I'm just using the terminology that Cher used. Don't worry, I don't tell Julia she's a half-breed and if I do, it's usually when she's been bad and after I tell her rainbows are just particles of light, Snow White never existed and her birthday is just any other day.
Prior to having Julia, the idea of having an interracial child never crossed my mind as a negative thing. Ever. Growing up in a multicultural community, I never saw the color of someone's skin. My determination of whether we were friends were based on whether you were an "ass" or not.
It wasn't until Julia was born, did somewhere, in the back of my mind, I breathed a sigh of relief that she came out looking Chinese. It was a thought that surprised me a little because I never even thought I had an "issue" with it, in fact, I never even thought about the issues of having a mixed child. I think I even overheard my mom talking to a relative on the phone and saying "Good thing she looks Chinese!". But that was when Julia was first born, as she's growing, her looks are changing and there are moments when I look at her and I just barely see the Asian in her. My Chinese neighbors, for the first year, constantly commented on how "white" she looked. Seriously. Every time I'd walk out the door, one of the little kids would say "Oh my mom says she looks so white!". I'd go to Dim Sum and the cart ladies would say "Oh she's so white!" Relatives, would say, "Oh, she has beautiful white skin!" Even I, after looking at several pictures with Julia, am often taken aback and think "Who is this white kid on my lap?!"
And I would constantly vent "Why are they telling me she's so white?! She CLEARLY has ASIAN EYES!!! She looks freaking ASIAN!!" and I'd carry on as if looking "white" was a horrible thing...all this venting to my "white" husband and "white" best friend. It'd bother me even more because my parents even seem annoyed by the constant barrage of "white" comments.
And then one day, somebody commented on her "whiteness" and said "She must look like her father". At that point, it sort of all hit home to me. It wasn't that I was bothered by her looking different but by her not carrying on who I am and who my parents are. It's funny, I don't think my parents EVER made the color of our skin a barrier to what we could accomplish and I think that's why my sisters and I came out to be so independent and successful in our own way. But a few years ago, when I was pursuing my certification as a school administrator, my dad said I would never get a job as a director or principal because I was "yellow". Although, I didn't believe him, it still hit me hard that he said that and felt that we were still struggling as minorities. (And my god, he called us "yellow"!!!) So here's Julia, with an opportunity to be more successful because of her skin color and the shape of her eyes, but we're bothered by it. I guess it's the struggle, who we are, how we came to be, our culture and practices that we don't want lost in her. I don't care what Julia looks like, but I just don't want her to forget the Chinese in her...or the Chinese in me.
On faking Supermom and how its totally ok...
For Halloween, Julia's daycare welcomed any food and treat donations. I, naturally, sent Carl out to buy the best looking brownies at our nearest supermarket (as I wasn't going to be that mom who sent in soy brownies with the gluten and dairy free chocolate chips). I unwrapped them, stuffed them into a container from home ensuring each brownie was unevenly cut and sent them in.
I didn't say I baked them, I just said "Oh Ms. Teacher, there's brownies in there", gave my best June Cleaver with my pearly whites gleaming (head tilt and all), and went on my way.
I giggled, devilishly, the entire 30 second walk back to work as if I pulled the best prank ever! (Sad, init?)
I'm not the mom who works hard all week, runs a marathon on the weekend to cure cancer and still has time to go on nature walks with the kids and cook a fantastically healthy, tasty, organic meal for the family.
I'm the mom who after a long, hard day at work, throws herself on the couch, says "Oh, you wanna watch Yo Gabba Gabba? Ok", and wonder what to do in 20 minutes before the show is over or it's time to bring her to the potty. Do I close my eyes? Do I watch Yo Gabba Gabba? Do I check my email? Do I clean? Do I surf the internet? Do I start dinner? Oops, times up! and all I've done thus far was sit up and scratch my head.
So when I can fake feeling organized and prepared, I will. So screw it, let the rest of 'em think I'm spectacular! Nothing wrong with that, now is there?
I didn't say I baked them, I just said "Oh Ms. Teacher, there's brownies in there", gave my best June Cleaver with my pearly whites gleaming (head tilt and all), and went on my way.
I giggled, devilishly, the entire 30 second walk back to work as if I pulled the best prank ever! (Sad, init?)
I'm not the mom who works hard all week, runs a marathon on the weekend to cure cancer and still has time to go on nature walks with the kids and cook a fantastically healthy, tasty, organic meal for the family.
