Author: amberhj

A letter to my team

Posted on by amberhj

Dear Celtics,

It’s me, Amber. I know you’re a little busy right now. But I wanted to tell you how much you mean to me, because maybe, just maybe the great collective energy from fans watching and listening from everywhere really does affect games. (Not just the cheers in the actual Garden, and by the way, ticket holders, you better keep it loud and wild in there the whole time, even during rough patches, or I’m going to fly down there tonight and personally kick all of your rich asses.) Honestly, it makes me physically ill to watch Celtics games at a lag or, God forbid, after the fact. I just can not stand it because I want my wanting and cheering and  hoping to be contributed LIVE and added to the force. Or whatever.

Anyway, you may not recognize me now that I’m 33, bedraggled, and living in Seattle. You and I were closest when I was a fresh-faced kid, and then a sour-faced teenager, living in Natick, Massachusetts. I was nine when, with a mixture of total confusion and bouncing-off-the-walls excitement, I watched you win the 1986 NBA championship. I stood in front of the TV, slack-jawed, feeling both confused and thrilled. I wondered, aloud to my dad, “Why are they patting each others’ butts?” and to myself, “Why was this game so important anyway?” I didn’t even understand the rules of basketball at that point. In fact, I didn’t understand them until after I’d played two full seasons of basketball in middle school. So clearly, I didn’t grasp the significance of your achievement. But, hoo boy, a seed was planted.

Soon, Larry Bird posters covered my walls. I’m not sure he ever felt the same way, but I had a bond with him. He and I had some things in common, you know, besides blond hair and n0n-supermodel-esque faces and unfortunate hair styles. He wasn’t very social, you know. He didn’t feel obligated to charm people–definitely not the media. He just didn’t give a crap about all that. He just wanted to play basketball. That was me, and a lot of people misunderstood it and wanted me to be perky and outgoing like all girls are supposed to be, apparently. It’s been said far too many times, and it’s not completely true because, “Hello? Lightning fast first step, anyone?”, but Bird wasn’t the kind of gifted athlete you think of when NBA greats come to mind. Me? I was a small, weak stick and a very late bloomer and no one thought I could do shit on the court. Because at that point, I really couldn’t. Okay then.

As Bird’s career trailed off, I watched you Celtics (mostly) lose. But for whatever reason, my fan-ship only grew. Every game was captivating and hopeful to me–everything my real life was typically not. You became my spark. Around the time I sported black Reebok Pumps (nothing like an adorable little basketball-shaped squeeze pump to intimidate the competition), I attended the Robert Parish / Dee Brown Basketball Camp.

To the best of my recollection, there was one other girl at that camp, in a sea of at least a hundred boys. Felt like thousands due to high levels of obnoxiousness and talent. Upon arrival, I was matched up against a gangly African American kid two feet taller than me and a few years older. Yep, one on one. A quick, fun game to 3. Holy shit. After swallowing my heart and stuffing it back into my quivering chest cavity, I managed to score once, due to an effective fake and, probably, that fact that I was just slightly too underrated by my opponent, who by the way, was friendly and bemused and respectful during and after the ass-kicking. One of many character-building moments you’ve inspired, Celtics.

In fact, here’s another. Due to an incredibly high level of on-court effort despite incredibly low results (mostly I just beat everyone up and down with the court, yet was rarely if ever trusted with a long pass for an easy layup), I was awarded “Camper of the Week” honors.  It may sound or actually be pathetic, but it was a defining moment in my life. It was my “You really love me!” moment in front of the Academy. As part of the award acceptance process, which took place in absolute silence despite the gym being packed with adolescent boys crowded together on bleachers, I ran out on the court and shook Dee Brown’s hand, and then my hand was engulfed in Robert Parish’s paw and I left it there  a little too long. Awkward in an adorable way, really–really! They smiled ear to ear, and seemed astonished and pleased and that melted my little heart, and turned my shock into well-hidden (I hope) tears, as in “I finally won an Oscar after years of critical acclaim!” tears. It was that huge for me. But I didn’t let anyone see, because my stupid, partly flirty, partly mean boy teammates would literally not have ever shut up about that. Ever.  It was bad enough that my hair was stringy–you would not believe how far they ran with that, comedically. But it was CELTICS camp and it was heaven and I won an award and I realized something about myself that I don’t think would’ve occurred to me otherwise at that perilous, vulnerable stage in life.

Speaking of which, you Celtics taught me intensity. In general, I’m kind of scared of everything. But I have this place I can tap into where nothing can stop me. Not Wellesley or Framingham (our high school rivals). Not even my screaming toddler. Dee Brown schooled me in this area. In the crowd at one of those end-of-week camp ceremonies, I watched Dee posterize a kindergartner in the strangest, most awkward and pointless one-on-one game ever played. He just soared right over the child’s head and mercilessly slammed it. The lesson, according to Dee? You don’t half-ass it for anyone, for any reason! (I wonder what that kid’s therapy bills are like today.) Kind of like Larry Bird’s all-out all-the-time mentality, but with just a touch of sociopath thrown in. Honestly, it felt like Dee was trying so hard to send us an important after-school-type message, though the delivery was awkward and pretty much heartless, it made me like him/you more, actually. He seemed totally human and superhuman at the same time. Another unforgettable moment, Celtics. You really know how to deliver. Jesus H.

