motherhood

The risk and rewards of giving a flock

Posted on by amberhj

If you’ve ever kept chickens, you understand life’s imperfect trade-offs of risk and reward in a more intimate way than most. And if you’ve ever medicated a chicken, you understand the delicate tipping point at which fear-fueled fight-and/or-flight teeters into resignation to fate. There’s something eye-opening about caring for a living creature so different from yourself.

We have five chickens, down from six after losing one of two Black Minorcas. In a gross turn of events, all needed to be dewormed early this summer. Turns out occasional worm infestation is a natural occurrence for many animals and a cost of freedom for chickens. Part of opting for quality over quantity of days and months and hopefully years. Exposure to the glories of sun and soil and air and grass, as well as the threats of bacteria, viruses, and attacks (oh my) from wild birds and animals. That’s the choice we made for them. Really, it was the choice I made because after the first visit from a robustly healthy red fox with loads of casual confidence, who lounged by the coop one morning as if expecting a waiter to appear with a cocktail and hors d’oeuvre, Stella wished to keep them locked up for their safety and her peace of mind. We had many discussions about the pros and cons of captivity for chickens, and never quite saw eye to eye.

As far as I can tell, a good life for a chicken unsurprisingly centers on a form of self-determination. It’s the ability to forage freely as part of an interdependent flock, and little else. It’s certainly not found in days spent standing in shit, whining and pacing. I know a thing or two about the human version of that.

One of our chickens, a Welsummer named Brownie, is so hard to lay hands on that during one pursuit, Stella brilliantly suggested we turn this chore into an actual sport. The thing is, this particular chicken never, ever seems panicked like the others. Just calm, focused, utterly determined, and highly skilled. Truly, Brownie could put the NFL’s most elusive running backs to shame. We’ll have her cornered, only for her to defy gravity by deftly leveraging wall-as-vertical-launchpad. You bend down, thinking you have her, at which point she will go up and over your useless hands with a quick ping-pong maneuver. Or she’ll pull a lightning-fast nutmeg and leave you in her dust, red-faced. Smooth as butter, easy as pie. That’s classic Brownie.

Out of desperation and exhaustion, we use sunflower seeds to entice and distract the birds, effectively luring them into a frenzied heads-down treat fest. It works or at least helps, most of the time, on all but the remaining Black Minorca named Floppy. She is Brownie’s polar opposite, such a flighty, untrusting bird. I struggle to categorize her as a “domesticated” animal, because she appears scared, wild, and wide-eyed at all times. In keeping with her old Spanish breed, she’s lean and aerodynamic, thanks to sleek black plumage and crackling, electric nerves. Floppy was named in a nod to her large, waving red flag of a comb, which flops over to one side, higher in the front and stylishly low in the back, a red beret on a soldier whose default mode is manic, all-out retreat. She is not brave, has zero dignity, but is impossible to capture.

The other Black Minorca, named Biggie and taken too soon by a fast-moving illness of unknown origin, did have courage and perhaps an inkling of a chicken version of dignity. It’s probably what did her in. She once flew up to the edge of the roof of our house. Claws raking and clacking against the metal flashing, she almost landed the ultimate perch up there, in outer space.

Biggie could also be found out on the sill of the window in front of my desk as I worked, side-eyeing me from outdoors like a peeved middle manager. Her fiery comb was huge, bright, and straight, and she was at least 20% larger than her Black Minorca sibling and all the other birds, from chickhood on. When an ailing raccoon languished like a furry drunk in the small creek bed beyond our back fence, Biggie did not leverage her apex status within the pecking order to lead the girls to safety. She stood at the fence and shrieked as if outraged at the raccoon, with the flock of her followers chiming in from behind her. It’s no wonder she was the first to go, but what a legend among hens.

Stella loves these insane chickens fiercely. She counts all five (six before the loss of Biggie) as members of her menagerie, which also includes her rescue dog Kansas, a mix of Border Collie and Corgi, and a Netherland Dwarf rabbit the color of chocolate and peanut butter, whom Stella named Reese. She observes the chickens closely, studying the emotive qualities of their changing noises and quirky behaviors in an attempt to understand. “What do you think she means by that, mom?” Sometimes I detect worry in her questions, sometimes pure amusement.

I have begun to think our flock was a well-intentioned mistake. Initially I thought it would be so fun and a source of daily interest and helpful work for Stella, perhaps even an added sense of purpose. But she is so attached to them, so worried about their wellbeing, that at times it feels like a trap. Like I’d set her up for a certain heartbreak, six times over. Stella’s depth of connection with animals, I realized, would make the loss of these feathered aliens more painful than I, decidedly not an “animal person,” can understand. She already lost two grandparents over the last couple years, moved across the country, and went through hell at school, barely making it through this last year.

