This is part of a new segment I’m calling “Eye on Stella: Strabismus Watch 2010.” Sorry. I just thought that was kind of funny. And I’m running with any humor I can find these days.
The ER, whose job it is to save lives and not provide conclusive diagnoses, called Stella’s condition “convergence spasms.” A quick google search on this term terrified me (apparently, in some cases it’s brought on by hysteria–Stella’s tantrums aren’t THAT bad), and thankfully led me in another direction. After some research, and due to the nature of what actually happens to Stella’s eyes on occasion, I’m convinced that they’re incorrect. My theory is that Stella has the treatable, relatively common condition known as intermittent strabmismus, known to flare up during times of stress, fatigue, or illness. Of course, last time I checked I was a stay-at-home mom and copywriter–not an ophthalmologist. Though, I did diagnose my husband with photography-induced crazy-eye. Nailed that one.
So, last Friday. It was:
The culmination of a week during which Stella barely ate and lost a whole pound of weight (at least), due to a bastard of a cold entailing massive congestion and a cough that could drown out a chainsaw.
The day Stella may have bumped her head on the window sill in the kitchen. I was making lunch, heard a scream, and only saw what happened out of the corner of my eye.
When her eyes rolled in severely, a total of ten times by 11pm for two to ten minutes per spell. When this happened, she couldn’t see remotely straight.
The evening we headed to her doctor’s office having snagged the last appointment of the day, waited as they paged neurology at Children’s, then headed to the ER, where they awaited our arrival and Stella was not allowed to eat or drink for several hours and underwent a head CT scan that showed “no acute abnormalities.”
Since that day, I’ve been carrying around a feeling that threatens to burst my chest. It ebbs and flows. It makes me cry, sometimes. It makes me think about what-if’s and the meaning of life. It makes me wonder, once again, if I’m strong enough to survive parenthood. But I can’t quite pinpoint it. It’s too vague and all-encompassing to grasp. So I keep wondering what it is. I don’t think it’s as simple as “anxiety” or “fear.” It’s something to do with those. But more do to with love. It is absolutely huge and it is always there, probably in every parent, but right now it’s much too close to the surface. Which makes it hard to function.
On the other hand, after unthinkable tumors and lesions and brain bleeding were ruled out, I am obviously extremely relieved that the issue appears to be isolated to her eyes–or more specifically the muscles that control her eyes. If I’m right and it’s strabismus, early intervention ensures an excellent prognosis, ideally achieved through vision therapy (eye exercises) and maybe a patch to strengthen the weaker eye (which seems to be her right one). But I’m having a hard time as we navigate the two weeks that separate us from her ophthalmology appointment at Children’s Hospital. Every time she cries or screams in frustration or stares off into space or rubs her eye or refuses to nap or has a tantrum, I feel a contained form of panic rise up and I’m gripped by a question that is more of an all-encompassing mentality: What is wrong? This is a terrible way to live, really. A mode of existence encouraged by the worst-case-scenario culture of the internet, where I spend too much time. It’s a way of being that I am familiar with, as a worrywart by nature and having gone through Stella’s feeding aversion with her, but it’s currently heightened. Maybe there’s a touch of PTSD-like trauma from our tube days. Following Friday’s scare, I jump too quickly to the idea of wrongness. But! There are also times in which I see more clearly and with more appreciation everything that is right. The contrast between the two is sharp. It makes me ache.
I sometimes wonder what is wrong with me, and the way I see–the world and myself. Why is this all so hard for me? Why am I so jumpy around Stella since Friday? Why does it sometimes feel as if I walk on eggshells through life and motherhood?
As I sit here, I’m afraid of the radiation of her CT scan (ugh, do I remember correctly that they had to run it twice? why didn’t they work with us to keep her still in order to get it right on the first try?) and of an admittedly imagined potential for vision loss (could this nebulous eye issue make life harder for Stella?). Since Friday, I’ve seen her right eye drift in very briefly a couple times, and it jolts my entire nervous system like an electrical current. I’m disturbed when I see her eyes misaligned, not because she is any less beautiful or sweet for it, but because it’s a signal that something is likely amiss with my baby–something I don’t understand. What’s causing it? What does it mean? How will it affect her? My mind fills in the blanks, creating scenarios and possibilities with whatever is lying around: fear, anxiety, hope, and love so strong I can hardly bear it sometimes.
Back when Stella wouldn’t eat, I always felt 100% convinced that in the end, she would be just fine. Beneath all the panic was a kernel of certainty. It’s still there.
Do you remember the media hubbub from a couple years back, when a woman labeled by some as “America’s Worst Mom” let her kid ride the NYC subway all by himself? I thought so.
I chatted with Lenore Skenazy of Free-Range Kids one recent Sunday afternoon as she made chicken soup from scratch—and no. Sadly, I didn’t think to ask if the chicken was free-range.
On April 1, 2008, Lenore wrote a column for The New York Sun: “Why I Let My 9-Year-Old Take The Subway Alone.” She never imagined that it would land her on just about every talk show under the sun. Ever since then, she’s been taking hits and garnering praise as the bold leader of the free-range parenting movement.
She’s painted as a renegade in the media, but the woman I got to know over the phone seemed more like your average, concerned mom, just doing her best to stay sane like the rest of us. The only difference? She thinks the anxiety parents face today is out of control, detrimental, and largely out of place. And she’s doing her best to fight fear with fact, as seen in her book, Free-Range Kids: Giving Our Children the Freedom We Had Without Going Nuts with Worry.
Lenore certainly has some avid detractors. But to me, her message rings true.
The purpose and principles of free-range
I asked Lenore to quickly define the parenting style she’s helped champion, and the well-worn line rolled off her tongue. She called it “an old-fashioned approach to parenting that lets us give our kids the freedom we had.”
More explanation can be found on her website: “…we believe in safe kids. We believe in helmets, car seats and safety belts. We do NOT believe that every time school age children go outside, they need a security detail. Most of us grew up Free Range and lived to tell the tale. Our kids deserve no less.”
Her parenting approach, by the way, isn’t based on a hunch. Or nostalgia or laziness. It happens to be backed by a lot of research, which can be found throughout her book. Lenore points to the crime rate as a prime example. It’s much lower today across the board than in the 1970’s, yet kids have less freedom and parents more fear than ever.