I'm the mom who after a long, hard day at work, throws herself on the couch, says "Oh, you wanna watch Yo Gabba Gabba? Ok", and wonder what to do in 20 minutes before the show is over or it's time to bring her to the potty. Do I close my eyes? Do I watch Yo Gabba Gabba? Do I check my email? Do I clean? Do I surf the internet? Do I start dinner? Oops, times up! and all I've done thus far was sit up and scratch my head.
So when I can fake feeling organized and prepared, I will. So screw it, let the rest of 'em think I'm spectacular! Nothing wrong with that, now is there?
On how I'm a bad mommy (sometimes) and why I'm ok with it...
Today a couple of coworkers at work jokingly asked me if I "ABA" my child. 'Tisn't the first time anyone has ever asked me that, in fact, I've been asked that quite often and usually in an almost rhetorical way.
They'll say, "Do you use ABA on your child?" (Smirk, smirk, smirk). But their faces will read, "Cuz I know you don't, I just know you don't! Otherwise your child would be perfect! And your child is not, because raising a child is beyond all specialized type of instruction and learning, raising a child is speeeshul! And your ABA ain't gonna do nottin' and you know it!" (I'm not exactly sure why they end up speaking with an accent but that's how it translates over to me....)
I could go on and on about how ABA isn't just a bunch of strategies pulled out of an "ABA for Dummies" book that I use or how I apply it to every aspect of my life, but I won't because people never get that. If I do, they tend to look at me as if I've taken a step too far into the world of "crazy", as if I'm one of those Star Trek fanatics that live their day to day lives as a "Trekkie" and speak fluent Klingon.
But I will say this, Behaviorism is how I understand why people do what they do. Most times I use that knowledge and apply it in hopes that it teaches Julia specific behaviors that will help her in life. But Julia isn't perfect, because outside of work, my role isn't always "teacher". There are days, a lot of days might I add, that Julia is behaving badly, but I just don't have the time or energy to do any thing about it. It takes too much effort and the easiest thing for me to do at the moment is to engage in whatever behavior to make the her stop being an evil beast the quickest. It doesn't mean that ABA doesn't work or is impossible to do or doesn't apply to life outside of autism. I still understand and apply the same principles but I don't always apply the right ones. It just means that I am not a "teacher" 24:7. Sometimes I'm a "wife", sometimes a "best friend", most times a "mommy", a "drunk" when I'm with my girlfriends, sometimes an "internet geek" and other times just "Mariann".
They'll say, "Do you use ABA on your child?" (Smirk, smirk, smirk). But their faces will read, "Cuz I know you don't, I just know you don't! Otherwise your child would be perfect! And your child is not, because raising a child is beyond all specialized type of instruction and learning, raising a child is speeeshul! And your ABA ain't gonna do nottin' and you know it!" (I'm not exactly sure why they end up speaking with an accent but that's how it translates over to me....)
I could go on and on about how ABA isn't just a bunch of strategies pulled out of an "ABA for Dummies" book that I use or how I apply it to every aspect of my life, but I won't because people never get that. If I do, they tend to look at me as if I've taken a step too far into the world of "crazy", as if I'm one of those Star Trek fanatics that live their day to day lives as a "Trekkie" and speak fluent Klingon.
But I will say this, Behaviorism is how I understand why people do what they do. Most times I use that knowledge and apply it in hopes that it teaches Julia specific behaviors that will help her in life. But Julia isn't perfect, because outside of work, my role isn't always "teacher". There are days, a lot of days might I add, that Julia is behaving badly, but I just don't have the time or energy to do any thing about it. It takes too much effort and the easiest thing for me to do at the moment is to engage in whatever behavior to make the her stop being an evil beast the quickest. It doesn't mean that ABA doesn't work or is impossible to do or doesn't apply to life outside of autism. I still understand and apply the same principles but I don't always apply the right ones. It just means that I am not a "teacher" 24:7. Sometimes I'm a "wife", sometimes a "best friend", most times a "mommy", a "drunk" when I'm with my girlfriends, sometimes an "internet geek" and other times just "Mariann".
On translating Julianese....
When Julia started talking, as I would drive her to my parents early in the morning, she'd say "Mama die!"
Me, being completely rationale at 6:45 in the A.M. and being a behavior analyst and educator for many years, would freak out and go "What?! What?! Julia what did you say?! Mama die?!" And Julia would happily munch on her seat belt strap, smile widely with her toothy grin and repeat proudly "Mama die!"
I would then continue the drive for the next 5 minutes with my mind running with, "OH MY GOD! She wants me to die! Or maybe she's predicting my death?! Maybe she's a psychic child...oh my god! Why does she want me to die?! WHAT THE HELL IS SHE SAYING!?!? How does she know the word die?!! Oh my god, someone WANTS ME TO DIE!"