We lost Biggie so suddenly. She became lethargic one morning, her once proud comb wilted, sickly pale, and blotchy–and died the very same day. Yet Stella handled it with more grace than I ever would have expected. She connected the loss to a graphic novel she’d read about a misunderstood witch who buries roadkill to ensure the animals’ peaceful transition to the next life. I would find out later that here were indications, in Stella’s writings at school, that the death weighed heavily on her.

In the aftermath, there lingered the possibility that whatever killed Biggie was highly contagious and the rest of the flock could follow. About a month after Biggie’s passing, all seemed well and I stopped worrying. That’s when our Crevecoeur named Bex, with her ridiculous poof of black plumage as signature look and anti-Darwinian vision impairment on top of her head, started “gaping,” seemingly gasping for air or struggling to swallow. Stella thought it looked like yawning. I knew it wasn’t. Could it be the same mystery ailment that took Biggie? Bex is Stella’s favorite chicken. Of course.

Coming out to open the coop in the morning, I would notice Bex with her back to the rest of the birds, standing like a statue in a world of her own, wind tousling her poof. This forlorn and ponderous chicken of French origin seemed to stare out into the woods mulling the futility of it all. No longer in sync with the shared flock mind, but contemplating the shrinking of one’s world that is prompted by the gaze of the other–what a truly disorienting realization for a chicken. I suspected gapeworm, but hoped for an existential crisis. I placed an online order for Sartre’s “Being and Nothingness” and a goat dewormer that could be safely used on chickens with the correct per-pound dosage.

As a general rule, Stella needs to be reminded of certain fundamental daily tasks, many times over, especially in regards to self-care. But I never, ever need to remind her to close the coop at night or help me with the chickens’ medication. She does these things unwaveringly.

While we usually wait until evening to dose the chickens, by midday Stella will inevitably say something managerial like, “Mom, just a reminder to help me with the chickens’ medication today.” Then, in between conversations sparked by Stella’s many daily questions ranging from “Do people keep shrimp as pets?” to “Are we really getting out of Afghanistan?”, she will mention it again and again. I appreciate her persistence, because I admire her empathy for and dedication to the animals and because due to my lack of dedication to the animals I’d likely forget. The reminders keep coming until a specific time is selected or medication is in fact dispensed.

A chase ensues, causing serious questioning of my own dignity, until Stella picks up a defeated chicken, holding her securely under her arm like a football and grasping the feet together to avoid getting scratched by dirty talons. Hand over the chicken’s impossibly tiny head and covering her eyes, I open the beak with my thumb and middle finger, gentle but firm and holding fast until, as if some switch is flipped, the chicken accepts her destiny and relents. Using a dropper, and totally weirded out, I dispense the milky white liquid onto the bird’s pointy little tongue, ensuring the medication is swallowed and not aspirated. I let go, the now calm chicken contentedly swallows the dose, and Stella releases the bird who immediately pecks the ground and returns to chicken business as usual. This is how it goes–for all except the Black Minorca named Floppy. For her, we have to wait until cover of night.

Last summer, we had to break the flock of their sneaky habit of roosting up in a large, dense shrub at the edge of our property. But these days, come sundown, they return like clockwork to their coop. That’s when Stella opens its little back door, crouched down with her eyes at claw level. Stella can then easily grab a sedate Floppy from her roost and only then does a struggle begin, sharp dinosaur claws wildly flailing, beak frantically opening and closing, body and neck contorting every which way–some seemingly impossible. Then the usual process unfolds, with more firmness and determination on our part. We remind Floppy that we’re just trying to help her, goddamnit. That her life is at stake and we don’t like doing this any more than she does! She finally gets the message, relaxes, and our medication duties end for the day. It’s our turn to relax.

Their course of dewormer complete, Bex still gapes occasionally (of course) but she is acting “normal” and no longer lost in thought. She and the other chickens seem fine. The goat medication was likely their savior, not the refresher on existentialism, but we’ll never know for sure.

We both hated medicating the chickens, Stella and I. But when illness strikes, unavoidably, it simply has to be done. Maybe that’s one of the reasons that at the end of a good or tough day, white knuckle moments and all, keeping our flock is not a mistake. Just another sometimes hard thing with lots of upside, if you look for it.

I am not a poet but

Posted on by amberhj

IMG_1032.JPG

A short, simple poem came to me today. It emerged out of nowhere, after some rainy gardening. It also happened to appear amid ongoing efforts to stay positive despite a barrage of cold news. Stella still faces some challenges but is doing well. She just started second grade (said her first day was “awesome!”) and achieved 10/10 in 3D vision testing for the very first time recently! Trouble brews in several other of life’s spheres, but I’m feeling strong. And proud to be standing tall. Here it is, paired with the above (miraculously unfiltered) photo taken in the agricultural and floral showcase barn at the Washington state fair.