Free-range, but not necessarily organic
Lenore has two boys, now 11 and 13 years old. I asked her if she was free-range from the start, when her first son was born. Her very honest answer surprised me.
“No, not at all!” She explained that while she’s an advocate for free-range parenting, she isn’t always able to put everything into practice. She recalled an incident from when her oldest son was one. He was in his car seat, with Lenore and her mother-in-law sitting by him, and her husband driving. “The boy was crying. My mother-in-law said to give him a bottle. I was like, ‘No! I can’t give him a bottle! What if the nipple lodges in his throat?’” She laughed, recalling how in that moment, she trusted all the baby books she’d read, rather than the common sense of her mother-in-law, who’d raised three kids.
Lenore acknowledged, “It’s hard to take a step back from the culture.” But there was something that came much more easily to her than it does to most people: “Trusting strangers more.” Lenore credits this trust to 20 years as a reporter in New York City. “I’m always talking to people in different neighborhoods from all different backgrounds. And everyone’s been great. I really do trust people… and I always felt like if you go into a Starbucks and you have to go to the bathroom, you can ask someone to watch your child.”
She realizes that this is radical stuff to many parents today. Because to so many of us, a stranger is “a predator until proven otherwise.” Luckily, according to Lenore, actual statistics don’t support this bummer of a belief.
What worries the anti-worry guru?
Based on what I’d read about Lenore, I knew there were a lot of things she didn’t worry about: her young son riding the subway alone, for starters. So I wondered, what does the free-range generalissimo worry about?
Lenore sighed, and the list began. “I’m worried right now that my sons aren’t reading enough.” She also worries about their level of communication or lack thereof—especially in regards to one of her sons in particular. “I asked him, ‘what’d you do on your camping trip?’ and he said, ‘Stuff.’”
She admitted, “I worry about their dependence on electronic amusement. Should they not be on the computer? Are they eating too much junk food? Are they nice to their friends? Do they have friends?”
Lenore paused and remarked, “The idea that I’m not a worrier cracks up me and my sister. We are such worriers.”
“I don’t come from pioneer woman, cavalier background,” Lenore continued. “I grew up with a stay-at-home mom.” Yet, she pointed out that her “child-focused” home environment never neared the “level of paranoia about the world that has been foisted on parents today.”
Keeping free-range kids safe
Lenore may be a legend among free-range parents, but she’s very concerned about safety. When her youngest son turned ten, he had a football-themed party. The sole item in the goody bag? A mouth guard.
Free-range parenting isn’t a free-for-all for kids. She explained that, of course, “You’re responsible for them. You teach them how to cross the street. You teach them to be where they say they’re going to be.”
Lenore stated her belief that, no matter how many people are placed on the sex offender registry, “It’s safest to teach your kids to say no to whatever creeps them out,” and to make sure they know that they can always tell you. Lenore emphasized that it’s absolutely crucial to say to them, “I won’t be mad at you.”
“It’s incredibly important to keep the line of communication open. That’s going to help them a lot more than telling them don’t talk to strangers and keeping them inside… Besides, most sexual predators are people they know.”
According to Lenore, the most important message to kids isn’t “Don’t talk to strangers,” but, “You’re allowed to say no and you should tell.”
The goal, she says, is to build confidence in kids. “The confidence to say no—to predators or bullies—comes from doing things in the real world and feeling pretty good about yourself.”
Nothing to fear but fear-mongering?
I’ve often wondered, in regards to myself and other parents I know, “Why we are so scared?” So I asked Lenore to explain the forces undermining parental confidence today, and why the free-range mentality doesn’t come naturally for most.
This is Lenore’s hot button issue, and I could tell by the way her voice changed—slightly higher and faster—when she responded. This is clearly an area she’s studied in-depth, and in her educated opinion, it boils down to “media saturation” and the “safety industrial complex.” Profit-driven messages are messing with our vulnerable parental minds.
The Law and Order phenomenon, she explained, sears graphic images and story-lines of victimization into our brains on a near-daily basis. Coincidentally, Law and Order went on the air in 1990, in the period when parental and general fear was soaring to new, paranoid heights. Our parents simply weren’t bombarded with terrifying and disturbing stories and imagery of sexual and physical violence in the way that we are today, which helps explain our more fearful, mistrusting mindsets.
Lenore said that when you follow the trail of fear, it leads directly to a giant dollar sign. “It all comes from the money to be made via advertising on TV or money made in selling products.” Parental fear is profit-driven, from TV ads to “class-action lawsuits about a drop of lead in Barbie’s eye.” Take a closer look at all the protective measures that at first seem instinctual, “and there is money behind it.”
Lenore highlighted a few products that may seem innocuous at first glance: knee pads, infrared baby monitors, and bath water thermometers. She noted that their very existence and widespread availability have heavy implications for parents. The message: You aren’t capable of keeping your kids safe without the help of products from more knowledgeable companies and experts. For that reason, it can be very hard to walk away from Babies ‘R Us feeling remotely confident as a parent, unless you spend a lot of money.
She explained that the knee pads imply that your baby isn’t safe even when doing a fundamental activity like crawling. The bath water thermometer suggests that “you’re about to scald your child.” The infrared monitor tells us, “At no time is your child is safe and sound.” Lenore pointed out that until recently, when your baby was asleep, you could take a break and “breathe a sigh of relief.” Parents today are afraid to let down their guard for even a minute, and it’s exhausting.
Lenore sees these products and their relentless proliferation and promotion as posing a fundamental question: “Don’t you care enough to save your child?” Of course, our instinct as parents is to say yes. And we spend a lot of money in order to do so. But no purchase is ever enough to take away the fear that has been planted.
My jaw dropped when Lenore told me about perhaps the worst fear-based money-maker she’s ever seen–an ad for a GPS device that’s also a 911 phone. In this short commercial, a kid is lured away from his bus stop by a remote control car. The next thing you see is the kid in the trunk of a strange man’s car, followed by a highly suggestive scene in a dark alley. If you watch closely enough at the end, when a SWAT team arrives to rescue the boy, you’ll notice that the stranger is pulling up his pants. I wish I were kidding. Honestly, I’d hoped Lenore was exaggerating. She wasn’t. See for yourself, but don’t say I didn’t warn you, and don’t take their misleading stat at face value:
Yikes. No wonder fear is so rampant, Lenore commented, despite the fact that crime is down, child abduction is rare, and that when abuse and kidnapping does happen, it’s usually at the hands of an acquaintance or estranged parent.