At some point during the early part of high school, I had the jackpot fortune of attending a freethrow shooting clinic put on by Larry Bird himself–you know, other than the ones he put on during ever game he played. I remember that during the clinic, his volunteer shooter was a girl, just like me but way better, and he helped her perfect her technique in like two minutes. He said he could hear her nail clicking against the ball as she shot it and remarked that when he was really young, his form was similar because he hadn’t develop enough strength yet. He encouraged her and shared a few laughs. (He’s wicked funny, that Larry. Another reason I love him.) As I sat there just a few bleacher rows away from him, I was afraid to breathe. I felt unworthy and inspired at the same time. It was official: I was obsessed, in much the same way as girls at that time were enamored with Marky Mark and his ilk. I actually skipped a Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch concert because, unlike my friends, I didn’t want to miss a critical (ie meaningless) mid-season game with the freshman basketball team. Would Larry Bird skip a game to catch some overrated, over-muscled pop star? Highly unlikely. Hence my choice.

On the downside, as high school progressed, I didn’t do my homework. Like, at all. I’d show up to English tests about books I never touched. I stayed up late to watch you, Celtics. I shot around whenever possible–indoors, outdoors, straight up in the air in my room while sitting or lying on my bed. During this time, as academics plummeted and basketball ascended in my tiny world, I suffered a huge loss along with you, and attended Reggie Lewis’  funeral at Northeastern. My new hero, Birds’ successor, gone–before I could get to know him and before he reached his amazing potential. He seemed like a sweet guy with a humble demeanor, and to be completely honest, I thought he was as cute as he was skilled, as evidenced by his usurping of wall space in my room. I had to go to pay my respects, partly because it was just so hard to believe he was gone. There was so much hope pinned to his jersey. That was one of the very hard times, an incredible low among all the highs, as a fan. And it took time but you rebuilt, thereby honoring Reggie and everyone else who’s put on that jersey as a player or fan.

Celtics, along with my parents, you convinced me it was possible to be great. To overcome. To defy odds that others laugh at. You’ve shown that you can take some major hits, and bounce back.  You told me that if I worked hard enough, I could pretty much do whatever I set out to do. And now, I can teach Stella.

No. I’m not saying I ever achieved greatness on the court. I was a good shooter and I worked my ass off and exceeded everyone’s expectations and that was enough to help me out of a hole I’d been falling into. A giant gaping chasm of insecurity known to girls all across this country. You helped me begin the process of defining myself as a person. By senior year, after shooting around for three years during every free moment, I was good. The fact that gossipy players from nearby towns were saying, “She isn’t that good,” didn’t matter. I let it roll off my back, just like you do when people count you out. I just wanted to win as many games as possible (not too many, as it turned out), and play basketball to the best of my ability. And my senior year, I led the Bay State League in scoring. Not bad for someone who played for the freshman team, then the JV team, all the while watching others get promoted before me. I wasn’t a member of the varsity team until junior year. But I never gave up. I kept working because you said it was possible. You made me believe in myself. And what greater lesson is there to learn? Maybe for me, that was more important than reading Beowulf. Thank you for that. (And again, for the Camper of the Week award. Seriously! Dude! That’s my Oscar!)

I know. I’m just one fan and every fan has a story, a relationship with their team. But I like to think that ours is special. You are a part of me. Even now, when players get shuffled around like pawns and stadium crowds are skewed toward the wealthiest casual fans rather than the die-hard, everyday fans. A lot has changed for both of us. I’m a mother now and sadly, I haven’t played basketball in a few years. But you still inspire me. You mean a lot to me, even though that might not even make sense to most people, the kind of people who read and enjoyed Beowulf.

The game starts in 90 minutes. Ray’s already been shooting around for at least an hour. As a whole, Boston is steeling itself for the face-off. You know in Boston everyone thinks they’re so tough but they’re not–the ones that act like assholes when you lose only do so because they care so much and just can’t cope with the crushing disappointment. They invest a lot in you. People always say, “Beat LA” but I prefer “Go Celtics.” Because while I can’t stand Kobe and company, I really love you guys. You know I’ll be a fan win or lose, but it’s been a tough year so if you could bring the magic for me once again, I’d appreciate it.

Besides, he’s got four, KG. You’re due.

Sincerely,

Amber

P.S. Rondo, my one-year-old daughter wears glasses. As far as fans go, it doesn’t get much cuter than that. You are her favorite player. She yells, “Rondoooooo!” and “Hooray” when she sees you on screen. I do the same thing in my head. I have no right, but I’m proud of you! I want you to shoot more. I know it’s a tough balance, but you’ve shown that you can achieve it. Trust yourself.

P.P.S. KG, Ray and Pierce. I believe in your old asses. Show them. What’s. Up.