Autumn Garden

Sunflowers bow their heads
Necks tired
From following
Summer’s sun

Dahlias bloom defiantly
Hanging on
As if to say
“I am sunshine”

 

On my parenting journey, and “Far from the Tree.”

Posted on by amberhj

My child is strong and healthy. That said, at just four years of age, she has already taken part in occupational therapy (OT), vision therapy (VT), cranial sacral therapy, and yoga therapy (also called Integrated Movement Therapy or IMT). Her vision conditions, and early feeding aversion, have presented us with atypical challenges. Yet there is nothing “wrong” with Stella. No affliction that will define who she is. Deeply grateful for her essential wellbeing, I am always striving to provide the support she needs. An odd and awkward balancing act, at times.

I’ll admit that during her tube-fed days, while entertaining the worst possible outcome, I told myself that if she had to live her life with a feeding tube, the intervention could inform positive trajectories. I dared imagine her future as a groundbreaking artist exploring the increasingly common intersection of biology and technology. Or perhaps she could come to value food more than any average, orally eating person, and find renown as a chef who never enjoys more than a fleeting taste on the tongue but whose culinary innovations leave the ordinary far behind. These ideas seem foolishly focused on fame and success, but in my darkest postpartum, tube-feeding moments, they allowed me to envision a happy future for her wherein her difference was not just a detriment. I took comfort in knowing that the most inspiring people often have the most trying backgrounds. After a successful tube wean at just a few months old, she became an eater in short order. She is now four, and her sizable appetite won kudos this Thanksgiving from Cody’s 94-year-old grandmother. I can’t lie: I wear that compliment like a gleaming badge of honor. If Stella had needed her tube indefinitely, though, I like to think that we would’ve embraced it yet not let it dominate her identity.

I have worried about her far too much, and still do. More VT and OT are on the near horizon. Strabismus and amblyopia can affect motor skills, so the VT and OT are linked. When Stella’s eyes aren’t working together well, our world becomes less stable along with her binocular vision, and tantrums skyrocket. I question myself, my personality, my attitude, my words, my own diagnosed deficits, and then I question doctors, and PubMed.gov, and Google, to the point of black-hole depression. Instinctively, I blame myself for Stella’s every struggle. I prepare myself for the worst while researching, hoping, and double-checking in pursuit of the best.

My experience with motherhood is a soft, tropical breeze compared to the realities faced by the parents featured in Andrew Solomon‘s incredible and essential book, Far From the Tree: Parents, Children, and the Search for Identity. But then, toward the end of this gripping tome about parents of exceptional or “different” children,  he notes that a couple in London chose to screen embryos, essentially genetically engineering their child, so as to avoid the father’s severe squint. (For those with stereoscopically typical selves and kids, “squint” refers to strabismus or misaligned eyes.) This particular anecdote helped bring the entire book home for me, and felt like a sucker punch to the gut. I imagined their alternate-reality, unscreened child, much like Stella or perhaps the inspiring Stereo Sue, who would have been born cross-eyed. Surgery, glasses, and vision therapy could have corrected it, with much joy and love to be had in the meantime. Yet, strabismus was deemed too much of a burden. What an ugly and spiritually impoverished world, I thought, in which technology eliminates differences. What a waste of potential and perspective. What a horrible message to send: “We only want a ‘perfect’ child.” As if that exists! Then I think of the four eye doctor appointments we recently attended in less than two weeks, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t wish to spare her from stingy eye drops, and double vision, and headaches, and frustration, and eye patches, and exhausting daily vision exercises. But you can’t take the squint from Stella. It’s part of who she is. To cut that out of the picture would be to paint a completely different child, the thought of which is dark, insane, and brutalizing in the light of our love for her.

Stella’s vision and the severe pain from my milk, and subsequent trauma from repeated insertion of an NG tube by ER professionals and yours truly, have likely affected her personality or personhood. We’ll never know to what degree. To assume that the impact is solely negative is a biased, ignorant, and even dangerous assumption. Among many other strengths too numerous to name here, I see a child who is an incredibly strong and increasingly eloquent self-advocate and self-starter, and who is very in tune with how she feels and what she needs. (She is the opposite of a doormat–not angry, but aware and, well, adamant!) It’s possible that these building blocks could lead her to become a defender of others’ rights and wellbeing as well.