Lenore pointed out that whenever something does happen to a child, from a bump on the head to something more serious, parents are attacked or blamed to the fullest extent possible. She lamented, “We’re so afraid these days. Fate used to be part of the bargain. Now, anything that happens to the kid isn’t blamed on fate, it’s blamed on the parent. ‘Why did they let her eat that grape? How did they break their arm?’ It’s all traced back to negligence on parents. We’re blaming them because we’re scared and if we can distance ourselves from that parent’s disaster, it gives us a sense of control.”
Lenore added, “Our litigious society makes it seem like everything that happens has cause or blame.” In other words, there are no accidents anymore. It’s always somebody’s fault.
“Everything is now seen in terms of cause and effect. If we turn our backs for a second, then we will be blamed.” As a result, we’re always looking for possible ways our kids could be hurt, and willing to spend money on products—previously non-existent or considered unnecessary—claiming to protect them.
It’s hard to be a confident, free-range parent today because our commercial culture is constantly feeding our fears.
Sheltered kids lack coping skills
Lenore explained that today, some college administrators refer to incoming freshman as tea cups, “because they’re so delicate.” Sure, they’re “beautiful and perfectly made” but take them out of their protected display case and they break. They don’t stand up to everyday wear and tear, because they’ve always been shielded.
Lenore noted that college students are using mental health services in record numbers. “More college kids are depressed now than during the Depression,” she said.
“The point is,” she continued, “self reliance doesn’t just spring up out of nowhere. Sometimes you have to figure out your own route home because you missed the bus and can’t get a hold of your mom.” Unfortunately, most kids are bailed out and don’t get the chance to build confidence by overcoming obstacles.
How to worry less? See adversity as opportunity
I asked Lenore what she’d say to a parent who wants to stop worrying, but can’t let go. She said that parents need to take the pressure off of themselves. When her best friend read her book, she told Lenore how much she appreciated “whole chapters telling you to relax.” The fact is, Lenore explained, “Not everything you do has a big impact on your child’s development.”
“It’s a big relief when you realize it’s not all up to you. Not every synapse is up to you to connect in the brain. Not every day has to be perfect. They’re going to fail and that’s probably good in the long run.”
Lenore believes that when adversity strikes, we as parents have the opportunity to say, “Okay this is the punch, and now we learn how to roll with it… Life isn’t going to be perfect. The sooner they realize it, the better they can handle it.”
As for a specific strategy to get nervous parents started, Lenore suggests leaving your cell phone home for a day, giving your child the opportunity to problem-solve on his or her own. (More concrete free-range parenting ideas can be found in the FAQ section at Free-Range Kids.)
It’s a wide, enriching world for free-range kids
I asked Lenore to think of an incident—something her kids said or did—that affirmed her free-range parenting style. I wondered if she’d seen behavior that let her know that the freedoms she’d given them were fruitful investments in their character.
She thought for a minute, and then perked up. She explained that her youngest son takes the subway to school and transfers in Manhattan. Along the way, her son has befriended, as Lenore put it, “the guy who gives out free newspapers.”
The man’s a fixture at her son’s stop. “The guy has been through some hard times,” Lenore said, adding that he’s likely been “homeless or incarcerated… and doesn’t want to see my son go the same route.” This man has not only become a friendly acquaintance of her son, he’s become interested in and invested in her son’s future.
In fact, this man wrote her son a letter, amounting to a pep talk on paper, urging him to stay the course in life. He also gave her son a book about John F. Kennedy, meant to inspire.
Lenore shared her feelings on the unusual relationship. “It made me proud that he [Lenore’s son] connected with another person, that the person is looking after him… and that the man feels good about it.” Lenore, the seasoned reporter, couldn’t help but add, “And it makes me happy that my son reads the newspaper.”
Lenore is delighted to see that her son is “not writing people off because they’re a different color or poor or hard up.” It’s just one of many lessons he’s free to learn.
This is what an 18-month-old cutiepie with a 110th percentile head looks like.
On Saturday, Stella demanded “more pie.” Then on Sunday, after spying the gleaming white Trophy Cupcake bakery box, she shouted “CUH-CAKES!” Today, she’s been crying out for “BAGEL!”
I’d read in The Scientist in the Crib that “around 18 months” is a time of unbelievably fast development, including a “naming explosion” wherein the child can hear a word once (used as a label for an object) andsay it with ease forevermore. I knew it was coming. I just didn’t expect Stella’s language explosion to be so intensely focused on desserts and carbs. And I’m actually quite proud of it–her love of eating is beautiful to me.
Of course sweets aren’t the only emerging area of identification and communication. She knows at least several each from the shape, color, number and letter families. Some more reliably than others, of course. She’s all, “Seven? What the HELL is that alien scribble?” but “Two and Five? Hell yeah, I can spot ’em from across the street!” “Diamond” was the first shape she could easily say and identify, which I find funny for some reason. She’s starting to string words together, and the phrase of the day is “Buckle up!” Feeling really proud and curious, I tried to count all the words she knows, and gave up when I got to 125. She’s adding more each day. This blows me away. Now that there is so much to report on, the first thing I tell Cody when he comes home is, “Here are literally all of the things Stella said, ate, did, thought about and looked at today!” And then I don’t shut up for about 90 minutes. Dinner is always done way too late.
The way Stella views the world and her place in it is clearly different now, and you can see it in the way she plays. The playground, two blocks away, is her domain. But she’s oh-so-boldly venturing out into previously uncharted territory. She’s no longer content to run over the toddler bouncy bridge, go down the big slide, climb the stairs, or even to scale and descend the steep rubber mounds lurking beneath the tallest playground structure. For many months now, from the safety and comfort of the bucket swing, she’s intently observed adventurous, dirty-kneed boys and girls hiking and climbing amid the boulders and tree-root-studded dirt path that make up the strip of elevated land along the edge of the playground. She now deftly explores this rocky frontier without fear, making me nervous and proud at the same time. By the time we left today, the knees and butt of her pants had dirt ground into them. There were wood chips on her sweater and hat, and sand in her shoes. She looked like a full-fledged KID.
