli paused in the lobby to appreciate our new Christmas tree (Phil swears that when Eli saw it for the first time he exclaimed, "It's wonderful we have a tree!" which I just can't even because it makes him sound like he was written into the script of a Kirk Cameron Christmas movie), which I wouldn't normally mind except (a) we were already running late, (b) its lights change colors so theoretically a 2-year-old could be mesmerized by it all morning and (c) I'm a Grinch.
Anyway, we finally depart and Eli is walking, which he usually only does for a block or so before giving up and clambering into his stroller. But today it's finally sunny out again and Eli is following his shadow down the block. "I'm being tall!" he exults as he watches his legs stretch out on the sidewalk. "Mommy, you see your shadow?" he asks, slightly worried, as if he's concerned that I'll miss out on the shadow-walking experience.
After crossing the street, we hit a snag: It's shady here, and our shadows have disappeared. "Where my shadow go?!" Eli exclaims, outraged, and I think fast: "Your shadow went to school!" I answer. "It will meet us there!" So Eli takes off walking at a good clip: "I'm walking on the line," he informs me importantly as he follows the crack in the sidewalk, and then, "Bricks!" as he steps in and out of the tree bed.
A block or so later, he announces, "I hold your hand," and I am legitimately honored, as we are not normally a PDA mother/son duo. So on we go, holding hands, and he grins the sweetest grin up at me, as if to say, I know I'm giving you a little thrill. Then he says, "Lights!" and I think he's referring to the traffic lights, so I'm all, "Yeah, lights" and then he says insistently, "Lights! They're beautiful!" (hello, Kirk Cameron) and I realize he's gesturing to a small-scale display of Christmas lights in the bushes that I hadn't even noticed.
And then I experience this out-of-body rush of emotion about how seeing the world through the eyes of my 2-year-old has helped me appreciate the small beautiful things in life and how I am so lucky to have the best kid in the world. And that's how my ordinary grumpy morning became one giant cliche.
This morning I was grumpy. I've had a sinus infection for three weeks and my head is still clogged. Just as Eli and I were about to leave for school, Phil texted me in a panic and asked me to find something he thought he had left in a pocket in his jeans. Eli has been making me chase him down and tackle him in order to get his shoes and jacket on, so just getting out the door is an ordeal, and then he refuses to wear his hat and mittens and when I say, "But you're going to be cold," he responds, "I wanna be cold!" which is so irritating. Eli, it's not like you're a kid in Africa who's never gotten to experience the chill in the air, put your dang hat on.
And then Eli paused in the lobby to appreciate our new Christmas tree (Phil swears that when Eli saw it for the first time he exclaimed, "It's wonderful we have a tree!" which I just can't even because it makes him sound like he was written into the script of a Kirk Cameron Christmas movie), which I wouldn't normally mind except (a) we were already running late, (b) its lights change colors so theoretically a 2-year-old could be mesmerized by it all morning and (c) I'm a Grinch.
Anyway, we finally depart and Eli is walking, which he usually only does for a block or so before giving up and clambering into his stroller. But today it's finally sunny out again and Eli is following his shadow down the block. "I'm being tall!" he exults as he watches his legs stretch out on the sidewalk. "Mommy, you see your shadow?" he asks, slightly worried, as if he's concerned that I'll miss out on the shadow-walking experience.
After crossing the street, we hit a snag: It's shady here, and our shadows have disappeared. "Where my shadow go?!" Eli exclaims, outraged, and I think fast: "Your shadow went to school!" I answer. "It will meet us there!" So Eli takes off walking at a good clip: "I'm walking on the line," he informs me importantly as he follows the crack in the sidewalk, and then, "Bricks!" as he steps in and out of the tree bed.
A block or so later, he announces, "I hold your hand," and I am legitimately honored, as we are not normally a PDA mother/son duo. So on we go, holding hands, and he grins the sweetest grin up at me, as if to say, I know I'm giving you a little thrill. Then he says, "Lights!" and I think he's referring to the traffic lights, so I'm all, "Yeah, lights" and then he says insistently, "Lights! They're beautiful!" (hello, Kirk Cameron) and I realize he's gesturing to a small-scale display of Christmas lights in the bushes that I hadn't even noticed.
And then I experience this out-of-body rush of emotion about how seeing the world through the eyes of my 2-year-old has helped me appreciate the small beautiful things in life and how I am so lucky to have the best kid in the world. And that's how my ordinary grumpy morning became one giant cliche.
Wednesday, December 3, 2014
Eli finds Ellie's dog collar on the floor.
"Oh! Dangerous! I have to put it away so it doesn't get lost!"
Eli brings the collar across the room and puts it back in its drawer. He is now officially more responsible than his parents.
Eli is making 'pancakes' out of play-doh.
Eli: "Here's a pancake, Mom!"
Me: "Oh, yum! Should I eat it now?"
Eli: "No. You can't eat it. It's play-doh."
"Oh! Dangerous! I have to put it away so it doesn't get lost!"
Eli brings the collar across the room and puts it back in its drawer. He is now officially more responsible than his parents.
Eli is making 'pancakes' out of play-doh.
Eli: "Here's a pancake, Mom!"
Me: "Oh, yum! Should I eat it now?"
Eli: "No. You can't eat it. It's play-doh."
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