As I marvel at Stella’s abilities and resiliency and simply enjoy mothering and being with her, I am anxious about possible gaps in development and the winding road stretched out before us. As children grow, visual demands increase. More “near work” and expectations of longer attention spans. Learning to read and write. Using scissors. Making friends and maintaining eye contact and higher level relationships with them. With bifocals and a year of vision therapy (undertaken at age two) under her belt, Stella’s visual abilities have served her well until recently. Her visual system apparently has begun to reach its coping capacity and needs help in order to support her continued development. She will benefit from an increased eyeglasses prescription, and an OT evaluation to help create a more targeted approach to vision therapy. In the meantime, I pray surgery won’t be needed and wrestle with uncertainty about whether she should go to Kindergarten next year, as vision issues flare, and her birth date just a week before the cut-off for Kindergarten acceptance.

For the sake of sanity and enjoyment, I longed to read something other than strabismus-oriented studies, optometrist’s blogs, and medical journals. But I wanted meaning and relevancy, not fluff. Far from the Tree was the answer, and led to some sleepy days for me. I read all 700+ pages almost compulsively. Filled with the stories of parents of children with Down’s Syndrome, autism, dwarfism, criminal behavior, and more, the book is sometimes harrowing but always heartening. I found it a welcome relief from typical parenting fare, which tends only to feed modern parental neuroses and our fear-driven obsession with perfection. Most of the parents featured in this book love their children with a depth they may not have achieved outside of their unexpected journey. The line between difference and disability is often blurry, and in that gray area lie gifts for those open to seeing and receiving them. The vibrancy of deaf culture and the contributions of Temple Grandin are good examples, among many, many others poignantly detailed by Solomon.

I feel differently about my role and experiences as a parent, thanks to Far from the Tree. I was affirmed by the book, and I think just about any parent would be. Current turmoil and all, I am more determined to do whatever I can for Stella’s vision, yet less destructively worried. And this mindset may fuel better decision-making. Check out this passage from page 22, which brought me to tears:

“The attribution of responsibility to parents is often a function of ignorance, but it also reflects our anxious belief that we control our own destinies. Unfortunately, it does not save anyone’s children; it only destroys some people’s parents, who either crumble under the strain of undue censure or rush to blame themselves before anyone else has the time to accuse them.”

To Andrew Solomon, with whom, by the way, I share the dread-filled experience of waiting for the results of a baby’s head CT scan, thank you for writing this book. In regards to my daughter, I’ll inevitably worry, and wonder how much intervention is enough or too much, and blame myself at times. But as a parent, I move toward the challenges ahead with more grace, having read Far from the Tree.

Humanity’s Awakening: Pink toenails on boys and media tantrums are all good

Posted on by amberhj

As someone who owns a gorgeous multi-hued J.Crew scarf and wears it every single day as evidence that she has, in fact, not “given up” and abandoned herself, I am a fan of the company. Once in a while, the kids catalog features uber stylish children in glasses, and they even sell kids’ frames. So J.Crew has won points with me, and frankly, too many of my dollars.

But I didn’t know about The Shocking Pink Toenail Incident of mid-April until, belatedly, I watched The Daily Show’s brilliant take, “Toemageddon 2011.” Cody and I appreciated how Jon Stewart highlighted the lunacy and sensationalism of the coverage surrounding a five-year-old boy’s pink toenails, and we loved his point that weekends with kids are looooong and that parents will do anything to fill the time. Let’s just say that this resonated with us. Cody laughed so hard, he cried. Hopefully it was a feel-good, hilarity-induced cry and not a “oh my god what has my life become” cry. Side note: He just left for the playground with Stella and a pink, Glenn-Beck-approved potty.

Yay for smart people like Nerdy Apple Bottom and Joseph Alexiou who have brought reason into the discussion, pointing out that it’s perfectly okay for a boy to like pink and for his mom to paint his toenails (though the picture just shows smiling and pink toenails, not any actual painting), and that the negative reactions were offensive, not based on fact, and rooted in prejudice and even hate. What I want to add to the discussion is that the disproportionately outraged reactions are a good sign. Baffling and ignorant on one hand, but on the other, somewhat encouraging! Yes, people like “Dr.” Keith Ablow have made outrageously judgmental and close-minded remarks about a photograph of a mother (J.Crew’s Jenna Lyons) smiling at her happy, healthy son. Sad. But in a way, it just proves that Ablow and Co.’s world view is on the way out. And they know it. And they don’t like it. They’re scared and angry. So they’re throwing a tantrum while smart, open-minded folks use it as motivation to rally together to refute those attitudes and send the opposite message.

