Tag Archives: Oliver

Gone Fishing (or "Screw Friendship and Networking – Tim Gunn is Going to be There?!")

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You may have noticed that I haven’t been commenting much lately (or maybe not – but just in case you have…) Last week was my last week of work. There are a number of reasons why we decided that one of us needed to stay home for a while, but I’m guessing that they’re only really interesting to us, so if you want more detail on that, e-mail me and we can talk.

This week, I’ll be getting used to being home with the kids all day (god help me) and next week, we’ll be at the beach, so I will be taking a break from posting and commenting.

I did set up posts for Wishing True for the next two weeks, so come visit me there! I should also have a post up on DC Metro Moms at some point this week, so I’ll sneak in a quick note about that. And of course I’ll have an oldie but a goodie up for Flashback Friday at the end of the month.

AND – I’m keeping my giveaway open through the end of the month. So if you haven’t entered yet, you can do so HERE.

In the meantime, to all of my friends going to BlogHer:

1. No one will think you look fat – so don’t waste one more tear over that.
2. No one will care what you’re wearing – so just wear what you like best.
3. No one will ignore you if you smile at them or try to talk to them – so smile at everyone and talk to everyone.
4. Tell Tim Gunn I said hi – because I have come very close to slitting my wrists several times since I learned he’d be there and I was going to miss it.

Seriously – I LOVE Tim Gunn. He’s one of my favorite TV personalities (I’d say “people,” but since we’ve never met that would seem a bit familiar – of course if I was actually going to BlogHer…DAMN IT!) So many times have I been running late in the morning and imagined Tim saying, “Kate, you need to leave for work in two minutes and you haven’t even started on hair and makeup. I find this troubling…really, it’s make it work time.”

I’m even sad about missing Carson Kressley. I adored the Fab Five and Carson won me over when gorgeous Kyan was bonding with gorgeous straight guy saying, “really? People say you look like Keanu Reeves? People tell ME I look like Keanu Reeves!” And Carson said, “really? People tell me I look like Ellen DeGeneres.”

Okay – so enough about what I’ll be missing. I really do hope everyone has a wonderful time, and look forward to reading the post mortems.

Here is what I WON’T be missing (from our vacation last year):












See you in a couple of weeks!

Descent into Scary Mommyhood

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One of my favorite online friends, Scary Mommy honored me with an invitation to guest post for her this week. She said that she thought it might be fun to have “a few people post their scary mommy moments (whatever that may mean).” And apparently, I completely missed the point…

She was talking about not being perfect – those times when you feel like “bad mom.” And I went in a totally different direction. Ultimately, she’s posting something else of mine that is more along the lines of what she had in mind. But since I went to the trouble of writing this thing, I’m posting it here.

So pretend that you are over at Scary Mommy’s blog and pretend that I completely nailed her guest post theme. And then leave me comments telling me what a tour de force this is so I can feel a little less moronic about the miscommunication.

Descent into Scary Mommyhood

When Jill asked me to guest post this week, she mentioned something about “scary mommy moments.” And my immediate thought was, “where do I start?!“

I suppose that’s a universal theme of motherhood, with its never-ending firsts, challenges and fears. But along with that comes all of the triumphs, the self discovery and the great gift of testing and proving your merit as a parent. It’s a heady experience.

Being a parent is absolutely the most amazing thing that I’ve ever done. Of course it’s just as terrifying as it is thrilling. And much of the time, it also really sucks.

My initiation into the world of scary mommyhood was the complete upheaval, the world turned on it’s head, the holy crap, what the hell have I gotten myself into slap in the face, otherwise known as bringing your first baby home from the hospital.

The mystery of shell shocked new parent expressions that I had previously puzzled over was suddenly revealed. I now understood. They had just willingly signed away life as they once knew it.

And I think that’s when it starts. Truly, it’s right there at the beginning. Babies may fool you for those first few sleepy days in the hospital…but the minute they cross the threshold of their new home, they turn into mini Terminators on a mission to throw their parents’ once peaceful existence into a state of constant chaos. At least for a little while.

When sleep, something so basic to a functional life, becomes a privilege and not a right, you join the ranks of zombies so easily identified as new parents. And it really gets scary when you realize that you have no idea when the madness will end, if ever.

After one particularly taxing day with baby Oliver, I looked at my husband and said quite definitively, “I don’t know how people take care of multiples – I could never do it.“

Epilogue: 18 months later I gave birth to twins.

Another scary mommy milestone would be caring for those twins during my maternity leave. Oliver was a week late and entered this world as a healthy, nine pound bruiser. Sure, he was fussy – but nothing beyond the expected newborn hoopla.

George and Eleanor were born just shy of 37 weeks and were each under six pounds. After my first tank of a baby, I didn’t know what to make of those skinny little things. They kept their wrinkly knees pulled up in a perpetual fetal position (common with c-section babies). And they looked so fragile, that even my 18 months of first baby experience made me handle them with extra care. Their tiny boniness was so foreign to me that when I dressed them in the morning I would often think that it felt like changing kittens.