Broken glasses, stained clothes, and other infuriating non-issues.

Posted on by amberhj

The other day during breakfast, I asked Stella to name her favorite animal. She sat there for a minute, with her brow furrowed and finger perched on her lips, obviously in deep thought. Stella then perked up and exclaimed, “MEERKATS!” We saw them at The Woodland Park Zoo a couple weeks ago. Honestly, I expected them to look more like rodents, but they were WAY more adorable than that. I remember Stella smiling from ear to ear as she watched the meerkats scurry around in their faux-desert environment. Melted my freezer-burned heart. Anyway, Cody and I were so impressed with her question-answering that we followed up with another query: “Stella, what’s your favorite food?” She immediately replied, “Animals!” Come to think of it, the girl does enjoy bacon and chicken.

It’s amazing to me how someone so cute, small and thoughtful can be so destructive. See, Stella’s first pair of glasses lasted only 18 days. Last night, while riding in the car, she just about tore one of the temples clean off. It’s still attached, but dangling and wonky. Kind of like my sanity, except with that, there’s no warranty.

Know what else is messed up? There are oil stains on every piece of clothing that I own. Pre-treating with dishwashing liquid helps a lot, but it’s hard to get them all out, because oil stains are invisible until you put the garment on to wear for the day. Then they leap from their hiding places, get all up in your face, and yell, “Surprise, chump!” And you’re not thrilled. Upon reflection, the amount of rage these stains have prompted from me is embarrassing. I have thrown tunics across rooms, and yelled angrily about how I have nothing to wear. And I’m 33 years old.

Perhaps my instability is linked to the fact that Stella’s been eating a lot less lately. Yep, when Stella’s appetite wanes to this degree, it still bothers me, even though I know better. When I said my sanity was dangling, I meant it. During the past week, more food has wound up on my clothes than in her mouth. She often refuses to sit in her chair and will only come to the table if she gets to sit in my lap. I’ve had to fight to remain calm–especially when she gets my hopes up by grabbing a fistful of tomato-y, olive-oil laden pasta, only to casually dump it back on her plate and grab me by the front of my shirt for leverage as she repositions herself in order to get down from the table, after eating just about nothing. Maddening. She’s just too busy thinking about meerkats to eat, and who has time for napkins when mom’s new t-shirt is at the ready?

But I’m not all hopeless or anything. Stella’s got a back-up pair of glasses (because I’m a genius). Even better–I haven’t seen Stella’s eyes cross since she got the glasses! Over the past couple weeks, I bought an entire new (summer) wardrobe for Stella and myself. But I’m no fool. At meal times I’m wearing that fun, striped apron I wisely bought a year ago and never used. Which reminds me, Stella happily ate a bit more at breakfast and lunch today–hooray!

Sorry, Cody and Stella. I’ve been a bit down lately. But it looks like we’ll survive. In the heat of a frustrated moment, I forget how good we are at that.

Adjusting

Posted on by amberhj

Our train, still rumbling through New Glassesville, jumped the track a couple days ago. Stella took an impressive spill in one of her signature, glorious full-sprint to flat-out moments. The temples got bent out of whack. I bent them back into approximate place. That marked the beginning of a new wave of resistance. I’d put the glasses on her head, and Stella would immediately and mercilessly tear them off. This went on for about two days. She’d only leave them on while completely distracted–like say, at the playground, on helicopter rides, or watching the fireworks I convinced the city to present nightly over our home. Not really, but the effort to entertain Stella (necessitated by the specs) had been waning when it seemed  she was taking to the glasses. And now I’m kicking things back up a few exhausting notches.

Clearly, it seemed, the glasses needed to be adjusted. But it was Memorial Day weekend, so we couldn’t go in. We had to tough it out, and I almost went insane because they’d be fine at first, and if she left them on for a couple minutes (an act of God) they’d wind up about a half inch off to the right. Finally, Tuesday, wondrous Tuesday, arrived. We went in that morning for the adjustment on her frames.

I found myself showing a distinct lack of trust in the very skilled optician. I just can’t help it. Because didn’t you know? The fate of not only Stella’s eyesight but THE WORLD rests in my hands. Apparently. if I’m not 100% on top of everything, this increasingly oily ball of life we call Earth is going to burst into flames (easier now, with the oil spill and all) and it’s all over.

Seriously. I spent a good five minutes explaining what had happened and what was off about the glasses. As if she didn’t know anything. She did initially ask, “What’s going on?” But I really took that ball and ran with it–just like Forest Gump. I just kept going, across the goal line, out of the stadium and across the nation, only I didn’t make friends along the way and inspire people to pursue greatness, I instilled new worries and pointed out everyone’s flaws.