Duh! An awakening is, like, unfolding in humanity! Sounds cheesy and dramatic, but it’s actually an “everyday” sort of thing. I know many people who’ve transitioned to more meaningful (to them) careers–rejecting what they were expected or “supposed” to do in order to pursue exciting alternative paths. Here in Seattle, I know countless openly gay men and women (to even have to say “openly” seems oddly insulting) who are living beautiful lives surrounded by endless support and love. In fact, I’m jealous of most of them. Like thousands of other women who are now mothers and managers and whatnot, I played middle school, high school and college basketball. Acupuncture is covered by our insurance plan. (Stella’s tremendously helpful vision therapy? Not yet. But I know that will change.) All of these day-to-day things are actually the product of huge shifts, and downright amazing when you look back even just a couple decades.

Individual freedom and acceptance is on the rise, folks, and it’s nothing but fantastic for humankind as a whole. Happy people feeling good about themselves as they are, doing what they love? They’re naturally comfortable with (or better yet, completely indifferent to) pink toenails on boys, and human differences in gender identity, sexuality, race or whatever. Because why would a happy, fulfilled person be bothered by others’ happy, fulfilling choices? It takes courage to step out and be yourself but an increasing number of people are that courageous, and they are going to save the planet. (I can’t believe I figured that out. You’re welcome.) They care about people and issues, and have energy and compassion. Perhaps somewhat ironically, they don’t “need” as many things from J.Crew (though a scarf like mine is really is a must for every woman over 30) and they are way more likely to, say, choose foods that are good for them and the earth. Let’s face it. People who lack self esteem, resent others, or feel trapped in lives they hate aren’t pushing for better recycling programs at the office. How can we create more empowered and, as a major bonus, eco-friendly humans? Let’s try addressing poverty and accepting differences. (The aforementioned people who are being called to more meaningful lives–they already do stuff like that.) You don’t help anyone by going on national TV and shaming five-year-old boys who like pink. Not a very “manly” thing to do, really. Touché!

Clearly, the movement has been happening for, to use a precise measurement, “quite a while.” In many countries, women are no longer housebound pieces of property threatening to faint at any moment. Yes, we’ve miles (and miles) to go, but we’re gaining speed. Rigid boundaries are in flux as more and more people pursue authenticity, a way of living and being that is right for them. Maybe parents won’t so much raise boys and girls as they will nurture individual human beings. Jenna Lyons’ son loves the color pink, and he was obviously very happy in the moment shared in that ad. His mom wasn’t “doing” anything “to” him. Just smiling at him and enjoying the moment. Okay, and executing some spot-on brand marketing. But still.

Yes, there are troubling counter-forces at work that are in fact “doing” things to–namely warping or manipulating–our children’s perceptions. For instance, early sexualization of girls is a major and serious issue. The obnoxious and highly strategic marketing messages that carefully target children are hyper-inflating the gender divide in order to sell more crap. But parents are pushing back against inappropriate clothing, toys and messages. Gender-neutral baby clothes are growing in popularity as people grow weary of pink/blue apartheid, which is a recent phenomenon and not evidence of “hardwired” preferences. I hope that one day, advertising to children will be banned so they can more freely decide for themselves what is acceptable, what feels right. Because right now? Billions upon billions are being spent to teach them what to want and like. To convince them of very specific ideas about what’s acceptable and desirable for boys and girls. Not cool, Disney.

The anger and fear, seen in the overblown media reaction to a smiling five-year-old’s pink toenails, is telling. As a mother of a toddler, I know a lot about overblown reactions. So I know what this latest media frenzy truly is: An extinction burst. When you stop responding to and inadvertently rewarding a toddler’s tantrums (and this decision is based on your infinite wisdom and unflinching good reason), they pitch more fits, more intensely, for a while. They sense the paradigm shift, want to retain an old dynamic that gave them control, and so they kick things up a notch. They kick and scream ten times harder than before. Then, taking sideways peeks at you in between shrieks, they wait for you to give in.

Luckily, in the case of humanity, there will be no giving in. No going back.

P.S. Also? That boy’s mother, Jenna Lyons, is President, Creative Director and likely soon-to-be CEO, of J.Crew. So stop “worrying” about him, media! He’s going to be fine. Unlike, say, the kids living on the streets of L.A.’s skid row, whom you never talk or worry about. Lucky for this kid, his mother could buy and sell Keith Ablow ten times over.

P.P.S. The offending polish, featured in and linked to from the pink toenail ad, has sold out. Per the J.Crew website: “We’re sorry. This item has been so popular, it has sold out. We’ve got other great ideas–just call us… we’re here to help.”

Blogging. Stella. Me me me!

Posted on by amberhj

Feeling anxious. It keeps being said in the media and whatnot (on blogs, probably) that blogging is extremely narcissistic. I’m worried that I’m not measuring up because this blog is only somewhat narcissistic so far.

You see, I need to write about things in addition to vision therapy but I’ve been afraid to. So I apologize to my optometrist and vision therapist readers in advance.