Today we hit the pediatrician’s office for Stella’s 18-month check-up. The weigh-in that used to fill us with dread is now just a point of curiosity, a nice bit of reassurance about her continued growth. The doctor, GOD bless him (he’s seen me at my worst), always seems so happy to see Stella. He’s just so thrilled to see her thriving after those tough early months. He “gets” how hard it once was for us, and how momentous a seemingly routine and uneventful check-up is. He seems genuinely proud of all of us, happy to show us her “beautiful” growth curves, charted electronically on his fancy tablet. Stella’s now in the 40th percentile for weight and the 90th percentile for height. Her head is still off the charts, having drifted just a touch further away from the 100th percentile, which is probably why it’s such an effective counterweight for hoisting herself onto ottomans, coffee tables and assorted off-limits areas. She’s lean. She’s tall. She’s healthy. She’s fabulous. I could not ask for more in a daughter than Stella, just as she is.
The point. Right. She’s not a baby anymore. I’ve teared up (okay, maybe even wept pitifully) about this fact numerous times, of course. Because it’s all too short. Unfairly short. As a parent, just when you get the hang of babyhood, it’s over. Just when you settle into the knowledge of “16 months”, she turns 17 months old. Then, before you even realize that she’s outgrown all her pants, 18 months. All you can do is be glad you squeezed her all those extra times, just because you couldn’t resist, and that you read her those board books a billion times even though you really would’ve preferred to watch Ellen while eatinga bar of chocolate the size of a small couch. All you can do is hold on–while letting go.
But I’m not sad. Babyhood is over, but full-fledged toddlerhood is just beginning, and if the past couple weeks are any indication, it’s going to be fun–challenging, but really funny and fun and crazy. I’m proud of how far we’ve all come. Amazed and impressed by her new independence and communication. And in awe of her passion for dessert and dirt alike.
My boots. The ones I wear all the time. Eventually found them in the front closet with the rest of our shoes. I’m pretty sure Cody put them away just to mess with me.
Stella’s right shoe. It was nowhere near the left one. Later discovered in a far, dark corner of the living room between our hutch and the wall. Of course.
The ERGO carrier. Turns out it was in the same place as always.Where it belongs. In the kitchen by the back door. Hadn’t used it in a couple weeks, and it hadn’t moved in that time.
My mind. Still looking.
Minor inconvenience? To most. For me, it resulted in clenched-fist fury! I could not see straight, which only made the hunt more difficult. I was so angry, because we’d already been awake for two and a half hours without doing anything semi-productive or quasi-enjoyable (productivity is not how I measure a morning, trust me) aside from picking at breakfast. Where do those hours go? I remember reading Stella a few stories, which slowed down my post-breakfast clean-up efforts. Then I sort of just hung out with her on the couch in the office for a while, helping her do somersaults–she recently figured out how to climb up on the furniture and treats couches as gyms. At some point, I wet my hair and dried it about halfway so I didn’t look quite so nuts and disheveled. We brushed out teeth together. I rinsed off my face, which is close enough to washing it–I’m out of cleanser and moisturizer and resorted to using olive oil last night. From the permanent pile of clothes on top of my dresser, I unearthed yesterday’s jeans and deemed them clean enough to wear. I cobbled together an outfit for Stella that passed my minimum cuteness standards. I packed a makeshift diaper bag with the bare essentials. And that’s precisely when steam began pouring out of my ears as I tried to pinpoint the location of our footwear and ergonomically superior baby backpack. Of course, as I searched high and low for these items (ie looked in the same potential hiding spots over and over again expecting them to suddenly appear), Stella grabbed books, brought them to me, tugged on my pant leg, and cried. The entire time.
At one point during the morning’s madness, I actually stopped and listened to what I was saying to myself. I’m pretty sure I called myself an idiot about a dozen times, not to mention a frighteningly disorganized failure and lazy mom whose shoe-losing ways are no doubt eroding Stella’s potential and endangering her even foot development. And to make matters worse, I’m pretty sure that the stack of thank-you cards on the bookshelf, with names written on them but no addresses, looked at me and nodded in total agreement with these negative thoughts. Not only is my mental dialogue insane and uncool, it’s melodramatic.
I have phases where I get so down on myself so fast. Examples abound, but Facebook comes to mind. I want to quit Facebook, but can’t. I’ve noticed that the oh-so-sunny and wonderful virtual representations others create of themselves using pictures of their gorgeous new homes and perfectly happy children and new cars and other symbols of “success” lead me to feel crappy. Don’t get me wrong, if we owned a lovely home, I’d be showing it off for sure, because due to the hard work and pride naturally involved. But status updates like, “Feeling so grateful for my life. Everything is wonderful!” kind of make me want to vomit, especially when posted every other day. I hope that these are genuine expressions by well-intentioned people, but come on! No, Facebook is not all bad. I do enjoy some fun banter with Facebook friends which helps me feel less isolated, but sometimes, I log off feeling “less than.” It sucks. I’m reminded of a brilliant quote along the lines of, “Don’t compare your inside to someone’s outside.” I try to keep that in mind, but it doesn’t help. I’m holding myself up to some high standards, and I’m not sure they’re even possible to meet.
Well, after a couple of emails to my husband, who has nothing better to do at work than help me find things that are right in front of me, I found all the “missing” stuff. Almost three hours after waking up, Stella and I headed downtown on a birthday mission for Cody. He turns 38 today. Happy Birthday, sweets! (I’ll report on the birthday festivities once they are complete, this weekend.) While he and Stella attend Waterbabies, I’ll be cooking a German feast for him, with ingredients sourced from Pike Place Market, to be followed by his favorite dessert in the world: Dahlia’s coconut cream pie. We won’t eat until just after 8:30, when Stella goes to bed. You know, so as to spend more than five minutes with a meal.
Our morning completely turned around once we were out and about. Funny how that happens. Stella clearly loves Pike Place Market, and being downtown with all the people, sights and sounds, and I love that about her. We had a fabulous time. The ladies at the bakery were fittingly sweet. We snacked on Dahlia’s sour cream vanilla bean coffee cake and sampled organic plum and pear. We stopped to listen to a piano man, and Stella particularly enjoyed (judging from all her bouncing) the old timey tunes by The Tallboys. One of the gospel singers that are stationed near the original Starbucks cheerfully called Stella “a bottle o’ joy” and pretty much made my day with his enthusiasm. Stella took a stroll down the less-busy Post Alley, where she tried on some boots and an old woman in a tall leopard-print hat stopped to chat with her. We watched and waited as someone spent about $500 on ingredients for an Oktoberfest dinner at Bavarian Meats Delicatessen. I was inspired but all I had left on my list was swiss cheese for spaetzle. On our way out of the Market, I grabbed some plums and pluots and Stella and I shared a smoothie in which every single ingredient was grown at a local farm. They use their own cider as a base and Stella and I agreed that it really worked.