They had reflux and colic and eczema and…well, let’s just say that I spent more time at the doctor’s office in those three months than I did in the previous 18 months with Oliver.

And taking care of both of them at once! Feeding them in tandem, bathing one while the other screamed, finally getting one to settle down for a nap, only to have the other wake up…When people knowingly advised me to “sleep when the baby sleeps,” I would reply, “oh yeah? Which one?” (The Miss Manners book got thrown out the window during that period of my life…)

But of course, they too eventually learned to sit up and hold their bottles, and entertain themselves and each other. And the scary new mommy phase quietly lifted away – quite the anticlimax to its bone crushing arrival.

I also think we all experience a touch of amnesia when it comes to those early months since the screaming newborn does at some point morph into a charming, cooing infant. Love and smug admiration for our offspring will inevitably win out in the end.

But then there is always something else… Some new scary development to snap us out of our self satisfied torpor. There is no relaxing in scary mommyhood.

My oldest child just turned four, and within that time I’ve experienced the NICU, the ER, hourly wake up calls for nights on end, speech and developmental delays, biting, fighting, tantrums, teething, crying, screaming and screaming and screaming…

But I’ve also experienced peals of laughter, hand holding, I wuv yous, flashes of genius, spirited identity building, earnest honesty, sticky sweet kisses, general center of the universeness and fervent gratitude for every single day that I have with those little monsters.

They have simplified my life and brought my priorities into sharp focus. My dreams for them are infinite, while my dreams for myself drop off somewhere after “showering with the door closed.” But that’s just for now because they are a daily reminder that anything is possible. They have aged me and made me feel young again. And yes – they scare the crap out of me.

But I wouldn’t have it any other way. From the very beginning, they made it clear that no matter how scary life with them can be, every day is worth it. And every day is ours.

Where Everybody Knows Your Name…

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I’m fairly certain that my neighbors think I’m an abusive parent. Or at least a raving lunatic.

Not the ones I know personally of course. They are aware of the fact that I gave birth to three children in 18 months and cut me a little slack. They’ve also seen me in action and know that I’m all about the empty threats.

Oliver! Do you want to go upstairs and take a nap!?
[Oliver hasn’t taken a nap since February 2008. Even he knows I’m bluffing on this one.]

No, I mean the ones who vaguely know me, but have never had the opportunity to meet me (i.e. the ones who walk purposefully past me and “my brood” George Costanza style, hoping that I will assume that they are very, very busy – no time to be friendly).

They hear me screaming at my children pretty much non-stop whenever we’re outside and I can only hope that they think, “well – at least she’s not beating them.”

George! Get over here! No! That is a NO-NO! Running away from mommy is a NO-NO!
[The No, No. Yes, Yes book doesn’t make quite the impact on my toddlers that one would hope.]

My poor neighbors. Every morning when we leave the house to go to work/daycare, it begins. I really do try to get everyone in the car as quickly and as efficiently as possible. But, inevitably, I have one escapee.

Eleanor! I said it’s time to GET in the car. Do NOT laugh at me, I am SERIOUS. Come over here RIGHT NOW! Do you want a spanking?!
[Eleanor is the only one whom I “spank” since she’s the only one who seems to take this seriously. Said “spanking” generally means a firm pat on her bottom. Which of course sends her into paroxysms of keening tears. She gets the shaming thing. The boys? Not so much – still figuring out what works for them…]

Since everything I yell at them outside begins with their names, it’s safe to say that anyone within a mile radius knows OLIVER! GEORGE! and ELEANOR!

And I’m not always yelling at them. Often I just “call out to them.” The yelling only comes into play when danger is involved. Or total lack of respect for my authority. Or outdoor nudity. Otherwise, I just call their names.

For example, at the grocery store. We can no longer contain them all in carts. That fun car thing on the front of “family” carts? They just climb on top of it while I’m pushing. Half the time, I’d be happy to leave them there since it means they can’t run up and down the aisles. But that kind of arrangement seems to be frowned upon by the other store patrons. And you know – I can’t stand to have complete strangers disapprove of me…

If I really need to keep them immobilized, I might throw all of them inside the cart. That way I can shove them back in when they try to climb out. But then there isn’t much room left for the actual groceries. So that only works for trips to pick up one or two items.

Plus – it is again “frowned upon” to push a shopping cart full of kids in various stages of escape. Something about the possibility of head injuries or whatever…

So nine times out of ten, I’m chasing them around the store trying to keep them in my line of sight while unloading all of the various and sundry items they fling into the cart (this ranges from cookies to boxes of Depends undergarments – they are not always particular about their choices).

I only do the serious shopping when I have Chris with me. It’s still “zone defense” but the ratio of parent to child is a little better.