So, probably because I kept insisting that the glasses were seriously “off” (she didn’t really see it) and not staying in place, she tightened them up a bit. Which created a whole new problem. They looked perfectly straight, but Stella’s refusal to wear the glasses reached new heights.  It got worse and worse and I got more panicky and angry with each passing hour. Then, driving home after running errands (which actually do a decent job of distracting Stella from her glasses), I looked back to see that Stella had removed her troublesome specs. Holding the temples in her white-knuckled fists, with an expression of sheer rage on her face, she stretched the glasses–temples and all–into one straight, flat line. They were no longer glasses. They became a bookmark. I was driving and there was nothing I could do about it except unleash a nervous, faux-calm, sometimes faux-perky, sometimes serious and admonishing, nonsensical string of, “No! Gentle! Glasses! Uh… uh… hey Stella! Look at the truck! No! Stella, gentle! Glasses! Gentle glasses!” Finally I just said, to myself because I never ever swear in front of Stella (usually sort of–I’m really trying!), “Ah screw it,” and she kept those glasses in that horrifying horizontal position until we got home a few minutes later.

Imagine my surprise when, not only did they spring back into place, but they seemed to fit better. She has been wearing them with much more acceptance today. What? Yes. Stella, in a fit of anger, managed to execute a perfect adjustment to her own glasses. And I didn’t even have to fill her in on what the several, nuanced issues were. Now she just needs to get a job at the optician’s office so we can pay for her stylish and amazingly resilient Parisian specs.

Hooray for Heath, his mom, and inspiring tube weaning success!

Posted on by amberhj

Mighty Heath

Meet Heath. Ain't he sweet?

Remember Zander? Well he’s got company. (The tube-free ranks are growing.)

Sadly, I kept putting off this post because the hugeness of the triumph deserves a truly well written, heartfelt description. Which takes time and energy that I’ve been lacking, though I’ve so wanted to muster it! But then I realized that I can’t tell the story any better than Jenny, Heath’s mom, an incredible writer and an amazingly intelligent and unstoppable mother. So I’m just going to give you the highlights and point you toward the blog that documents Heath’s journey: The Crunchy and the Smooth.

Heath is 15 months old and was 100% tube fed until a couple weeks ago. The need for his g-tube (gastrostomy button) was prompted by his difficult birth and the immediate, medically intense aftermath. The fly-by overview, in Jenny’s words: “cord wrapped tight around his neck, Apgars of 0, ambulance transport from a country mouse hospital to a city mouse NICU, diagnosis: hypoxic brain injury.” As the result of many necessary and lifesaving but overwhelming and traumatizing medical procedures that took place in the area of his nose and mouth (mainly intubation and suctioning), Heath developed Posttraumatic Feeding Syndrome. Until recently, to defend himself from further invasions, he batted away any food presented to him. He was scared, and who could blame him? The answer, his parents realized, was to build trust, apply no pressure, and to let him feel hunger and interact with food on his own terms (play picnics, for example).

I want to pause here and clarify, because “brain injury” is vague and doesn’t paint an accurate picture of Heath. While motor areas of Heath’s brain suffered injury during his birth, Jenny explained to me that his brain is repairing itself thanks to the amazing processes enabled by infant neuroplasticity. The ongoing repairs are evident, as I’ve noticed leaps in his development in the short time I’ve known Heath.  Anyone who lays eyes on him can see that he is thriving in every way. He  is one of the happiest, sweetest, most engaged and engaging babies I’ve ever met. He’s got a sense of humor. He communicates and makes friends easily. His weight is great. He’s meeting developmental milestones a little later than most, but he’s getting there–at his own happy pace (just like all babies, really). Of course, his mother has sought out various ways to support him in his physical development, including occupational therapy, movement sessions and even yoga–and he’s way better than me, seriously.

After much research, various forms of therapy, eye-opening revelations, and inspiration from the Graz model, an intensive wean was planned. The journey began on May 9th, with hands-on support from Dr. Markus Wilken, a psychologist with specialized expertise on feeding adversity. He came to the U.S. to help wean Heath as well as two other tube-fed children, who began eating faster than anyone expected! (You can read about Kai and Rosie’s simultaneous weaning successes at The Crunchy and the Smooth, as well.) Over his career, Wilken has helped wean more than 400 children from their feeding tubes.  He leads the tube weaning program at Princess Margaret Hospital in Darmstadt, Germany and together with Martina Jotzo runs The Institute for Psychology and Psychosomatics of Early Childhood.

Jenny’s blog has all the weaning specifics, but I’ll say that it’s been quite a ride (as in nauseating ups and downs) for Heath and his parents, as most weans are. But, with no doubt, the weaning effort has been successful. The progress Heath has made is staggering. In short, and I am in complete awe though I never doubted he could do it, Heath has become an EATER. He is enjoying a diverse array of foods, with more and more being added to the menu each day. I’m smiling because Heath’s life is forever changed. And because any parent of a tube-fed child who reads this will experience the sensation of their heart doing a back flip within their chest. Brave Heath is going to help so many babies and kids escape from the limitations, pain and decreased quality of life (for the whole family) that comes from extended tube feeding–not just the physical and psychological effects of the tube itself but from the anxiety and helplessness of tube feeding with no end in sight, when your child has (often after much hard work, therapy, recovery) the ability but not the willingness to eat. The parents who stare into a proverbial black hole whenever they ask doctors or wonder to themselves about whether their child will ever be able to eat–they will discover hope in Heath.