Then I saw it: the parking ticket. We were ten minutes late. But to my surprise, fire did not shoot out of my eyes. I simply didn’t care. We lingered at the car, continuing to enjoy our smoothie. It dawned on me in that moment to appreciate how content Stella had been throughout our long-ish adventure. It was worth an extra $25.
This calls for a new Facebook status: “Wow, what a fabulous morning. Life is good and I’m truly blessed!” Gag me with the truth.
Stella’s Auntie Corinne (my youngest sister) and Uncle Colin (the duo also known as “C squared”) flew in from Boston for a few days, but now they are gone, and Stella and I are suffering from withdrawal.
Just before C and C’s arrival, Stella’s stranger anxiety went through the roof. As we entered the park a few days ago, we saw a couple approaching from the opposite entrance, all the way across the green expanse. Upon spotting them, Stella retreated to her hiding post behind my knee. She remained there until they passed, which took a while, and eyed them intently the whole time, eliciting a laugh from the two suspicious characters. In light of experiences like that, I was wondering how quickly she’d warm up to our house guests, whom she hadn’t seen since April. Well, five minutes after they arrived, she was doing stuff like this:
Kicking back with C squared
I think they share some kind of bond. It was a given that Stella would take to Corinne, having spent more time with her in the past. But I was impressed by how she fell in love with Colin. They really connected. But then again, come to think of it, these three have something in common. They are survivors.
At one point during the visit, Uncle Colin carried Stella up our steep front steps, of which there are many. This brought tears to my eyes. In fact, this was never supposed to happen. Colin is lucky to be alive. A couple years ago, he was in a devastating single-car accident. To keep him alive, they had to pump more blood into him than the human body actually holds. He was told he’d never walk again. His spine literally moved sideways within his body, and that was just one of many horrific injuries. From the blog that documented his incredible recovery: “Colin has endured four very difficult surgeries: one to remove a portion of his lung torn from broken ribs and to stop internal bleeding, two back surgeries to repair the spinal cord and stabilize shattered vertebrae, and a fourth to mend three breaks in his right arm.”
During their visit, Corinne thought back about their natural defiance, their bold assumption that he would indeed walk again–their refusal to accept anything else. After waking up from the surgery on his spine, Colin was asked to move his toes. To everyone’s astonishment, he could. The doctor blew it off as spasms–he told them not to get their hopes up, that Colin would not walk. But C squared knew spasms could not explain this on-command movement. They KNEW he would walk again–in fact, they thought it was obvious. Corinne laughed on recalling it: “We were like, ‘he can move his toes!’ DUH! He’ll totally walk again, no problem!” In hindsight she realized that the leap from slight toe movement to walking again was Grand-Canyon-sized. But the important part of all this is that they had hope. Hope! Hope is huge. Hope is what makes us and keeps us human. Granted, it was a very, very long road. Colin worked his ass off. They fought insurance battles and had about a year’s worth of dark days, but they knew he’d get there. Against all odds, and with the support of the community that rallied around him, he did.
Oh, did I mention that Colin’s accident happened five weeks after their wedding? And a several years after a sleeping Corinne rolled out of her third-story dormitory window, cracking her skull and vertebrae, and shattering her arm? She sat in the gutter alongside the building until someone heard her moaning in pain. I remember the moment I got the news about Corinne’s accident and how I could not breathe. I remember flying to Boulder, Colorado to see her, and wishing with all my might that I could trade places with her yet being blown away with how strong she was during the recovery process. And I recall feeling similarly sucker-punched when I got the call about Colin, whose life was dangling by a shredded thread. Those are those frozen moments that stay with you–slaps in the face that keep you from sleeping on the job of life.
While not really comparable to the life-threatening injuries Colin and Corinne endured, Stella went through quite a bit in her first year, the lowlights being a scary feeding aversion, blood in her diaper, and The Tube. So when I saw Colin, Corinne and Stella all together, happy and healthy, I could not help but feel amazed, and overwhelmed with gratitude. Miracles do happen, and my family is proof of that. I could not be more proud.
"Just tell 'em we're survivors!" (I love these three people and, I'll admit it, the movie "Cars.")
P.S. I’m also thankful that we had gorgeous, sunny weather for their visit. “C squared”, being bionic and all, have enough metal in their bodies to shame Wolverine. Their joints get uncomfortable as rainy weather approaches in the distance–nevermind when gloom settles in for days on end. It will surely descend soon, but Colin and Corinne left enough of their light to keep us going for a while.
P.P.S. Corinne and Colin helped Stella embrace her sippy cup. This is also a miracle. Trust me.
Three years ago today, Cody did something that was very, very brave.
Today is our 3rd anniversary. Cody and I have been married for three years, but together for seven and a half. Though, the last year alone feels more like a decade in some ways. Cody gave me the most thoughtful card with several sentences written inside that made my eyes well up (!), and, from Nordstrom, a pretty necklace with black crystal beads. He thought about getting the clear crystal version, but figured black would be better for the fall and winter. He is right. I’m impressed.
We three celebrated three years tonight at a low-end but decent pizza joint. That may not seem very romantic. But in a way, it was. We were happy and content, just being together. Until Cody derailed my plan to get ice cream at Molly Moon’s afterward! Big mistake, Cody. Huge. But we recovered quickly.
At dinner, Stella ate more food in one sitting than we’ve ever seen: beans, pasta, cottage cheese, olives, shredded mozzarella, grapes, three giant wedges of watermelon, bread. Oh. My. God. It was AWESOME. What a fabulous anniversary gift. I think we both got a little teary eyed. We were in awe, reminded of how lucky we are to have the tube so very far behind us. Our union has created this beautiful, vibrant girl who is thriving. It’s beyond words, really.
This weekend, Cody and I will venture out together for a fancy-ish meal and hopefully a movie. And ice cream will be eaten. And old memories will be rehashed. And I’ll wear my new necklace. And we’ll get to be Amber and Cody for a while, not Mama and Dada.