The grocery store staff and other customers hear my children’s names pretty much from the minute we arrive…

Eleanor! Come back here! You have to stay where I can see you, honey…Listen to me Eleanor, that’s VERY dangerous…

…through the inevitable meltdowns…

I’m sorry George, but you are going to have to stay in the cart…NO George, don’t climb on me. I can’t carry you sweetie, you’re too big. GEORGE! DO NOT hit me! That is a NO-NO!

…to the checkout scramble (why do I NEVER remember to pick the aisle without candy?!)

No candy Oliver. I’m sorry – no. We don’t need that. Put it back Oliver. Give that to me…give it to me….OLIVER! GIVEITTOME!

There is a reason that I’m thinner now than I was before I had kids…

The general theme of all of this yelling at/calling to my children is mainly safety. So I can’t worry too much about what people think. I’d rather look like a complete bitch who yells at her kids than a frantic mother who can’t find them anywhere in the store.

And I guess at the end of the day, people are pretty understanding.

Amused even.

And often very nice.

The other day at Trader Joe’s, I had just caught up with Oliver in front of a sample display of cheese. Before I could even suggest that he stop and try some, the TJ’s staff person stationed there smiled at him and said, “Hi Oliver, can I interest you in some cheese?”

Sigh.

So yes, I think it’s safe to say that wherever we go EVERYBODY knows our names. Not so sure about the “always glad we came” part though…

The Big Reveal: Womily Cuff Links

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I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to post this, but Chris was out of town when they arrived. Then, as you know (if you’ve been reading), it’s been a rough couple of weeks.

But the day has finally arrived – the Womily Touch cuff links are here!

And they are so cool. Chris was thrilled.

If you read the “how to” post, you will remember that due to challenging conditions (i.e. having children), we were unable to get both twins to cooperate at the same time. So only Eleanor’s fingerprints were used for the links.

Here is an action shot (or what a cuff link considers “action”).


Very sharp!

And just because I’m at artist at heart (with limited photography skills), Here are some additional images with an edgy sidewalk chalk backdrop:


The links came with the suede pouch featured above (they are all about presentation at Womily). But did I mention before that engraving is included? We chose “Eleanor Hood, 2 years old.”

Here is a better shot of that:

This was a great investment for us since Chris wears a suit every day and allows himself to be a bit of a dandy when it comes to cuff links and ties. (Next up – a novelty tie featuring a textile pattern of Oliver, George and Eleanor’s faces…what no one is doing this yet? Calling my patent attorney as I type…)
Other Womily product options include necklaces (I want one in gold!), bracelets and charms. So there really is something for everyone.

While I’m here – I may as well throw in a few more visuals of the Hoods.

This is a picture of my daughter with a pig kite.


Seriously – why a pig?

This is a picture of Oliver playing out back with the hose.


Notice how he’s pressed up against the sliding glass door – we were afraid to go outside.

This is a picture of what George likes to call “R2 – time for nap!”


Sleep tight R2.

It’s Okay – I Didn’t Jump Off the Ledge…I Just Climbed Down When You Weren’t Looking

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*Don’t forget to enter my Blair Waldorf approved giveaway from Andrea’s Beau! Click here for details.

First of all, I’d like to say that I really have meant to personally respond to all of the kind comments left on my highly dramatic mind dump last week. But time has gotten away from me – so it might take a while.

Needless to say, I am feeling much better now.

The truth is – nothing has changed. But we now have a “point A” from which to work. “Point Z” is very far down the road, a road that I’ve heard is a hard one at that. But it’s far from being the one less traveled. Many people out there with similar experience have offered advice and encouragement, as well as tan, toned virtual shoulders to cry on (is it just me, or does everyone else have a much better body online?)

That said, I have learned a few things since my uncharacteristic breakdown last week:

1. It’s okay to feel sorry for yourself for short periods of time – but never longer than necessary.

2. There are always worse problems to have, so you have to focus on everything that is good and right about your lot in life.

3. Feeling sad is a waste of time unless you know WHY you are feeling sad – how else can you learn and recover?

4. Little pitchers DO in fact have big ears (though no one really knows what baseball has to do with anything) and if a child has a delay or disability, they are still far smarter and perceptive than you could ever know.

5. I often lose track of my thoughts and have no idea where I’m going with this list.

RIGHT – so I know that I had a point beyond platitudes…unfortunately, it now eludes me.

But what about Oliver?

He’s fine. In fact, he’s great. Still wonderful and amazing and miraculous. And still very delayed and on the Autism spectrum.

But like I said last week – that’s just a label. It defines his current behavior and challenges. But it doesn’t define him. And it certainly doesn’t define me.

I knew that things had shifted for me when one night in the dark, a disembodied voice (don’t worry – it was just Chris) asked me, “Oliver will be okay, won’t he?”

I answered without hesitation, “of course he will. Because I’ll make sure he is.” And I knew that was absolutely true.

So if you got scared when you noticed that I had disappeared from my angst ridden ledge – don’t fret. I just crawled back in the window while you weren’t looking.