Obviously, it doesn’t get much more “niche” than this blog. I may not reach too many people but some of the ones who do come here find stuff that is very, very directly helpful or interesting to them or their child. I need to figure out a way to organize the site into clear sections so my three different audiences of subscribers (of roughly ten people each whom I ADORE) can find the niches (great word) that they’re looking for. Or maybe I’ll keep Stella and motherhood stuff going here and start a new blog for other stuff. We’ll see. Deep breaths, everyone. It’s going to be okay.

The three current subject areas are broken down as follows:

  1. our feeding tube weaning journey and associated learning (a ton of my traffic comes here for this)
  2. strabismus, amblyopia and vision therapy experiences, information and associated amazing breakthroughs and fearful frustrations (more and more of my traffic is being generated by this)
  3. random crap that I find interesting or amusing as a mom or writer or wife or human being (no one comes here for this stuff–even my humor is a niche)

I’ll try to figure out how to enable you to opt in only to posts about Stella’s eyes, or tube weaning (once in a while I still find tube weaning information and stories that I’d like to share here!), or random (entertaining, maybe, I hope?) crap. That way you won’t have to deal with the rest showing up in your inbox. Here’s a good example of something you may like to skip. I took it from my Facebook page but find it amusing enough to post here:

Navy Hibiscus Sundress on Zulily

Navy Hibiscus Sundress / Unicorn Butterfly Bait

I am considering this summer dress for Stella, but the product copy is just too cute! I’m too busy rolling my eyes to make the purchase. Am I just jaded? Here it is: “A just-right cotton poplin dress like this one has magical properties, inviting colorful butterflies to land on her nose in between twirls. And after that, maybe a strawberry ice cream cone appears in her hand.” Yeah, and after that, maybe a unicorn craps cupcakes in our backyard.

I love Stella. And I want to continue to share the oh-my-god discoveries (like prism goggles, thanks to Dr. T) that have made such a difference–first for her gastrointestinal tract, and now for her eyeballs. But frankly, she’s really thriving and therefore is not giving me enough material. So I’d like to share other stories involving Stella, but not too many because I want to protect her privacy, and non-Stella-related topics. I don’t really know what to write about at this point or how to do it but I will get there, damn it! I’m a copywriter by trade but want to do other types of writing again (I’ve flirted with “real” writing before). I need to write! About stuff! That I care about! As a whole person! Though I don’t think I’ve been 100% “whole” since those two months when I had to give up cheese in 2008. A small part of me died due to deliciousness deprivation.

The last thing I write will be typed through awkwardly teary eyes. Thank you so much for reading my blog. We (and by that I mostly mean me/I) had some dark times amid the wonderful ones these last couple of years, and sometimes, just knowing that people were reading our story and relating to it or cheering us on or somehow benefiting or even laughing at my desperate attempts at humor–it saved me from really plummeting. This story could’ve gone a lot differently. And the comments. Oh my gawd the comments. Soul-soothing and life-affirming, just like cheese! I’m making a really ugly crying face right now. I wish you could see it so you’d know how much I mean this. Okay maybe not. Phew.

And with that I’m going to go collect a cupcake from our backyard. I ordered the dress from one of those anxiety-inducing daily deal sites–and it’s already working its magic.

My own pilot study: Microwaves’ effectiveness in increasing compliance with vision training

Posted on by amberhj

The solution was there, sitting in the corner of the kitchen all along. My microwave timer has saved patching. The  obtrusive but helpful-in-a-pinch black box has also helped salvage the vision therapy we do at home. Cue an annoying series of loud, celebratory beeps!

It makes sense. The only reason women endure childbirth is because we know that it will end in a few (okay, maybe 32) hours. It’s a relatively short timetable. This is why, at the Cape Cod Bay Basketball Camp, I managed to swallow suffering and push myself to the limit of heat exhaustion and muscle failure during drills on sizzling hot blacktop that threatened to melt the soles of my black Nike hightops. It’s how I now carry my giant toddler home from the park down the street, when we’re running behind which is always, even when my arm is about to detach and my grimace nearly devours my face. The end is in sight.

Over recent weeks, Stella did her best to refuse to patch. Which meant I spent all day trying to eek out small periods of patching in order to accumulate two hours’ worth. But last week, the answer suddenly came to me. I took her hand and led her to the holy shrine of now-passe cooking technology that is the microwave, and said, “It’s patching time. So we’re going to set the timer for 90 minutes, and when the timer beeps, you can take it off yourself!” I said it the way you would say, oh, “We’re going to Disney World right now. When this timer goes off, you can eat ice cream while riding the tea cups with Mickey Mouse!” As if Tinkerbell had cast a magic spell, Stella quietly allowed me put the patch on the glasses and place them on her face without any fight or resistance or complaint whatsoever. It has been working ever since. Trust me this is just as miraculous as, say, seeing Jesus in a piece of toast.