Yeah. Seriously. That was me. Eventually, the thoughts would fade out and I'd slurp some coffee, become somewhat rationale again and forget it until the next time. But it bothered me even to the point that I remember calling Carl up and saying "She keeps saying Mama die! Why is she saying that?!?!"
Months later, when either she became clearer or when I began understanding Julianese (or both), I realized she was saying "Mama drive". Oh. Phew. The sudden realization was although relieving and comical- Oh thank god, she doesn't want me to die! I actually understand her! - it became somewhat less exciting too . Oh, so she's not psychic? Someone's not plotting to kill me off through her?
Trying to translate what the hell Julia is saying has been an interesting experience for me. Although I am the one who understands her the most, I have always thought I would just ALWAYS understand her just because I was her mother. But half the time, I am just as clueless as the next person and I end up just making it up when people look at me quizzically and asks "What did she say?"
"Oh she said Don't touch me!"
"She said she doesn't like it."
"She said she thinks your outfit is hideous!"
"She said she thinks you should be nicer to her mommy and maybe kiss her ass a little..."
Now if only I knew what "bugga bugga" means....
Me, being completely rationale at 6:45 in the A.M. and being a behavior analyst and educator for many years, would freak out and go "What?! What?! Julia what did you say?! Mama die?!" And Julia would happily munch on her seat belt strap, smile widely with her toothy grin and repeat proudly "Mama die!"
I would then continue the drive for the next 5 minutes with my mind running with, "OH MY GOD! She wants me to die! Or maybe she's predicting my death?! Maybe she's a psychic child...oh my god! Why does she want me to die?! WHAT THE HELL IS SHE SAYING!?!? How does she know the word die?!! Oh my god, someone WANTS ME TO DIE!"
Yeah. Seriously. That was me. Eventually, the thoughts would fade out and I'd slurp some coffee, become somewhat rationale again and forget it until the next time. But it bothered me even to the point that I remember calling Carl up and saying "She keeps saying Mama die! Why is she saying that?!?!"
Months later, when either she became clearer or when I began understanding Julianese (or both), I realized she was saying "Mama drive". Oh. Phew. The sudden realization was although relieving and comical- Oh thank god, she doesn't want me to die! I actually understand her! - it became somewhat less exciting too . Oh, so she's not psychic? Someone's not plotting to kill me off through her?
Trying to translate what the hell Julia is saying has been an interesting experience for me. Although I am the one who understands her the most, I have always thought I would just ALWAYS understand her just because I was her mother. But half the time, I am just as clueless as the next person and I end up just making it up when people look at me quizzically and asks "What did she say?"
"Oh she said Don't touch me!"
"She said she doesn't like it."
"She said she thinks your outfit is hideous!"
"She said she thinks you should be nicer to her mommy and maybe kiss her ass a little..."
Now if only I knew what "bugga bugga" means....
On Surviving My Beastly Toddler's "MINE" Phase...
Julia has a new nickname and it's "Beast" because that's what she's become. She has long entered the world of "toddlerdom" and has begun to show that she is independent, capable and fierce. She is toddler, hear her.... meow?
She got the concept of "mine" when I began weaning her from breastfeeding. When once oh so long ago, she was given free access at a mere pull and tug of my shirt - she was now told "No, darling, that's mama's, that's mine."
She was still sweet then.
Then, the absolute realization came when she saw me sipping my Slurpee and began trying to grab it out of my hands to drink the whole damn thing. I, as usual told her, "No, sweetheart, that's mama's - it's mine." She commenced the "freak out" and began screaming "Das miiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiine". If we were at home, I would've just ignored her and place the Slurpee out of sight, but instead, we were at Bed, Bath and Beyond doing some shopping. Of course, the worst thing was the hundreds of people passing by to stare at the mother whose kid is having a meltdown in public and thinking "Why the hell didn't you just give her the Slurpee?" Well quite frankly, because I was really thirsty and I have this thing about giving too much sugar to my one and a half year old? And did I mention, I was 'effing thirsty?!
So my attitude to all the onlookers was basically, "Screw you people, I'm a freaking behavior analyst, ok? I'm having a teachable moment here!" and continued to let my child meltdown for about 30-45 minutes before she finally moved to quietly saying to herself "(sniff, sniff) Das my juice" every 10 minutes.
It wasn't a good shopping trip and Carl and I have, since then, began calling any Slurpees we bring home "coffee". (After giving her a taste of the real thing, months ago, she's finally determined that she doesn't like coffee.)
So exactly who was taught here, remains questionable.
Now, Julia is all about telling you exactly what is hers and to not touch them.