To say that Heath’s mom deserves credit is such a vast understatement. The roller coaster ride she (and her wonderful husband) have been on since his birth, when Heath literally had to be brought back to life and the 35 terrifying days in the NICU that followed, is a testament to not only her strength, but her inestimable love and grace. I know why Heath smiles so much.

Practically speaking, this very smart woman is an accomplished journalist. You can tell by the quality of her writing–and the research and outreach to experts across the globe that she executed in her quest to empower Heath with the gift of autonomy and the joy of eating. So, parents of tube-fed children, please check out her Resources Page to hit the jackpot in terms of insights and data and all kinds of valuable, rare informational gems on the topics of tube weaning, tube feeding and associated trauma.

To everyone reading this… I hope you’ll go to The Crunchy and the Smooth and post a few cheerful and supportive words in the comments section. Heath has come a long, long way, but there is still patience and perseverance required by this family as they follow Heath’s lead and adjust to a whole new paradigm.

To Heath, Jenny and the man known as “Peanut”…  big love, loud applause and quiet, awestruck respect from me, Stella and Cody. Enjoy every lick, bite and gulp! (We know you will.)

What the crap.

Posted on by amberhj

Skyping with Stella's grandparents always cheers us up.

Skyping with grandparents cheers us up.

So, we’re dealing with what shall be known as “The Great Glasses Adjustment of 2010” (also referred to as “Operation Straight Eyes”) when at some point last night, Stella developed a cold, and some jerk broke into my humble tan sedan. Probably at the same time. I somehow left my now stolen iPhone (which I got for $99, refurbished, so don’t get the wrong idea about my spending habits) on the seat after a late-night grocery run to fetch staples for Stella and dinner ingredients for tonight. And I know what you’re thinking, but no. I don’t resent the fact that the fancy Volvo station wagon parked in front of my dented Ford Focus was left untouched.

We quickly replaced the smashed window, the remnants of which Cody spent the morning cleaning up, rather than working out as planned. He cut his hand, but not too bad. Between optical expenses, ER bills, theft, and broken windows, we are hemorrhaging money. I think I just saw a fat-ass fly ride a twenty dollar bill out the window like it was a magic carpet. Because money is just getting more and more creative about how to get the hell out of here.

Stella’s hypoallergenic formula, a.k.a. gastronomical gold dust, wasn’t covered by insurance after she was weaned from the tube, so for about eight months, we spent $1000 on Elecare every thirty days. Our household ran at a deficit–we haven’t had credit card debt for a long time and didn’t accumulate any, but our savings withered. There were also many, many tube-related ER trips and a hospital stay during that time. Over-the-top expensive, but to be honest we didn’t think much about it, because of the urgency of Stella’s healthcare needs back then. Cost didn’t really matter, because we had our savings to fall back on and because we just wanted her to eat, no matter what it took, and before too long, she did! Well, very recently, we’d finally caught up were able to send a chunk of change to our neglected nest egg. Now we’re taking a step backwards, further away from our financial goals. But that’s life. We’ll bounce back. I’ll get some project work. Come hell or high interest rates, we’ll own a home soon, and we’ll appreciate every nail in every floorboard, every drawer that opens and closes smoothly without creating sawdust, every annoying, costly repair that at least reinforces the home we own.

Do you believe in The Secret? I used to be pretty pumped up by it. Now I’m totally embarrassed about that. The Secret, at least in the form this concept took in the movie, creates the illusion of complete control over life and wealth and circumstances. Yes, that ever-elusive sense of control. Which is probably why I loved it so much at first. Not that there’s no truth contained therein. I do think that our attitude and beliefs to shape our world in powerful ways. But it’s not that simple. Some things really are beyond our control. We can’t avoid all disaster or disappointment or difficulty just by looking in the mirror and telling ourselves how wonderful and perfect our lives, bank accounts, and vision are. But we can choose how to respond, and make the best of it. What an old-fashioned idea.

I’ll buy a new phone, move on, and take care not to leave it or anything else of value in the car. Besides, the joke’s on them! Those stupid thieves didn’t realize Stella’s car seat was worth about three times as much as the iPhone. Though, it’s probably not quite as easy to tote around while lurking in an evil fashion along the streets looking for more shit to steal from stressed out, absentminded moms.

Here’s an attempt at a point. Why am I so quick to blame myself for everything? I don’t think that way about other people. Obviously, Stella didn’t do anything to deserve or “attract” a feeding tube or accommodative esotropia. And all those kids starving in Africa, and those hungry here in this wildly unbalanced country of ours? You think their bellies are grumbling because they don’t know The Secret? Right. I bring this up because part of me does wonder how I could’ve brought all this upon us. (Possible answers: My negative attitude. My dissatisfaction with our rented home and distance from family. My impatience.) But there’s another voice that is out of breath from jumping up and down while yelling loud enough to be heard: “It could be a lot worse, you idiot!” See? Even this voice is self-deprecating. It continues, “You are still very lucky! Remember all the things and people that are right and beautiful and decidedly not stolen!”