It was a bit too breezy for my liking. I get cold easily, so I thought I’d better go get a sweater. And once inside, things didn’t seem quite so dire anymore.

There were sweet little babies who needed my attention and several pleasant hopes for the future that needed dusting. Someone was making dinner, and I realized that I was ravenous. I can always be distracted by snacks. And shiny objects. And if you haven’t noticed, I’m a little obsessed with my blog life.

Frankly, I’m just too busy to hang out on ledges with the pigeons. They aren’t the best conversationalists. And they eventually flew away when they tired of me hogging their spotlight. You know pigeons – it’s always all about them and their problems…

Right! AND (I just remembered) because:

6. Self pity is for the birds.

I Cried Yesterday

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This statement in and of itself isn’t exactly earth shattering – at least not to my husband… I’m actually quite the cry baby when I’m really upset.

But the truth is, I’m not “really upset” very often. I’m one of those even keeled types who needs time to process bad news before reacting to it.

I’m also an excellent companion in an emergency: “Oh dear, it appears that your arm just fell off…why don’t you call 911 while I get some ice…”

No – I’m not one for the drama. And if there is one thing that I NEVER cry about, it’s my children. Oh sure – a stray tear escapes here and there as the result of pride or nostalgia. But never tears of sadness.

I’m just too lucky for that. I have three children while many have none. My children are healthy, they are kind to each other and they are loving to us. And at the end of the day, they are here. I have heard far too many horrible stories about the loss of a child to not appreciate that. Mine are here with me, and I can hug them as much as they’ll let me. For this I am truly grateful. I’m grateful every day for every day I have with them.

But yesterday I cried. About Oliver. And I feel the tears well up again as I type this. Because no matter how grateful I am that he is here, I’m also sad and worried.

I have to reiterate – I NEVER feel sad about Oliver, even though I’m very much aware of his challenges. He is four years old now, but his two year old siblings are quickly catching up with him in communication skills. Oliver has made so much progress over the past couple of years, and I am so, so proud of him. But he’s still so delayed… And I hate to see the puzzled expressions that other people give him.

Even more so, I hate to imagine what that will be like when he’s older. I wish he wasn’t the big brother. I’d like him to have a sibling who could stand up for him on the playground. Because I can’t. Aside from the fact that I can’t always be there – it would just humiliate him to have mommy fighting his battles. I can only hope that his size (he’s HUGE) will work in his favor. If some smart ass bully starts in, Oliver can just sit on him.

But his size isn’t just a joking matter. It’s ANOTHER concern. People think he’s older than just-turned-four. And because of his delays, he is far more like a just-turned-three year old (and one with speech delays at that). I worry about what this will mean for him in the long term. Will people always expect more from him?

But none of this is anything new. What really makes me sad is the fact that he now has a label.

We took him to a developmental pediatrician after meeting with a neurologist who couldn’t make an assessment (other than that Oliver didn’t appear to be mentally impaired, autistic, etc.). I mentioned this in a previous post. He recommended this particular developmental pediatrician and after a bit of a wait, we had our appointment last week.

The doctor did play-based testing that is now very familiar to me and I could see the areas in which he was not “typical.” If not by his actions, by her reactions.

It was after a phone call from her yesterday that I cried.

She gave me the short version of his assessment, but then I got the official report via e-mail and cried again. It said that his “delays and quality of interaction and learning are consistent with a child on the Autistic Spectrum. Qualitatively I would label him as Pervasive Developmental Delay Not Otherwise Specified and meeting the following DSM criteria: delayed communication, delayed social interaction, somewhat restrictive behaviors and symbolic thinking.”

Here’s the thing though – how is ANY of this news to me? I know all of this about him. We’ve been working on it with his preschool teachers. I see it at home every day. He’s just different. Wonderful and amazing and miraculous as he may be – he’s still different.

I’ve written about this before and was very clear about the fact that I don’t care if he’s different. I love him for exactly who he is – quirks and all. So I wasn’t upset to hear more about what I already knew.

I think that the real reason I was so upset by this news was that Oliver was finally given a label. A label that doesn’t say that he’s wonderful and amazing and miraculous. Only that he’s different. A label that changes all of the “what if” questions into “if then” statements.

This is a good thing – to have concrete “if thens”. If Oliver is on the Autism Spectrum, then we have a direction to take with his treatment. If Oliver has an actual diagnosis, then he will qualify for all sorts of special services that we would never be able to afford otherwise. If Oliver has a label, then we can give others an actual reason for why he acts far younger than his age.

But if Oliver has a label, then all of this is real. It won’t resolve itself or go away.

The report says that his label is “qualitatively” based on his behavior. And I know that no matter how much help he gets, he will never “qualitatively” be like other children. This is just the way it will always be.

And while I still wouldn’t change him and I still think he’s wonderful and amazing and miraculous, I am now feeling sad and worried. To some extent this is also the way it will always be. And I suppose I wouldn’t change that either.