Cody, I feel so fortunate to have found you. Whenever I miss my family and start cursing about being here in Seattle, so far away, I have to catch myself. Seattle is a magical place! I came here ten years ago basically on my own, with all my possessions packed into my 1990 Jetta, and stepped into the unknown. I was adrift. Throughout my life but especially after moving here, I experienced terrible loneliness and I wasn’t sure why I’d come here or what I was doing or if I’d ever find “my place.” It’s all clear now. I was growing and learning on my own, yes, but more than that–the move to Seattle, all my mistakes and fears and, heh, therapy–it all led me to you, a Minnesota boy sweet and strong enough to put up with me. Truly. (I mean, you just came in here as I was writing this and I snapped at you because I was annoyed and wanted to finish this post and didn’t want you to see it yet.)
You are as smart as they come, but humble, yet, I love that when you don’t know something, well, you’ll somehow form a super-authoritative, convincing and detailed opinion on the spot based on what little information is available. You don’t have a greedy or selfish bone in your body. You are one hell of a point guard (really amazing actually), and a self-made player like me (you may be the only person who knows what I mean when I say that), and this is huge, not only because we got to know each other on the court but because I just couldn’t be with someone who sucks at basketball. You’re incredibly cute, though I’m still trying to convince you of that. Oh boy are you an amazing dad–you nurture Stella and shower her with love and pay very, very close attention to her and appreciate all the little big things she does. Every girl on this planet should be so lucky. What I know for sure is that this world be an above-and-beyond better place if all fathers were like you. I’m lucky to have you as my best friend, and my husband. Honestly, without you, I’d still be lost. I love you very much.
Stella turned one on Monday. I should probably say something really profound and eloquent and heartfelt but all I keep thinking to myself is “HOLY SHITBALLS!” Over and over and over.
The birthday girl.
Okay, I’ll say that after 12 mind-blowing months, it feels like heaven to see her thriving, running, throwing, walking, laughing, smiling, waving, chowing, bye-bye-ing and doing everything she is “supposed to” and more, especially after all we went through with her feeding issues and the entity referred to as The Tube. Perhaps I appreciate this milestone more–who knows, maybe a lot more–than I otherwise would have. There were days when I didn’t know if she’d grow again. I couldn’t see a way out for us–no light at the end of the tunnel. In fact, it wasn’t a tunnel. It was a deep hole and we were stuck in what seemed like mud but it was too dark to really know. There were nights when terror had me by the throat and I literally had trouble breathing because I loved her so much and that feeding tube was hell and totally unacceptable and the tyrannical, suffocating thought, “WHY WON’T SHE JUST EAT?” robbed me of my own appetite and mental stability (what little I had to begin with). The really sad part, I suppose, is that I know there were stretches of time during which worry over her unwillingness to eat, and knowledge of the pain she was in initially, and the resulting lack of weight gain robbed me of much of the enjoyment of some her early little triumphs–the ones that are actually incredibly huge–and anxiety sometimes prevented me from savoring that fleeting, precious time in her life. That’s what gets to me as I look back.
But now, here we are at one year old. We made it! We kicked some ass. Holy crap. We moved MOUNTAINS, we hit the three-pointer at the buzzer, we saved the world! (Our little corner of it, anyway.) I could not be more proud of her. And you know what? I’m proud of me too. I love where we are now. She is such a happy and active child and so strong and vibrant and resilient. She glows! Everyone sees it. I am tempted to quote Jack Nicholsen here, which seems inappropriate and perfect: “You make me want to be a better man.” Because she has inspired me to let go of what doesn’t matter and to cherish what does. Heck, if she is this awesome (and she really, really is–like when she spots her Cookie Monster doll across the room and lowers her voice several octaves and talks in scruffy baby talk all the way over to him), I must be pretty great. So, to be better, I don’t really have to do much at all, except be kinder and gentler toward myself. That’s the example I want to set for Stella.
Just after proving that guacamole has a calming effect.
We threw a very small, delightful and heartfelt party on Sunday (yes, it’s true, a party can be heartfelt). My parents were visiting from Boston, which made it all the more fun. I think we were all shocked when Stella refused to eat her cupcake. Wouldn’t even touch it. We got her to lick the candle, an attempt to help her enjoy some of the Trophy Cupcake frosting magic, but it must’ve been too sweet for her, because she reacted as if she’d been force-fed a heaping dollop of Vegemite. (I reacted the same way, when, during a soiree I attended amid my study abroad experience in Melbourne, I loaded up a cracker with what I thought was Nutella. Let’s just say that I’ve never been more wrong about anything in my life.) Total disgust. However, she eagerly ate my mom’s super fantastic guacamole, and had some flaky crust from one of the three types of quiche (crab, broccoli, and bacon-loaded Lorraine–all were superb).
She looked as adorable as ever, but, not at all used to wearing a floofy dress, she tried to undress herself constantly. Also not accustomed to so many people (and all were adults save for one toddler) crammed into our small abode, she got a bit clingy. I have to say I enjoyed that, because she’s usually far too busy sprinting around or doing headstands on the coffee table (trying to, anyway) to be held. Oh my, she WAILED when we sang “Happy Birthday.” It was funny, and got a big laugh (which probably didn’t help matters!) but I really felt for her. Actually, I set her up. I know full well that when you sing to her on your own, she’ll not only be mesmerized, but she’ll often sing along, or more likely try to one up you with her angelic singing voice when you’re done. But don’t you DARE sing with anyone else! Not even one other person! It is absolutely *terrifying* to this otherwise fearless girl. Cody and I learned this a few months ago. I was singing some old Cookie Monster song (that Cody taught me) while feeding Stella, when Cody chimed in. She looked at me with an expression of total horror, then looked at Cody, and back at me. And then, the tears and hysterics began. Sometimes we forget about this and absentmindedly join in if the other is singing and holy cow does our self esteem take a hit when she gives us the biggest and most terrified thumbs down you can imagine.
Cody made a bound hardcover photo album recapping Stella’s first year of life, as a surprise for me. It arrived yesterday, and it’s fabulous. I just love it. (Thank you very much, Cody!) Somewhere toward the middle, there’s a photograph from Christmas day. She’s on her tummy, wearing her green candy cane (striped) PJ’s, with her fists restly cutely under her chin. Her expression is priceless. She is clearly thrilled and her grin could not be any wider, but there is an undeniably devilish glint to her smile. She’s up to something. The tube is there with its horrible, all-too-temporary tape job, but at first, I didn’t even see it. All I saw was her beautiful face. And as I realized this, I was struck with how far we’ve come.