And hey, you know what? There’s this. Stella did a pretty fantastic job wearing her glasses today. At some point, she sat on the big chair by the window and counted to ten while smiling. And I got a free triple latte from Fuel today–they said the machine was acting up, but I think the barista knew I needed a boost. It’s a start. I’m grateful for that and a whole lot more.

Put me back together.

Posted on by amberhj

Ouch.

"Stella! No, use two hands! Gentle! Ah, crap. Just hand them to me."

Cody, Stella and I were all over at Cooper’s house the other day while his parents enjoyed a date night, an event that Cooper (Stella’s best bud and play-date companion)  refers to as an “update,” which really makes sense if you think about two parents going out and spending time together away from their one-year-old. Music is almost always playing while Stella and Co0per are together, because they love to dance (which looks a look like jogging–actually, sprinting–in place) during play dates and within five minutes of arrival one or the other starts in with, “Music? Musiiiiiiiic?” So, we’re intermittently bopping to the music and sending miniature skateboards down ramps when this irresistibly sweet, poppier-than-pop song by Meaghan Smith comes on. The chorus innocently asks, “What’s the use in fixing what’ll only break again?”  And good lord did it hit the proverbial nail on the head. Pesky tears invaded my eyes and a boulder lodged in my throat and I just danced toward the corner until it passed.

As you now know, Stella got her glasses on Friday. We were in the optical shop for an adjustment today, Monday. Already. At first, on Friday morning, I thought she was taking to them amazingly well. She wore them for a long stretch on the playground, briefly removed them and asked me to put them back on while in the car, and she wore them all through lunch. But now I’m realizing that her initial interest can be chalked up to sheer novelty. The more she realizes they’re sticking around, the less wants to do with them. Usually, she’ll wear them for two to five minutes before ripping them off with one hand, stretching the frames in a way that looks like nails on a chalkboard sound. It’s excruciating to see her twist and throw them. But it’s not just that. It’s tough because it’s such a battle, actually more of a war with many, many battles taking place and well-thought out strategies and tactics required for victory. It’s stressful and exhausting to see her tear them off, and then my brain starts whizzing, as in, “Okay, how long can I give her before I put them back on? How long before her eyes are in danger of crossing? What will I distract her with this time–a book? No, we’ve gone though all her favorites already. Stickers! I’ll try the stickers.  What if she doesn’t let me put them on–for the fourth time in a row during these last few minutes? Should I put them in the case for a while or is that like giving up? Wait–have I eaten yet today? When does Stella need to eat? Maybe she’ll wear them if I give her some chocolate chip.” Cue the screaming.

Like a well-programmed mombot with super human strength and endurance (but not really), I automatically bend over backwards to repair a fragile something that is forever poised to break. The glasses. But also something in me (and maybe Stella, too?). When Stella got over her feeding aversion, no longer required a feeding tube and learned to enjoy eating, I thought we were clear. We were going to be okay from then on. But it wasn’t true. That’s impossible, and every parent on earth faces the same perilous reality. There’s always another challenge, frustration, or heartbreak around the corner. Thank god they’re so damn cute and resilient. And for every soul-searing ER visit and agonizingly difficult hurdle that you somehow muster the strength to clear, there’s–oh, where to begin–thousands of laughs that lift you up so, so high, dozens and dozens of triumphs that affirm you, your child, and life itself, and about seven hundred smiley, silly dances. Not a bad bargain at all, even if the song makes me cry.

She’s worth it a million times over.

Baby got glasses.

Posted on by amberhj

I’m thrilled and proud to reveal Stella’s new look. Below you’ll find a selection of the bazillion photos I’ve taken since Friday morning, when we picked up Stella’s glasses. I love her beautiful frames, the TamTam by Lafont in Blue (color code 220), and Stella could not look more adorable in them. I’ve ordered a second pair with Trivex aspheric lenses to reduce the magnification of Stella’s eyes while providing her with a clearer view of the world (without sacrificing impact resistance), and to make sure she can still wear her glasses if one pair breaks or gets too bent out of shape to wear. Which already happened this morning. Ahem.

Really, though, Stella’s done fabulously. Her resistance is to be expected. Her vision is pretty great without them, so there’s no huge incentive for her to wear them. We know it will prevent her eyes from crossing and prevent vision problems associated with crossing, but she doesn’t. How could she? I’ve been worried about getting her to wear them–it’s tough.  I’m stressed when she rips them off and pretty much in general as we both adjust, but there have been many wonderful moments, too. On Friday, she wore them on the playground for a good while and had no trouble with balance or depth perception. (The optician said she might struggle with stairs or running on uneven surfaces. I’ve seen a little evidence of that, but it’s not too bad at this point.) Then she took them off on the way from the playground to the car, but once planted in her car seat she asked me to put them back on! On Saturday, she wore them for a glorious hour-and-a-half stretch, which included a car ride, even though kids with new glasses usually rip them off in the car, or whenever they get bored. On Sunday, she put two small pieces in a puzzle–she’s never really done that before, always seeming to have little to no patience with those sorts of precise tasks.