My love for Oliver and my appreciation for his fabulous individuality is a constant. One that can’t be affected by any amount of testing or labeling or restraining myself from physically assaulting playground bullies who try to pick on him. It will never change.

I know in my heart that Oliver will be okay. More than okay – I mean how could he not? We’ve already established that he’s wonderful and amazing and miraculous. But sometimes I will be worried. Sometimes I will be sad. And sometimes I will cry.

No matter what though, I know that I will always be proud of him and I will never want to change him. And that is exactly how I know that I will be okay too.

*Note: I actually wrote this yesterday – but was too busy avoiding my feelings and creating new blogs to post it. Hope it’s not too much of a downer. I really am feeling better about things now.

Don Taunch

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This is not a name (Don Taunch), it’s a sentence. It’s something that I say to George all the time.

Actually – I don’t say “don taunch,” I say “don’t touch.” “Don taunch,” is just George’s pronunciation of the sentiment.

He has an odd little accent, that one… Another example would be how he says “it’s very hot.” It sounds like, “as berra haut.” He kind of reminds me of Frank (pronounced, “Frahnk” of course) from Father of the Bride.

“Don taunch” was a bit of a theme on Saturday.

At about 8 a.m. that morning, I was making eggs for Eleanor (the only Hood child who will eat more than three food items). I let the twins watch and they had little chairs pulled up so they could see. As soon as the eggs were done, Eleanor was at the table waiting to be served. But George stayed to watch me plate the eggs and put the pan in the sink. Or so I thought…

Apparently, he stuck around for other reasons. The minute I was more than two feet away from him putting the pan in the sink, he reached over to touch the burner.

I know – bad mommy – why was I letting him stand at the stove? The truth is, we let them do this all the time since our galley kitchen is about ten feet long (I’m not kidding) and the stove and the sink are separated by two feet of counter space (the ONLY counter space I might add…so the next time one of you wants to complain about how outdated your full sized kitchen is, you can just visualize me telling you to “suck it” – I’m sorry, I know that’s not nice – but I have my moments too).

ANYWAY – George burned his hand. Three first degree blisters to be exact. Here is a visual:

They are on the index finger, the ring finger and the palm directly under the index finger.
Poor little guy. I immediately had him at the sink with cold water running over his hand. Apart from the initial scream of shock and fear, he was pretty stoic about the whole thing, and I wasn’t even sure that he was all that injured. But then I saw the three blisters appear and decided that I should probably have a doctor check it out.

As it goes with most household injuries, this one happened on a weekend and the pediatrician’s office was closed. So I decided to take him to a nearby emergency care center. Overkill? Sure. Ridiculously expensive? Yes. But it was the only off hours care center that opened before 10 a.m.

Chris was out of town for work, but I knew I could leave Oliver and Eleanor with our wonderful neighbors (this is one of the biggest perks of townhouse living – it’s like living with family).

I also knew that Oliver would have a psychotic break if I left him behind.

So Eleanor stayed home while the boys and I set out for what I knew would probably be hours of sitting in chairs before a doctor could look at George’s hand say, “ouch, that must have hurt,” and then slap on a little cream.

And that’s pretty much what happened. Here is a pictoral (for once I had a camera – apparently the stars only align to make this happen when I’m three days past due for a hair wash OR in the ER):

Who ISN’T more brave when they have their blankie wrapped around their shoulders?

Oliver took the presence of the bed quite literally.

“Don taunch!”

Time passes quickly when you are playing with trains (not so much when you are watching people play with trains…)

Oh George…will your hair ever look normal again?

Just enough room for two.

All we need is a TV…and maybe some snacks.

Yeah – Oliver really liked that bed.

Look at that bandage! All for three little blisters… Don’t even ask me about the purple toothbrush. My kids are always clutching bizarre things like this.

Epilogue:

George played outside for hours without getting his bandage dirty. He’s a fussy little guy.

I took all three kids to Target later to pick up bandaids and Tylenol since we had NONE left in the house. I am one of the most ill prepared mothers you will ever meet. It isn’t at all unusual to see me rifling through the dirty laundry for a semi-clean pair of pants for one of my children on any given Monday morning.

The twins fell asleep in the car on the way home which meant that they actually took a nap (something that no longer happens since we got rid of their cribs).

Oliver and I used this nap time to run around on the front lawn in Kung Fu Panda underwear and try to elicit some interest in sidewalk chalk (that would be Oliver in the underwear and me making unsuccessful attempts at “normal” playtime activities).

I removed George’s bandage after dinner since it was a little damp, and we tried out some bandaids. He selected the Diego ones, and we had to sing the theme song for EACH bandaid application (“DiEEEEgo…DiEEEEgo…GO Diego GO!“) This also included the five bandaids that had nothing to do with his burns.

George pulled off the bandaids within five minutes and I gave him a long talk about being careful with the blisters. “DON TAUNCH!”