"Das my book! Don't touch my book!"
"Das my shirt! Don't touch my shirt!"
"Das my kitty! Don't touch my kitty!"
"Das my head! Don't touch my head!"
"Das my belly button! Don't touch my belly button!"
"Das my butt! Don't touch my butt!"
It used to be cute...not so much now.
Although we allow her to take "ownership" of things, we don't permit that behavior to occur all the time and some people gaffed at the idea that we didn't allow our child to engage in normal, developmentally, appropriate behavior. "Just ignore it" I've heard, "it's perfectly normal".
OF COURSE IT'S NORMAL! But that doesn't mean I'm not going to address my child when she tells a sweet little old lady "Don't touch me! Das MY shoe!" or "Stop it! Das my mouth!" when she's biting on the wooden pew in front of me at church. What mommies fail to realize after reading website after website about appropriate developmental stages, is that phases are important learning experiences to move onto the next phase. So ignoring it and allowing it to simply happen because 2 year olds are suppose to do that, doesn't teach them to learn other important life lessons like social rules and etiquette - like don't be rude to little old women and wood is not for chewing!
So in the meantime, as we soldier on through this insufferable phase, Julia is allowed to have certain ownership and control for some things, in the right situation and in the right context.
Otherwise, everything belongs to ME!
She got the concept of "mine" when I began weaning her from breastfeeding. When once oh so long ago, she was given free access at a mere pull and tug of my shirt - she was now told "No, darling, that's mama's, that's mine."
She was still sweet then.
Then, the absolute realization came when she saw me sipping my Slurpee and began trying to grab it out of my hands to drink the whole damn thing. I, as usual told her, "No, sweetheart, that's mama's - it's mine." She commenced the "freak out" and began screaming "Das miiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiine". If we were at home, I would've just ignored her and place the Slurpee out of sight, but instead, we were at Bed, Bath and Beyond doing some shopping. Of course, the worst thing was the hundreds of people passing by to stare at the mother whose kid is having a meltdown in public and thinking "Why the hell didn't you just give her the Slurpee?" Well quite frankly, because I was really thirsty and I have this thing about giving too much sugar to my one and a half year old? And did I mention, I was 'effing thirsty?!
So my attitude to all the onlookers was basically, "Screw you people, I'm a freaking behavior analyst, ok? I'm having a teachable moment here!" and continued to let my child meltdown for about 30-45 minutes before she finally moved to quietly saying to herself "(sniff, sniff) Das my juice" every 10 minutes.
It wasn't a good shopping trip and Carl and I have, since then, began calling any Slurpees we bring home "coffee". (After giving her a taste of the real thing, months ago, she's finally determined that she doesn't like coffee.)
So exactly who was taught here, remains questionable.
Now, Julia is all about telling you exactly what is hers and to not touch them.
"Das my book! Don't touch my book!"
"Das my shirt! Don't touch my shirt!"
"Das my kitty! Don't touch my kitty!"
"Das my head! Don't touch my head!"
"Das my belly button! Don't touch my belly button!"
"Das my butt! Don't touch my butt!"
It used to be cute...not so much now.
Although we allow her to take "ownership" of things, we don't permit that behavior to occur all the time and some people gaffed at the idea that we didn't allow our child to engage in normal, developmentally, appropriate behavior. "Just ignore it" I've heard, "it's perfectly normal".
OF COURSE IT'S NORMAL! But that doesn't mean I'm not going to address my child when she tells a sweet little old lady "Don't touch me! Das MY shoe!" or "Stop it! Das my mouth!" when she's biting on the wooden pew in front of me at church. What mommies fail to realize after reading website after website about appropriate developmental stages, is that phases are important learning experiences to move onto the next phase. So ignoring it and allowing it to simply happen because 2 year olds are suppose to do that, doesn't teach them to learn other important life lessons like social rules and etiquette - like don't be rude to little old women and wood is not for chewing!
So in the meantime, as we soldier on through this insufferable phase, Julia is allowed to have certain ownership and control for some things, in the right situation and in the right context.
Otherwise, everything belongs to ME!
On Work versus Family
I used to be all about work.
I used to come home with work.
I used to come home from work and talk to people from work about work.
I used to think about work at 3 a.m.
I used to dream about work.
I used to shower in the morning and think about something related to work and then GO TO WORK....
Carl, over the years, has successfully banished me from bringing home any physical work but he never could get my mind off of work no matter how hard he tried. (Plus, I'm kind of a "little shit" too, I don't like being told to do something so I'll always find some way to do what I want to do and do it tenfold just because you don't want me to do it...)