From what I understand of other parents’ accounts, shared on littlefoureyes.com, it’ll probably take two weeks for Stella to get used to wearing them without constantly removing them. Three days down, 11 to go!

You’re doing great, Stella. I’m very, very proud to be your mom. I don’t even mind wearing these CRAZY vanity frames, though I wish my specs were as cool as yours. You really could not be more beautiful.

Day 1

 

 

A new view of lunch.

A new view of lunch.

 

 

Newfound clarity, same ol' mac and cheese

Newfound clarity, same ol' mac and cheese

 

 

She even got to watch TV. Your Baby Can READ! DVDs are the ultimate distraction.

She even got to watch TV. Your Baby Can READ! DVDs are the ultimate distraction.

 

 

I wonder how her view of the playground has changed. In any case, she's still focused on fun. (Sorry. I'm hopeless.)

I wonder how her view of the playground has changed. In any case, she's still focused on fun. (Sorry. I'm hopeless.)

 

 

And the treats don't stop. Celebratory ice cream.

And the treats don't stop. Celebratory ice cream... at Molly Moon's, of course.

 

 

An impromptu, post-ice cream Sears-catalog-style photo shoot in front of the grocery store.

An impromptu, post-ice cream Sears-catalog-style photo shoot in front of the grocery store.

 

Day 2

 

 

New glasses distraction purchase #547: "Kat Kong"

New glasses distraction purchase #547: "Kat Kong"

 

 

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

 

Day 3

 

 

All she wants to do is read! Even on the bus!

All she wants to do is read! Even on the bus!

 

 

 

 

Sorry to interrupt your reading, Professor Sweetness.

Sorry to interrupt your reading, Professor Sweetness.

 

Talking about PRACTICE.

Posted on by amberhj

Stella’s glasses are in. Arrived at Children’s Eye Care this morning. After her nap, currently failing to happen right now as evidenced by pained wailing, we’re schlepping back to the optical shop to fetch them.

Reading is even better with practice glasses! Imagine how amazing it will be with REAL glasses and lenses! Thanks to the photographer: Cooper's mom. A lovely lady, dear friend, and playdate savior.

Reading is even better with practice glasses! Imagine how amazing it will be with REAL glasses and lenses! Thanks to the photographer: Cooper's mom. A lovely lady, dear friend, and playdate savior.

During this morning’s playdate, she spent a couple of hours with her best buddy Cooper and his wonderful mom while I went out to track down some vanity frames. While I was scoring some white-framed, clear-lensed monstrosities at Forever 21 and a pair of sweet, sleek Ray-Bans at Macy’s (the former to wear indoors and the latter, much-needed ones to wear out), it turns out she was practicing–with Kevin-Garnett-esque focus.

Trial run with glasses

A trial run with vanity frames. Cooper's lens-free sunglasses tap into Stella's sporty, intense side while my white funksters really bring out the yellow in my dead front tooth. Our glasses motto is clearly "Go big or go home." No boring frames for us. Wait until you see her REAL glasses! From Paris with love!

My dear friend was thoughtful enough to bring makeshift toddler vanity glasses–little sunglasses without the lenses–for Stella and her little buddy to wear. You know, just for fun! What? No! Not for any grander purpose like acclimating her in preparation for a possible lifelong relationship with spectacles! Ha! <Nervous, maniacal laughter.> Ahem. Her sweet, easygoing son is quite good about wearing them and today was no exception. After he sported them for a while, Stella started to come around. She proceeded to put them on and destroy her previous three-second personal record for donning frames.

(Aaaaaaand she’s still not napping. Our momentous trek will likely be postponed until tomorrow morning. I don’t want Stella to be extremely cranky as they do the very important adjustment, to fit the glasses to her head.)

Of course, in truth, there is no grand finale expected when she gets her fabulous specs. Sure, we’ve done a lot of preparation leading up to today, which I realize has been as much for me as for Stella. We visited five different optical shops, an optician, and an ophthalmologist. Made dozens of stops at littlefoureyes.com, a site full of tips, community and encouragement for parents of babies and kids with glasses. We’ve read heartening stories about lovable characters getting glasses and discovering new clarity and skills (for example, Arthur’s shooting percentage goes way the hell up in the timeless, spec-centric classic, Arthur’s Eyes). I bought her the cutest onesie ever (which I first spied on a bespectacled cutie in the gallery at littlefoureyes.com), featuring a phat frog wearing glasses, which she loves. We’ve worn vanity frames (and I’ll continue to do so). Mimi (that’s my mom’s “grandmother moniker”) ordered Stella a doll with glasses. And at every possible opportunity, as in whenever we see anyone wearing glasses anywhere, we excitedly point it out to Stella in an effort to convince her that glasses are super fun and, to use 80’s lingo, awesome to the max. That’s all well and good and we can rest a bit easier knowing we did some groundwork. But I’m aware that it’s probably going to take some time–possibly weeks–for Stella to be comfortable enough to wear them consistently and reliably throughout the day without throwing fits of rage. I’ve got to be persistent, because not wearing them is really not an option, but I will have to learn when a break is really needed, in order to prevent all-out war. Bottom line: I don’t expect her to cooperate right away, because this will probably just seem like an nonsensical, offensive nuisance to her at first–and really, that’s okay.