Just Call Me Fegan

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This is the first Spring that I’ve had the pleasure of watching my children literally burst out of their clothes. And I’m not talking about their tendency to run around naked (that’s a whole other post).

I mean that they all have holes in the knees of their pants. And on top of that, the rags I continue to call clothes aren’t even fitting that well anymore. Inches of wrist show at shirt cuffs and inseams are more appropriate for a flood than a sunny Spring day (the term “high waters” would be an understatement).

These days, when I look at my children, I’m reminded of Fegan’s scruffy band of pickpockets in Oliver!


I’m serious. It’s come to the point where I’m actually sending Oliver to preschool with holey pants since that’s all he has left. Eleanor’s high waters expose her mismatched socks, and George… Well with that new bald head of his, George looks like he was deloused the old fashioned way.

Any traces of color vibrancy their clothes may have had are gone. Those hideously pink outfits of Eleanor’s and the boys’ standard issue red, green and navy have now taken on a decidedly grey cast. Luckily this blends well with the grime that they bring in with them every time I let them go outside. Ever fascinated by the charcoal grill on our back deck, they can’t be left alone for a minute without getting into the ash. Carcinogens aside – the filth of this sends me into a rage (at times like these – I take my poor parenting skills to a whole new level). Street urchins indeed!

Gone are the days that I have bags of clothes to donate to friends or sell at consignment sales. I’m hoping we can make it through one more month before the bare threads become skeletal. Bottom line – my kids are sorry looking bunch of ragamuffins.


So I feel like Fegan, watching them run wild in their rags, charming all around with their guileless smiles and sticky fingers. Maybe a kindly rich stranger will find Oliver wandering around outside in his underwear while I’m inside changing a diaper…

In the meantime, I’m counting the days until warm weather takes over and chilly mornings become a thing of the past. Then I can put them all in in shiny new shorts, brightly colored tee shirts and shoes that don’t have swiss cheese soles.

That is until late September when my ragamuffins return. Then I’ll have to be on the lookout for those rich strangers. Especially the ones looking to adopt a haggard, working mom in her late 30s. Who Will Buy ME This Wonderful Morning? Just kidding of course (sort of).

Becoming a Real Mom: Trial by Vomit

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So I guess I promised a 1,000+ word dissertation on puke? I’d say that I must have been drunk – but it looks like I posted that at 2:15 p.m.

I’m kidding of course! I’ve been super excited to write my gargantuan post about puke. I’ve just been really busy with work and mothering and promoting my talented friend Christine.

I also haven’t had much time to think about what I’m going to say about puke… So this should be interesting (or really boring – depends on what direction the wine is blowing – does that even make sense?)

Okay – back to the beginning… Eleanor was sick earlier in the week. Some kind of stomach flu to be specific. And there was a moment when she was puking in my hand that I realized just how far I had come in terms of a vomit comfort zone.

You see, there was a time when I NEVER, ever threw up. Ever. I couldn’t. I would lie in bed sweating through the nausea and praying for death to come quickly, but I couldn’t bring myself to just lean over the toilet and heave. I just couldn’t. I had a mental block. Sometime after age nine, a switch was flipped and I literally “couldn’t” puke.

Then I was in college and 21 years old. You are going to find this very hard to believe, but I only puked once in college. Red shots were involved, but otherwise there was nothing of note to report. Seriously – I was home for the night and my roommate held my hair back for me. Snore.

Then I turned 25. And even that was kind of quiet in that I realized what was coming early enough during the birthday celebration to head home before things got ugly in public. I didn’t quite make it into the house, but at least I didn’t soil the cab. Just the street. Which was gleefully pointed out to me by my roommates until it finally rained. Thank god for April showers…

Then I was 30. I was married and not a party animal, and visiting my friend in New Jersey. In fact it was such a low key night that we were just meeting a few of her friends out in Hoboken for Friday night happy hour. The plan was to then have dinner at a good Mexican place and go home early since Saturday would be the night out in the city (for anyone not familiar with this term, “the city” means Manhattan). I’ve written about this once before, but the short version is that I didn’t eat much, but had a few very strong margaritas that made me VERY sick. In Hoboken. In fact, all over Hoboken. And to quote the famously succinct Forrest Gump, “that’s all I have to say about that.”

Then a year later I went to China and got food poisoning (it’s part of the experience – there are whole chapters on this in the guide books). The first non-alcohol related puke since my childhood – yeah!

And finally…THEN, I was pregnant and got a stomach flu in my eighth month. My car never smelled the same again…

So that concludes my illustrious history as an infrequent puker.

Why would I feel the need to provide that history? Well – aside from that fact that I can’t write any story without at least 10 paragraphs of background information…I do think it creates a context for my limited experience with vomit.