Stella, happy, happy birthday! You are a wonder to behold. We feel so lucky, so incredibly thankful to have you in our lives. I love you so much I would stand on my head all day long just to prove it to you, or even eat a whole tub of Vegemite. May your second year be as triumphant as your first, and even more joyful! We can’t wait to see what you do next.
Stella’s father (Cody) and I met playing basketball. He was one of two men on our team, and ours was the only team in the league with women. Yep, it was a men’s league and we bitches crashed the party. They were GUYS, and even though most of us played some college ball (granted, division three) and most of them probably rocked JV in high school, they naturally assumed we were a joke and–holy shitballs–were they wrong. We won the league championship and I put that accomplishment right up there with Stella’s 32-hour unmedicated birth, and while we’re at it I have to throw in my leading the Bay State League in scoring my senior year in high school–I still don’t know how that happened. It doesn’t make sense at all, except that I filled in any lack of social life with constant shooting practice at the outdoor court at Weston High School, usually surrounded by very impressed ten-year-old boys and their parents. And that was all the male attention I needed, thank you very much.
I can admit that, while Stella has not yet entered single digits, I’ve been trying to deny my desire for her to enjoy (okay, fall head-over-heels-in-love with) basketball. I’m trying to keep it at bay or at least on a simmer, but it’s like buying a bag of Kettle Chips the size of a suitcase, because it’s a much better deal than the individual serving bag, and besides, it’ll last you a couple weeks because you will only eat a handful a day with lunch, and then an hour later the bag is completely empty, not even crumbs are left, and your cube smells like salt-and-vinegar burps, CODY. I can’t help it. I love basketball. It was at or near the center of my world all the way from middle school through my early 20’s. When, in middle school, my friends were developing obsessions with NKOTB and attending Marky Mark concerts, I was cultivating an unhealthy attachment to the Boston Celtics, watching their games instead of doing homework and plastering my walls with posters of Larry Bird, and then Reggie Lewis.
I’m trying hard not to label Stella. But for the love of all things sporty, she sure seems like an athlete to me. The toy that makes her eyes most sparkly and bright is a ball (followed closely by books: STUDENT ATHLETE, anyone?). It is green with blue polka dots and very bouncy and by far her favorite *thing*, and she’s been playing catch–no, really, I mean throwing the ball to you and waiting for you to roll it back and throwing it to you again and so on–for a good five months now. She’s strong as an ox, lean and muscular and solid. She’s fast. She loves the water, and will actually try to swim if you let her. She thinks the shallow end of the wading pool is crap, preferring to (attempt to) take rafts and beach balls away from the rambunctious eight-year-old boys in the deep(er) end. Splash her in the face–she’ll laugh and splash you right back. She never, ever stops moving–in fact, she’s been very squirmy since birth, by six weeks could hold her head up for long periods of time as she was desperate to look around and find someone to yell at because boy, did her little cow’s-milk-protein-intolerant tummy hurt with the pound of cheese I ignorantly ate at every meal. (Yep, I’m even proud of her neck strength.) She was never content to sit around, which is exactly what have I wanted to do since I became pregnant and especially after giving birth.
Her walk is really more of an easy yet brisk jog. She runs up and down the hill at the park and if during her ascent she falls, she’ll steady herself and then use the grass to pull herself back up and continue with dogged determination. During descents, I usually offer my hand (she accepts when on very uneven surfaces like giant boulders or flowing lava) because the sight of her running down an steep-ish incline is nerve-wracking. But she doesn’t take my hand, and she doesn’t fall. So I let her go and I savor the sight (really more of a blur) before me. Lately, she’s been trying to stand on her head, or so it seems, and winds up in a downward dog position, hanging out upside down and peering back through her legs with a sly smile. I expect she’ll have mastered the somersault by Monday and if not, we’ll be hitting the gym to work on her core strength, and probably do some suicides in which case Stella may need to take it easy while I get back in shape.
We are at the stage where she is now a very good mimic, an eager and quick learner. We have so much fun. In recent weeks, she’s been putting the phone to her ear and if I hand her a brush or comb, she’ll move it across the back of her head, because let’s face it, the front pretty much styles itself. Yesterday morning, I taught her how to kick, and she hasn’t stopped since. The video below is from yesterday afternoon. At first her dribbling seemed like a fluke, but she’s done it about a dozen times since then, and I can’t help but be completely dazzled. I’m her mom and that is my job and it comes very naturally to me, as it should. This video, below, co-starring PaPa (Cody’s dad), may be very ho-hum to you but it warms me up and makes my heart grow at least another centimeter in diameter. Until yesterday, she’d walk up to the ball, then pick it up and throw it. She never let it touch her foot. But now she is purposefully kicking it along and it’s just about the best thing I’ve ever seen. And tomorrow, she’ll do something else for the first time and it will be a new best-thing-I’ve-ever-seen. Every parent knows exactly what I mean.
Stella relishes every adventure, “big” and small–from trips to see the seaplanes and kites at Gasworks Park and tours among the elephants and giraffes at the zoo, to forays to the fridge to examine bottles and jars and visits to the dust bunnies in the bedroom closet. She expresses her joy with ecstatic physical outbursts. Bouncing and arm flailing and squealing and rolling with total exploding exuberance. She’s my happy little athlete. Yes, yes, I know. That’s a label. And it’s very possible that she’ll one day eschew soccer balls for fluffy pink tutus, and that’s okay. (Though, let’s face it, passing over a basketball for a soccer ball is pretty much the equivalent–KIDDING, sort of.) Really, I’m just following her lead. Trying to keep up and shaking my head in amazement, with gratitude and Stella’s goose-poop-covered shoe smacking me in the face.
You know Nervous Nelly and Debbie Downer. But have you met Anxious Amber?