But then again, you never know. When my sister was pregnant with her second child, they waited until she was “showing” to tell her then almost-5-year-old son James, the unsinkable kid who named his goldfish “Awesome,” that he’d soon be a big brother. People couldn’t resist asking him, casually and out of curiosity, “So James, ever think it would be nice to have a little brother?” He’d reply with a calm, cold and sure “No.” Well, all kinds of people kept posing this question until finally he exploded, shouting, “NO! Why does everybody keep asking me? I don’t want a brother! Now stop asking me!” Later, when they filled him in on his brotherly destiny, he was 100% thrilled with the “awesome” news.

So, I’m not sure what kind of glasses battles are in store. It’s probably going to be tough as HELL, but maybe Stella will surprise me. Like when she casually eats the broccoli out of our take-out pad see ew. I guess we’ll see, won’t we? All will become clear soon. Yes, everything will come into sharper focus shortly. I just have to keep the end goal in sight.

Assuming I can get a picture of her wearing them, I’ll post a photo of bespectacled Stella tomorrow. No more puns, I promise. Godspeed.

(P.S. I just realized that I’m still wearing my three-dollar white vanity frames. Almost two hours after putting Stella down for her nap. Talk about commitment to a bit!)

Strabismus confirmed. Glasses ordered.

Posted on by amberhj

Didn't you know? Cool characters wear glasses.

Didn't you know? Cool characters wear glasses. And have yogurt on their faces.

On Thursday afternoon, Stella’s eyes started rolling in again. All our questions evaporated. She has emerging accommodative esotropia. She really needs glasses. And that’s that.

So on Friday morning, we skipped Gymboree and went to find specs for Stella. She tried on three pairs.

Go ahead and judge me–I’ve watched “Say Yes to the Dress” once or twice. And our trip to the optical shop, in the Children’s Eye Care office in Kirkland, was a lot like that show. Except instead of catty commentary in the air and mimosas in our hands, there was extremely enthusiastic, high-pitched encouragement and a light-up spinning ball wand (which, somehow, is almost as intoxicating as OJ and bubbly).

The first and second pairs were total disappointments. Which in hindsight was perfect. Great for building suspense (and ratings). And then, as if scripted, we found the ones. They are French and fabulous. They are blue (also clear, white, purple and green) and if I described them in any detail, they would just sound crazy and over-the-top. But they are not. They work. Tim Gunn would most definitely approve–in fact, I bet he’d be super jealous. I am. As soon as the optician put those beauties on Stella’s face, she and I both knew. We just knew. We didn’t cry tears of joy, but we should have. Because audiences eat that up.

Her Parisian pair will be ready on Wednesday or Thursday of this week, barring any issues. You will want to wear glasses if you don’t. You may even view Stella as a budding fashion icon.* Stay tuned for the big reveal!

* All of this is assuming I’m able to get the glasses on her face for more than three seconds (the current record during try-ons).

Stella says.

Posted on by amberhj

“Slowly… slowly… very… slowly… creeps the… garden… snail!” She didn’t know I was watching her as she crept her fingers up her arm in snail-like fashion, the way I do when I sing this song to her. With extreme concentration and focus, and a dramatic pause preceding each word, she managed to sing this line perfectly. She was so proud that she lit up like a Christmas tree.

“Hello, this is Stella.” We were in the bathroom when she picked up one of her whale cups–bath toys that I often hold to my ear during Stella’s bathtime (or whenever I need to make a deep-sea call) and say, “Calling all whales!” She put it to her ear and said, clear as day, “Hello, this is Stella.”  Very professional.

Goodbye “wawa,” hello “waterrrrr.” A while back she got better at making precise “T” sounds. And yesterday, Stella suddenly, and seemingly out of the blue, mastered the hard “R” sound. Let me tell you, she’s flaunting it! She holds those R’s about as long as I used to hold up my arm after hitting a three-pointer (about a half hour). Half the time, I can’t enunciate as well as her. Sometimes, she sounds downright Irish. Grandpa Martin would be proud.

“Wash your hands!” She says this whenever the bathroom sink catches her eye. We have to be more careful to keep that door closed these days, because the risk of scalding and perilous falling have skyrocketed. She’ll climb up onto the toilet, stand up, inch her way to the edge, lean way over, and wind up with her belly against the sink and only her toes gripping the outer edge of the toilet. Then she turns on the faucet to play in the water–it’s our Disneyworld.

As with pronunciation, she is a role model for me in hand washing. Thanks, Stella for making me a more hygienic and intelligible person. You are wonderful and I’m hanging on to your every word.