So yesterday I tried applying this super brilliant countdown strategy to vision therapy. We are currently only doing very physical, “vestibular” activities (spinning, rolling, etc.), and they go fast (you know, when they go). I turned into Jack Bauer, set the timer for 15 minutes, and informed Stella that we had to do four eye games before the timer went off. I told her this with the urgency of a counter-terrorist expert called in to thwart an impending explosion. Only my voice was much, much higher, more enthusiastic. It helped! Though by about 10 minutes, we were significantly derailed by someone’s whining and avoidance tactics. So, I’ll split “eye games” up into two 10-minute sessions, spread apart, and see how it goes. Aaaaaand that sentence shows clearly how such mind-numbing minutia has officially taken over my life. Hey, we do what works, and you’ve got to celebrate the little triumphs (our children’s and our own), right? RIGHT? [Insert guzzle of wine directly from the bottle.]

Please excuse me while I go high-five Stella and snuggle with the microwave.

Quotable?

Posted on by amberhj

I have the good fortune to be writing copy for a really delightful web-based company whose product is perfect for moms like me. Currently, I’m both collecting and writing inspirational quotes for their use. It’s fun work, and hilarious at times–in my brain. Especially when I write lines myself that are supposed to sound incredibly wise and timeless. Seriously though, this is right up my alley. My favorite proverb is Japanese and it’s been on my Facebook page and tucked away in an old post on this blog for a while: “Fall seven times, stand up eight.” Yes! That just fires me up! I have the complete pleasure of sifting through wisdom and getting paid for it. I get to let my highest self take over and come up with words that sing. But my mind can’t help but wander sometimes. Here are a few of my so-called “original quotes” that didn’t make the cut (i.e. they came to me and I mentally deleted them immediately, preventing them from being typed into my crudely formatted Word doc):

Get it done. Even if it’s a complete disaster.

Dinner cooked and not cleaned up is better than starving your family.

A snack in time saves a meltdown.

Go outside of yourself, and your home. It’s boring inside sometimes.

A tantrum is just a toddler’s way of teaching you about adversity, and the value of sanity.

You don’t know your worth of until a two-year-old hurls their disgustingly expensive glasses at you.

Be one with the mess. A dirty dish never killed anyone. Except maybe due to food poisoning in the instance that it was used again without washing, which of course you would never even think of doing.

Possiblity lurks in every corner. You either seek it out, or miss out. Or, while looking for it you get sidetracked and spend an hour using the handheld vac to eradicate dust bunnies, hunched over like a maniac never pausing to realize that you could have done it in five minutes using the “real” vacuum.

Time is but an illusion. Unless you’re the mother of a toddler, in which case it’s both non-existent and precious beyond words.

Farsighted toddlers like to keep their mothers near.

A missed nap is but a drop in the ocean of frustration.

The all-encompassing love of a child squeezes the heart and the brain. Take breaks.

But terror takes the sound before you make it

Posted on by amberhj

Yesterday afternoon, during Stella’s nap, I was working here at the computer with sunshine pouring in from the window when thought I detected the slightest noise behind me. I swiveled in my chair and was jolted by the sight of Stella, standing just a couple feet away. “Thriller” would’ve been an apt soundtrack for that moment. She scared the living crap out of me–but thankfully I only gasped and didn’t scream. Stunned speechless by her stealth, I suppose. Come to think of it, her disheveled hair, squinting eyes not yet accustomed to light, and baggy sleep sack did give her a ghoulish look. She got out twice more before I finally gave up on that particular nap time and accepted our weekend fate: Shopping for a big girl bed. And perhaps a small bell to be sewn onto her pajamas.

UW pre-optometry students to the rescue!

Posted on by amberhj

Stella, nailing "The Treat Game" with her assistant, named Baby.

Stella, nailing "The Treat Game" with her assistant, named Baby.

Stella knows how to use “WHAT!?” for comedic effect. At PCC, the natural grocery store we hit up to three times a day, there are fun sculptures outside. In reference to one of them she exclaimed, “A dog on a bike–WHAAAT!?” Just a sliver of a pause inserted. She went ahead and tacked on the prolonged “WHAT!?” in a flat yet exaggerated way, the timing and tone appropriate for SNL or In Living Color. Clearly, she’s a comedic genius bound for stand-up stardom.