But then came Julia...
And no matter how hard I tried, I could not for the life of me, do all the above things like I used to. If someone from work called me about work, I'd end up talking about diaper changing and booby feeding.
The girl has run me ragged...
I go home and my mind is on everything else BUT WORK. And I am finding out just how precious my time really is. Throughout the week, the only time I have to myself, is when I am showering and when I am driving to work and to my parents house. At all other times, Julia is attached to my hip and demands every second of my attention. If I'm feeling especially needy for some "me time", I may stay up later than my bed time (like now) but that's rare. During the weekends, my time is spent trying to do family things.
Work just stopped being important enough and truthfully, I think I like it like that...
Don't get me wrong, work is still very important to me, but on my dying day, my first thought is probably not going to be "Did I do all I can for work?, Did I make work happy?".
I only have one shot at enjoying life and being the best mommy for my children- and at the end of it all, I want to be able to say "Yes, I did all I could for my family. They're happy, healthy and wise and that's what made my life all the worth living!".
I used to come home with work.
I used to come home from work and talk to people from work about work.
I used to think about work at 3 a.m.
I used to dream about work.
I used to shower in the morning and think about something related to work and then GO TO WORK....
Carl, over the years, has successfully banished me from bringing home any physical work but he never could get my mind off of work no matter how hard he tried. (Plus, I'm kind of a "little shit" too, I don't like being told to do something so I'll always find some way to do what I want to do and do it tenfold just because you don't want me to do it...)
But then came Julia...
And no matter how hard I tried, I could not for the life of me, do all the above things like I used to. If someone from work called me about work, I'd end up talking about diaper changing and booby feeding.
The girl has run me ragged...
I go home and my mind is on everything else BUT WORK. And I am finding out just how precious my time really is. Throughout the week, the only time I have to myself, is when I am showering and when I am driving to work and to my parents house. At all other times, Julia is attached to my hip and demands every second of my attention. If I'm feeling especially needy for some "me time", I may stay up later than my bed time (like now) but that's rare. During the weekends, my time is spent trying to do family things.
Work just stopped being important enough and truthfully, I think I like it like that...
Don't get me wrong, work is still very important to me, but on my dying day, my first thought is probably not going to be "Did I do all I can for work?, Did I make work happy?".
I only have one shot at enjoying life and being the best mommy for my children- and at the end of it all, I want to be able to say "Yes, I did all I could for my family. They're happy, healthy and wise and that's what made my life all the worth living!".
On Julia's first day at daycare....
Enrolling Julia into daycare for a few days was my idea. My parents and mother-in-law have been watching her ever since I returned to work and they happily do so without a problem. But it's hard not to be worried about her during the day especially since my parents live in Long Island and I work in Queens. The daycare that I enrolled her at is literally across the street from my job. What could be a better situation than that?
So I talked and talked with Carl about enrolling her there and finally convinced him it was a good idea when Julia started craving interaction with other children. We planned when and how we would afford it financially - something Mariann-type people just don't do very often.
When we registered her, she walked right into the classroom without a problem and played with all the kids while we filled out paperwork. Panic started to set in as I realized that we were actually doing this and I wondered to myself over and over, "what's wrong with having her stay with my parents all day five days a week?' My mom didn't help matters when she hugged her tighter than usually and whispered to her to be a good girl and don't forget to ask for the potty -as if she was sending her away forever.
I knew socialization was the biggest reason why I was enrolling her, but also giving my parents a break during the week and really giving me a break from traveling from Queens to Long Island at an ungodly hour then to Queens again and back to Long Island to pick her up and back home to Queens again. This would also allow me to spend a little extra time with her and check in on her on some days. I knew all this while I was filling out the paperwork and I knew all of this this morning when I was dropping her off, yet I still continued to question "Why am I doing this again?".
So I dropped her off not expecting a problem other than problems with myself and coping. I said goodbye to her and the teacher took her, picked out a toy with her and ushered her into the classroom. As she was tentatively heading towards the table to sit with her toy, a little boy went up to her, grabbed the toy out of her hands and said "Hey, that's mine", in which she proceeded to have a complete melt down for AT LEAST 45 MINUTES (that was about as long as I could stay and witness)!!!
I hid for the first 20 minutes hoping she would calm down and get distracted. I opened the door for incoming parents and their little babies whom were not melting down by the way and got the expected winks and nods from experienced parents who knew what this moment was like for me. Some even offered some sympathetic remarks as they noticed my eyes welling up with tears as I played doorman. "Awww don't worry, it'll get easier".