I don’t know about any other mothers out there, but when I decided to procreate, I did not sign on for vomit. I was a seasoned babysitter, so I expected exploding diapers. I knew that there would be an ungodly amount of diapers – and that was fine. I signed on for that. I was also familiar with spit up. It’s stinky and annoying, but not too bad. And it stops as soon as the baby can sit up. I signed on for that.

But I did not consider the possibility of real puke.

Real puke is something that you never get used to. It’s not like poopie diapers. Poopie diapers are a given. You change them several times a day and very quickly become desensitized to the stench. Case in point: After about one and a half years of having three babies/toddlers in diapers, my three year old became potty trained. Since we had fewer diapers to dump, I stopped keeping the diaper pail in our play room and moved it outside. My adorably candid, four year old neighbor Jonas informed me of the improvement by saying, “Hey Kate! Your house doesn’t stink anymore!”

Awesome.

So no – I’m not exactly squeamish when it comes to my children’s bodily functions. But puking is a different story.

If something doesn’t happen on a daily basis, then it’s not familiar. And if it’s not familiar, then you don’t just “get used to it.” Therefore no one (except maybe a pregnant woman) gets used to puke.

My first experience with baby puke was during those fabulous teething months, when Oliver insisted on jamming everything in his mouth and gagging himself. In fact, it seemed like he tried to gag himself on purpose. We never did figure out the reasoning behind this bulimic behavior. But I didn’t particularly care about reasons when I had him on the changing table after his bath and he decided to stick his finger down his throat. All I have to say is thank god for the hooded baby towel. But trying to clean vomited peas and carrots out of my child’s ears over the sink was an experience I could have done without.

Since then I’ve encountered pretty much every child vomit-related situation. I’ve stood in the bathroom in the middle of the night holding a crying toddler as he or she puked all over me – over and over and over again. I’ve had to sit in rush hour traffic for 30 minutes while yelling back to a sobbing, vomit covered child that we’d be home “very soon.” I’ve watched three children throwing up simultaneously while I stood frozen for several seconds, wondering where to start first.

In any given situation, vomit is generally unexpected and unwelcome. And unlike diapers and spit up, no one actually grows out of it.

But I will say that in the past few years, I have become a very quick thinking and level headed strategist when it comes to puking children.

And the other weekend when we were out to lunch and Eleanor started making gagging noises. I instinctively held my hand under her chin to catch as much of the vomit as possible.

Then I dumped it onto her plate.

Then I asked a waiter for paper napkins and started cleaning her up.

Then I told Chris to take George with him to buy her a new outfit (we were in a mall).

Then I discreetly stripped her and covered her with Chris’ jacket.

Then I joked with our waiter and cleaned the table and the chair the the floor under the chair with a rag.

Then I told Oliver and Eleanor how good and patient they were being while we waited for Daddy.

Then I finished my soup.

Then I kept my exasperation in check when my flustered husband showed up with a summer outfit (it was chilly march) involving a onesie of all things…

Then I kept all three kids together outside of the restaurant while we waited for Chris to pay the check.

Then I spent the next hour in the kids’ play area with them even though I knew that my right hand still smelled like puke (never did get a chance to wash up).

And in the end – that’s when I finally felt like a real mom. Not when I gave birth or gave my baby his first bath (technically I didn’t – my Aunt Jan did while I sat on a bag of frozen peas) or started to get used to the sleepless nights. Because all of that was anticipated and expected (except for the frozen peas).

For me, becoming a real mom meant doing the unfamiliar and unexpected things. Facing the unknown and learning to take it in stride. Child vomit was my unknown territory – my Wild West – my own personal moon landing. “Puke: The final frontier.”

This all may sound rather silly and inconsequential, but if you think about it, vomit is terrifying. It’s a sign of weakness, illness, helplessness. And as parents, we live in fear of our children experiencing any of those traits. It doesn’t matter if a baby has a minor flu bug or decided to stick a Lincoln Log down his throat – throw up is throw up. And the primal reaction of is fear.

Parents live in fear on a daily basis. Fear of both the known and the unknown. And puking represents the unknown – that which is beyond our control. But at the end of the day, parents are responsible for taking charge of any given situation and exerting control wherever they can. I can’t make my child not puke, but I can hold out my hand to help.

So for me, that is when I stopped feeling like the teenage babysitter and instead started to claim my seat at the grownup table. I can take control of a situation. I can face the unknown with cool consideration. And dammit, I can pick up my child’s vomit and toss it onto a plate without batting an eye.

I think I’m ready for my silver star. I’m sheriff of this here family and all interlopers will have to answer to me. I’ll run vomit out of town on a rail. And if it comes to a showdown at high noon, best keep in mind that I’m the fastest draw in the West. That is when it comes to catching puke in my hand.

Special Needs

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I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this before – but my three year old son, Oliver is weird.

This is at least partly due to something called SPD (sensory processing disorder) that causes him to engage in activities that “feed” his need for a lot of sensory input. His teacher explained this to me by saying, “remember that kid in your class who just couldn’t stay in his chair? The one who would fidget so much that he’d actually fall out of it sometimes?” Well yes actually – I do.