As I’ve hinted at before, here and at Little Four Eyes, accomplishing our allotted daily vision therapy is a challenge. A grind. More for me than for Stella. In the way that getting up at 5 AM is challenging for a wine-guzzling nightowl. (I swear that’s not me. Usually.) I’m not the most organizationally proficient mom you’ve ever met–unlike my cousin who organized, within an inch of its life, the kitchen drawer that holds her young daughter’s dishes and utensils. To me it was an awe-inspiring thing of unattainable beauty. Honestly, I’m just happy to have identified a drawer into which I can toss that stuff from across the room, since it’s usually left open. When it comes to what needs doing in daily life, I get it done, but piles, toe-stubbing, sweating, and flat-out sprinting are involved. My creativity helps compensate, though. It kind of makes up for the disarray. I write fabulous copy for a range of clients in order to pay for Stella’s vision therapy and other stuff, and enjoy it, and I easily conjure up ways of executing or adapting vision therapy so that it’s somewhat innovative and actually fun for my two-year-old, who is quite young to be doing vision therapy in the first place. I find this type of work–the creative part of vision therapy, but not necessarily the execution–incredibly motivating and satisfying. Which is only natural, but somehow my difficulty seems much more severe than it should be. Of course, it’s not some horrible Sisyphean nightmare either. I believe in vision therapy. Though I struggle with getting it done, our daily work is incredibly valuable and effective, and Stella is resilient, adaptive and more cooperative than she gets credit for. Oh, and she’s creative, too! Using random objects like bulb syringes and blocks and ribbon, she’ll construct a tall, thin structure with a rounded top and say, “Look, mommy! I made the Space Needle!” And you know what, it really, really looks like the Space Needle. Clearly, she’s a brilliant engineer/designer bound for international renown.

Genius aside, when it comes to vision therapy, it really, really helps that she’s willing to step up to the very hardest challenges for a taste of Theo chocolate, made one neighborhood over from where we live, just down the block from Cody’s workplace and PCC. We often stop in for tastings, pretending to be tourists, though I’m not sure we’ve ever fooled anyone, even with our well-honed Boston accents, since we are loud, include a toddler wearing purple glasses, and head directly to the Hazelnut Crunch every time. In the context of “The Treat Game,” explained in my recent post at Little Four Eyes, she’s now grabbing two cards at at time so as to find matches twice as fast. Those red/green glasses just aren’t posing enough of a challenge anymore. Not when Theo chocolate is on the line. That’s my girl. But I know we can’t rely on chocolate. That’s simply the trick I keep up my sleeve. We have been in need of assistance for a while now.

As opposed to my mental lopsidedness, my sister is organized AND a creative problem solver. When I told her I was thinking of hiring someone to come here a couple times a week and help with our at-home vision therapy, she immediately suggested that I find an optometry student. I was all, “Brilliant!” Because wouldn’t you know it? We live right next to a giant university–WHAAT?!

So I got in touch with an officer in the pre-optometry club at the University of Washington and she kindly put out the word. I’ve received five applications from wonderful young minds! I’ll not only tell them everything I know about vision therapy and provide true insider information on to get Stella’s cooperation, but I’ll also throw in a pot of coffee and some sort of hourly rate. The peace of mind I’ll get, and the likely improvement in Stella’s outcome, will be worth it’s weight in Theo chocolate. Wait. Maybe I should pay my vision therapy assistant in chocolate bars? What can’t that stuff do?

And that’s not all! I’ve got a lead on a fantastic babysitter and zeroed in on a preschool that may just be ideal for Stella, due to its notably bigger focus on physical activity and fitness than any other preschool I’ve learned about. They have gymnasts and professional ballet dancers work with the little ones an hour a day–WHAAAT?!

Feels like we’re on the brink of being on a roll. We might even, after almost two and a half years, get some much-needed support–WHAAAT?!

Honestly, it’s not just Stella’s eyes that need the help. It’s me.

Knowing when to worry, and when not to

Posted on by amberhj

When I was an infant, I had to wear booties attached by a bar. The goal was to straighten out my legs. It worked, but my legs are a bit S-shaped to this day. They curve oddly at the knee, a quirk noticed by various coaches in middle and high school. But you know what? It’s subtle, and hasn’t been an issue. At all.

It just occurred to me that if Stella had needed a bit of leg straightening, even in this simple, relatively painless manner, I’d have been worried sick. Stomach tied in knots. All for nothing.

Stella’s foray with the feeding tube, and her eyeglasses and eye patch should be no different, really. I don’t mean to dismiss them, just to put them in perspective. I’ve let go of a lot of the anxiety surrounding them, but perhaps too much remains at times. It’s pointless, anyway. Counterproductive, even. She’s doing wonderfully.

There’s a huge lesson there. Hopefully it will sink in. This realization could help make 2011 a fabulous year.

P.S. Happy new year!