It was difficult for me to decide whether or not I should rush in there and reinforce this behavior or continue to stand outside until she or I felt better, whichever came first. As a teacher whose been in this exact situation a million times before, I know I would prefer the parent just stay out of my way. So I reluctantly stayed out of the way until the teacher made the decision to bring her to me. I was relieved but my behavior analyst side of me was like "Come on, now you just made things hardier on yourself lady! You just totally reinforced her meltdown" but what can I say? I'm a mommy first....
I brought her back in the classroom and tried to distract her with toys. When she seemed calm, I started with the goodbyes and she began crying again. I calmed her down with strawberries (I'M A MOMMY FIRST!!) and then began my goodbyes again. (I am a firm believer in not racing out the door while they're not looking, I really think that's a terrible thing to do.) She seemed a bit calmer but the moment she saw I was outside of the classroom, she began crying pitifully again. This time I couldn't take it and I left. Just like that. I think somewhere in the midst of that, I even had promised ice cream if she was good. Sigh.
I went to work, cried in the bathroom and then allowed myself to be distracted with the day. I called twice and found out she pooped in her pants, they put her in a pull up (sigh) and she was playing with toys. When I went to pick her up she was not crying and standing in the middle of the room staring at a boy (uh oh! My genes are kicking in!). The moment she saw me she began whimpering as if we were still going on from this morning and I quickly picked her up and said "Oh you're ok", knowing I was really talking to myself.
I drove her home, thinking I surely brought home an emotionally traumatized child and when she said "Call Daddy?", I was convinced I was right - I mean, when does she EVER want to call Daddy when she's in distressed? She must be REALLY upset! But the moment we walked in the house, she spotted her Wonder Pets bookbag, threw it on her head and said "Come on, Zoe!" and started singing and giggling maniacally. Zoe happens to be a little girl that was in her classroom watching in awe as Julia had her meltdown. I don't know how the bag on her head and Zoe connect, but I guess Julia might've had a good time after all....
So I talked and talked with Carl about enrolling her there and finally convinced him it was a good idea when Julia started craving interaction with other children. We planned when and how we would afford it financially - something Mariann-type people just don't do very often.
When we registered her, she walked right into the classroom without a problem and played with all the kids while we filled out paperwork. Panic started to set in as I realized that we were actually doing this and I wondered to myself over and over, "what's wrong with having her stay with my parents all day five days a week?' My mom didn't help matters when she hugged her tighter than usually and whispered to her to be a good girl and don't forget to ask for the potty -as if she was sending her away forever.
I knew socialization was the biggest reason why I was enrolling her, but also giving my parents a break during the week and really giving me a break from traveling from Queens to Long Island at an ungodly hour then to Queens again and back to Long Island to pick her up and back home to Queens again. This would also allow me to spend a little extra time with her and check in on her on some days. I knew all this while I was filling out the paperwork and I knew all of this this morning when I was dropping her off, yet I still continued to question "Why am I doing this again?".
So I dropped her off not expecting a problem other than problems with myself and coping. I said goodbye to her and the teacher took her, picked out a toy with her and ushered her into the classroom. As she was tentatively heading towards the table to sit with her toy, a little boy went up to her, grabbed the toy out of her hands and said "Hey, that's mine", in which she proceeded to have a complete melt down for AT LEAST 45 MINUTES (that was about as long as I could stay and witness)!!!
I hid for the first 20 minutes hoping she would calm down and get distracted. I opened the door for incoming parents and their little babies whom were not melting down by the way and got the expected winks and nods from experienced parents who knew what this moment was like for me. Some even offered some sympathetic remarks as they noticed my eyes welling up with tears as I played doorman. "Awww don't worry, it'll get easier".
It was difficult for me to decide whether or not I should rush in there and reinforce this behavior or continue to stand outside until she or I felt better, whichever came first. As a teacher whose been in this exact situation a million times before, I know I would prefer the parent just stay out of my way. So I reluctantly stayed out of the way until the teacher made the decision to bring her to me. I was relieved but my behavior analyst side of me was like "Come on, now you just made things hardier on yourself lady! You just totally reinforced her meltdown" but what can I say? I'm a mommy first....
I brought her back in the classroom and tried to distract her with toys. When she seemed calm, I started with the goodbyes and she began crying again. I calmed her down with strawberries (I'M A MOMMY FIRST!!) and then began my goodbyes again. (I am a firm believer in not racing out the door while they're not looking, I really think that's a terrible thing to do.) She seemed a bit calmer but the moment she saw I was outside of the classroom, she began crying pitifully again. This time I couldn't take it and I left. Just like that. I think somewhere in the midst of that, I even had promised ice cream if she was good. Sigh.