I remember several kids like that. They were the ones who ate paste in kindergarten, fell into the pond on the second grade field trip and consistently got in trouble for “touching people” in more or less every grade through middle school. And now, as it turns out, I’ve given birth to one.

This shouldn’t be too much of a surprise since we speculate that my father was like this as a boy, AND after reading up on the subject, my husband says that he was definitely a sensory seeking SPD child. Thanks guys – you’re the best. The inability to walk past a puddle without lying down in it was one of the qualities I prayed for every night when I was pregnant with Oliver. Right up there with ten fingers, ten toes and the immediate ability to sleep through the night. (I’m just kidding about that last one of course. No first time pregnant woman worries about something as silly as their child sleeping through the night. They’re too busy obsessing over baby names, nursery themes, and important registry items like educational mobiles.)

Oliver also has very delayed speech, and adds a lot of jargoning (the official word for jibber jabber) to his special needs quirkiness. So yes – I have one very odd little duck as my first born. I have of yet to meet any almost four year old like him. And the truth is – I love him for every single bizarre behavior he throws my way.

I don’t just think he’s “special” – I think he’s FABULOUS. No one – and I mean no one – shows enthusiasm for preferred activities like Oliver. He doesn’t just hug you – he flings himself at you. He doesn’t just watch DVDs – he acts out the stories. He doesn’t just finger paint – he body paints. He doesn’t just say “please” – he proclaims PLEASE! He loves to be tickled and will beg you to keep going until even you can’t stand it anymore.

His exuberance makes me smile, then laugh, then cry from laughing so hard. And I think my heart might break when I worry about the people who won’t understand him or appreciate him. The people who will hurt him or bully him. Or make him feel any less than the very sweet little soul than he is. Because that will happen.

Instead of wasting my time on worries though, I prefer to plan for tomorrow, next week and next year. I work with his teacher on figuring out where this speech delay originates and strategize about how to correct it in the short and long term. We have more or less ruled out autism with a pediatric neurologist and are on to having his ultra-waxy ears cleaned out for a hearing test so that he can be assessed by a developmental pediatrician. As Miss Erin (or as Oliver calls her, “Miss Smerin”) likes to say, he is a bit of a puzzle. There seem to be several issues at play and all are fairly elusive…

But I really don’t spend too much time thinking about the problems and the boy that he was “supposed to be.” I’m far too busy enjoying the boy that he is. I recently spoke with a close childhood friend who has an autistic son and we agreed that not only is this better for them, it’s better for us. In describing her own son, she said, “every day, he makes us laugh. He’s just his own little person. While the other boys are in time outs for fighting over what to watch on TV, he’s busy figuring out the remote controls.”

This makes me happy just thinking about it – the fact that it’s okay like our kids for being different. Who got to decide that there is only one way to be anyway?

But the hard reality is that there is a standard for “normal.” That’s the reason that there is a special needs label. And it is our job to take our special needs children and try to teach them how to navigate a world that wasn’t set up with them in mind. It’s hard. And it’s scary. For all of us. But it’s not impossible.

I could so easily fall into despair over the “what ifs” associated with Oliver’s future – but what good does that do either of us? He deserves better than that. I’m the grownup and I set the tone for our house. If I am an emotional wreck over the things I can’t control, then everyone suffers for it. And at the end of the day, he’s not responsible for my feelings – but I am responsible for his.

So if he finds a ball of yarn entertaining, and wants to spend his quiet time unraveling it and then lashing all of the furniture together…fine. I’ll clean it up later (but only after he’s gone to bed since its disappearance could usher in “the end of the world”). If he wants to bring 12 straws to bed with him – or possibly all of the kid toothbrushes we own – who am I to judge? Perhaps this is soothing to him. Maybe he likes the way they feel in his hand – or just the fact that he can hold “all” of something in that one hand. He jargons reasons to me and I just say “fine.” I may do a little struggling first, but in the end, I let him decide. No one ever died from bringing straws to bed.

And every day I see progress – and his beautiful smile. And I know that it will be okay. Even though I understand that he’ll never be the easy going child that glides effortlessly through life. Or…maybe he eventually will. I’ll never know if I don’t do everything I can to help cultivate his self confidence. And his confidence in my own unwavering support.

My son is the greatest gift that I have ever been given. All of my children are. And I refuse to squander any of this fleeting time with them on anger or ingratitude.

I’m not a particularly religious person, but I consider each one of my children to be miraculous. And their current challenges and oddities just make them all the more unique and special. I need all of them as much as I need food and water. I need them to be safe and I need them to be happy. I need them to grow and laugh and love and know that there is nothing more important in this world to me than their existence. And if they have their own special needs – then I will meet them. I will be there from the time that they are unaware of these challenges to the time that their own personal demons emerge. I will always be there for them. Because in the end, I need them far more than they could ever need me.