I’ve found that anxiety is a worthy and conniving foe. We’ve battled it out for years and so far, it hasn’t defeated me. But, as is required for proper tension in any comic book or superhero flick, it does get the best of me temporarily and puts into question my ability to keep the upper hand. Perhaps the worst incident occurred during my senior year of high school (pretty much a living hell), when, after being verbally attacked by a fellow member of the softball team, I collapsed at the bottom of a stairwell and literally could not move my strangely numb, curled-up fern frond arms for a good hour. That has happened–without loss of arm function but with complete loss of my head–numerous times since Stella’s birth, most notably during her now legendary, but thankfully resolved, feeding aversion. This past Sunday, anxiety dealt me a huge blow and it took two days to catch my breath. In an extreme bout of panic and lingering postpartum depression I projectile vomited despair in every direction, not as actual puke but in the form of desperate phone calls and/or emails t0 Dooce (yes, I emailed a celebrity blogger who doesn’t know me from a speck of dust on her fancy “#26”-engraved computer monitor), a member of my PEPS group, my sister, my mom, and my therapist. At the time, I thought I was going to break. My recurring thought was, “I can’t do this anymore.”
What caused this latest attack? I have been pondering this question and, amazingly, reached a conclusion, which I rarely do, preferring instead to roll around in indecision and agonizing in-between-ness. First off, I don’t take care of myself. I drink less water than is required to keep a cactus alive, I stay up too late, and I eat about half as much as I should and most of what I do eat is chocolate and coffee. I rarely take the supplements that I invested $250 in, thereby dismissing the solid hour that I spent with an insightful nutritionist in order to come up with a way of out feeling so crappy.
That lack of self-care puts me on shaky ground. I’m not nearly as stable and healthy as I should be, and perhaps because I’m not on solid ground, I still worry about Stella too much. Or maybe because I worry about Stella so much, I don’t take care of myself. Either way, it has to stop. Afterall, Stella is thriving to such a fabulous degree that I cry when I think about it.
The thing is, I’m an incredibly determined and persistent person. This helped me get Stella off of her feeding tube–I mean, no other outcome besides “Stella, with no tube, eating happily on her own” was acceptable (I told her doctor this) and I literally would have cut off my arms off if helpful. But there’s a dark flip side. When I don’t have anything to worry about, I find something to worry about, damn it! I recently realized/admitted that when I don’t have anything tangible to obsess about, I swear, there is an uncomfortable void. So in my spare time, I’ll read a book or website that plants problematic mental seeds. Voila! Worry and a sick sense of order are restored. Stella had a small mark above her lip this weekend. I convinced myself that it was a cold sore that I caused by kissing her, and that I had doomed Stella to a life of humiliation due to constant cold sore outbreaks. The mark was gone on Monday, and was clearly not a cold sore at all. More likely a little nick from her razor-sharp finger nails which I don’t cut enough because Stella. Never. Stops. Moving. I don’t even get cold sores. Nope. But my worry was hungry, and I fed it.
I believe I am addicted to anxiety. I’m so used to it that I can’t function without it. Granted, I function poorly with it, and it’s really no way to live, but I simply don’t know how to live without it at this point. And that is what I need to work on and move past.
I find that it helps to have other people around. A healthy distraction, a necessary part of a balanced life. We don’t have family in the area, except for one fabulous cousin, so that doesn’t help matters. I have kept a possible move back east (I’m from the Boston area) on the table, and we continue to consider it, though the economy seems to get in the way. I know that moving wouldn’t solve my problems, but it might help create some much needed breathing room and comfort.
At the end of the anxiety-ridden, dehydrated, unshowered day, I have to ask myself, “Why?” Why don’t I take care of myself? The answer is probably very simple, and sad. Though I must say, most new moms go through this and in that way, I’m pretty normal. I realize that. But I think that in my case, it’s a bit extreme–the lack of self-regard and eating and whatnot. On some level, the simple truth is that I believe I am not worthy of care. I don’t deserve it. I’m awkward and “less-than” and disorganized and crazy and, for lack of a less cheese-tastic cliche of a term, unlovable. Yet, amazingly and immediately, when I look these hidden beliefs in the face, when I pull them into the light and dust them off, they start to fall apart pretty quickly. They’re old and worn out and need to be tossed out like the garbage they are (as do the entire contents of our basement). I am a really, really great mother. I care about Stella, and all babies and people, really, so much that sometimes it’s hard to bear. I am practically Gandhi! (Yes, I know I sound ridiculous but I do care a lot.) But if given the proper balance, that sensitivity is a powerful and good quality. I am a warrior and I can do any-f’ing-thing I want. I can help myself and others, with great success. I’ve proven it time and time again. Now it’s just time to pick myself up (again) and do it.
I am so into recycling that I am making Stella wear my old overalls.
I haven’t posted in so long because I’m lazy. But also, I needed to take a break and discover a new direction. So, this blog will probably change, and soon. But all the helpful resources pertaining to feeding issues will remain, and I hope that they continue to help and comfort people.
The thing is, Stella’s bottles are no longer thickened. She is off both of her reflux medications, the Ranitidine (Zantac) discontinued two or three weeks ago with no issues. And she eats plenty. All the mental and physical energy that went into feeding Stella, and worrying about feeding Stella, needs to go elsewhere now. I’ve been a bit stuck as a result, but figuring it out, slowly.
I’m working on an article for AOL. I’m doing a small writing project for one of my past employers. I joined a book club. I’m cooking more. I’ve planned a little family vacation for August. We are finding a new rhythm. Speaking of which…
Stella earned her “early walker” status last week. She will be eleven months old tomorrow, and I saw her take her first steps on her ten-month birthday. Though Cody shrugged when I told him that, because he’d seen it before. Why he didn’t mention that humungous event is beyond me. Best guess is that he felt guilty over having witnessed it with out me. In any case, she is now literally off and running.
I took her to University Village yesterday, and instead of walking past the astr0turf-clad, todder-friendly playground, which previously had all the relevance of a space shuttle launch pad, we stopped, went in, and Stella proceeded to waddle-jog around, exploring all the ground-level gadgets and approaching everyone with aplomb. At one point, two toddlers (clearly playground vets at 18-24 months old) were standing alongside the lowest tier of the series of platforms that lead to the top of the slide. Stella jaunted up to the step, brushing between them and gently nudging them aside. With a wide stance and an even wider smile, she placed both hands on the platform, and turned to smile at each of them before cheerfully smacking the platform twice. They then did the same. It was as if she has bellied up to the bar and ordered a round for everyone. “This one’s on me, gang!”
Speaking of another round, it’s time for my second glass of wine. In my own personal experience, it’s one of the few upsides of formula-feeding, and I’ll take it.
P.S. Whoever says formula-feeding is convenient and time-saving is HIGH!
The Life and Times of Stella 