I went to work, cried in the bathroom and then allowed myself to be distracted with the day. I called twice and found out she pooped in her pants, they put her in a pull up (sigh) and she was playing with toys. When I went to pick her up she was not crying and standing in the middle of the room staring at a boy (uh oh! My genes are kicking in!). The moment she saw me she began whimpering as if we were still going on from this morning and I quickly picked her up and said "Oh you're ok", knowing I was really talking to myself.
I drove her home, thinking I surely brought home an emotionally traumatized child and when she said "Call Daddy?", I was convinced I was right - I mean, when does she EVER want to call Daddy when she's in distressed? She must be REALLY upset! But the moment we walked in the house, she spotted her Wonder Pets bookbag, threw it on her head and said "Come on, Zoe!" and started singing and giggling maniacally. Zoe happens to be a little girl that was in her classroom watching in awe as Julia had her meltdown. I don't know how the bag on her head and Zoe connect, but I guess Julia might've had a good time after all....
On why we co-sleep and how I can't get her out of the bed....
Around 6 months pregnant, I finally decided that Carl was allowed to keep his version of "the man cave" - his studio with all his audio equipment, guitars, speakers, microphones...etc. Because he worked so hard to put it together, because he needed a space that I didn't touch, I gave very little argument when it was decided that Julia's room would be downstairs from our bedroom. In fact, once everyone gasped when they realized where the baby's room would be, I was determine to justify it by saying "But I have a baby monitor that sees and hears!". It didn't really matter too much during the time anyway, because Julia was going to initially sleep in her bassinet in our room for the first couple of months.....
Well the bassinet ended up being a diaper, wipes, clothes holder within a week and she has yet to sleep a night in her own room.
Initially, she found her way into the bed because of breastfeeding at night. Something I now highly recommend to everyone. If you plan to breastfeed, then co-sleep, because that's the only way you're going to get some sleep. And if you had a C-section, it's the only way you won't hurt from the constant sitting up and lying down in the middle of the night. My life was made easier by co-sleeping and it got better when I was able to just barely open my eyes, find her nursing away on her own, and be able to fall back asleep.
We've always said that we would put her in her own bed when she was weaned. She is now nursing every other night and she's still happily sleeping in our bed. We went through an initial phase of her kicking us in the head for a while there but otherwise, we really enjoy it. I also have this extreme anxiety of someone breaking in the house and nabbing her - something my trusty baby monitor won't stop just witness. They never tell you how incredibly over protective and anxiety ridden you become once you become a mommy. And although I know my fears are irrational, I can't help wanting to protect her from the unknown.
But this has made her really dependent on sleeping with SOMEONE rather than on her own. A MAJOR PROBLEM especially when it's time to bring her to her own bed. I did for quite some time, try to ensure that everyone that was watching her, including myself, worked on getting her to sleep in the crib during the daytime. But one by one, all the people I depended on to help me do this gave up and I was the last one to just finally say screw it. At some point, Julia learned how to scream bloody murder for long durations of time when she realized she was being left in the crib.
And this is where my professional training has a hard time kicking in. Although there was a point we were able to get her to sleep in the crib, it was through pure exhaustion from crying. I tried a modified Ferber method - where I would leave her room door open and so she was able to see me. But she just stood there and pointed at me crying. Eventually, I moved to going in, placing her down on the crib each time she stood up and leaving my hand on her back. I gradually reduced the amount of time I placed on her back until it was a light pat and I always made it a point to walk out of the room even though I knew I was going to be coming back in. This sometimes took me an hour to accomplish but it eventually worked. Unfortunately, consistency is key and the grandparents were not at all too happy to perform this process and I stopped trying to convince them. There are just some battles you choose to fight and some you don't.
So, here she is at almost 21 months sleeping blissfully away on our bed - good thing we have a King size bed. We've trained her not to kick us in the head (or really trained ourselves to not get kicked), we deal with the less room to spread out and we wake up each morning to "Mama? Dada? Dada sleeping, shhhhhh!". Carl has justified this by saying "When she's ready, we'll know"and I've tried to justify this by saying "Many families co-sleep till 6 or 7 and it's perfectly healthy". Many will call this learned helplessness but I call it one of the few moments we have together as a family in the day.
Eventually I will get back to it but at least I have till she's 6 or 7, right?
Well the bassinet ended up being a diaper, wipes, clothes holder within a week and she has yet to sleep a night in her own room.
Initially, she found her way into the bed because of breastfeeding at night. Something I now highly recommend to everyone. If you plan to breastfeed, then co-sleep, because that's the only way you're going to get some sleep. And if you had a C-section, it's the only way you won't hurt from the constant sitting up and lying down in the middle of the night. My life was made easier by co-sleeping and it got better when I was able to just barely open my eyes, find her nursing away on her own, and be able to fall back asleep.
We've always said that we would put her in her own bed when she was weaned. She is now nursing every other night and she's still happily sleeping in our bed. We went through an initial phase of her kicking us in the head for a while there but otherwise, we really enjoy it. I also have this extreme anxiety of someone breaking in the house and nabbing her - something my trusty baby monitor won't stop just witness. They never tell you how incredibly over protective and anxiety ridden you become once you become a mommy. And although I know my fears are irrational, I can't help wanting to protect her from the unknown.
But this has made her really dependent on sleeping with SOMEONE rather than on her own. A MAJOR PROBLEM especially when it's time to bring her to her own bed. I did for quite some time, try to ensure that everyone that was watching her, including myself, worked on getting her to sleep in the crib during the daytime. But one by one, all the people I depended on to help me do this gave up and I was the last one to just finally say screw it. At some point, Julia learned how to scream bloody murder for long durations of time when she realized she was being left in the crib.
And this is where my professional training has a hard time kicking in. Although there was a point we were able to get her to sleep in the crib, it was through pure exhaustion from crying. I tried a modified Ferber method - where I would leave her room door open and so she was able to see me. But she just stood there and pointed at me crying. Eventually, I moved to going in, placing her down on the crib each time she stood up and leaving my hand on her back. I gradually reduced the amount of time I placed on her back until it was a light pat and I always made it a point to walk out of the room even though I knew I was going to be coming back in. This sometimes took me an hour to accomplish but it eventually worked. Unfortunately, consistency is key and the grandparents were not at all too happy to perform this process and I stopped trying to convince them. There are just some battles you choose to fight and some you don't.
So, here she is at almost 21 months sleeping blissfully away on our bed - good thing we have a King size bed. We've trained her not to kick us in the head (or really trained ourselves to not get kicked), we deal with the less room to spread out and we wake up each morning to "Mama? Dada? Dada sleeping, shhhhhh!". Carl has justified this by saying "When she's ready, we'll know"and I've tried to justify this by saying "Many families co-sleep till 6 or 7 and it's perfectly healthy". Many will call this learned helplessness but I call it one of the few moments we have together as a family in the day.
Eventually I will get back to it but at least I have till she's 6 or 7, right?
On my adventures in potty training and why I started at 15 months...
I started exposing Julia to the potty at 15 months. I would've started aggressively then, but Carl was just not into it and when the other parent is not into it, there's just no point. But at about 18 months I talked him into participating and he either gave up in the sorta "Jon" in the "Jon and Kate" kinda way or Julia convinced him that she was ready by looking at him, grabbing her crotch and saying "poo poo?".
People constantly looked at me funny when I said I was potty training Julia. Constantly. I also heard many a story about how kids will just do it when "it's the right time" or I potty trained lil Johnny boy too early and it backfired....yada, yada. Some just looked at me like I was crazy. Carl was one of them. He tried to convince me, weakly, that she was just too young to be potty trained. You can't convince a headstrong mama who also happens to work in the special education field where potty training is one of the major things I am involved with.
Truth be told, Carl had told me about potty training newborns by using an audible cue when Julia was around 3months old. Although I don't think he was completely serious about doing it, he did mention maybe "I" would want to do that - with the key word being "me" of course. During the time my attitude was more of "Are you effin' kidding me? You want me to add potty training to the every 2 hour boob feeding schedule too?". I didn't know exactly when I planned on potty training, I just figured I would do it when the time was right. The time came when my best friend was changing her 18 month old's poop filled diaper. I remember asking her "Is that the size of her typical poop?". After a heavy sigh and a defeated sounding "Yup", I was determined there was no way I was going to be doing that.
So there you have it, the cat's outta the bag. I potty trained Julia early because I didn't want to deal with the bigger and smellier poop as she got older. I wish I could say it was because I knew statistically that the rest of the world potty train their kids early on or because there isn't any supporting evidence that states early potty training is damaging to the kid's psyche or that I'm an expert on potty training or that daycare would reduce their tuition by 110 bucks a month just because she was potty trained! Nope, it was out of pure selfishness but everyone else hears the statistics and lack of research justifications.
So Julia was poop trained by 18 months.
I say I began aggressively potty training at 18 months but that's not completely true. I left out one crucial step in all of this that despite my training, despite what I've told hundreds of parents in the past, despite how much I advocate for it, despite what I've told hundreds of teachers...instead of underwear, I USED PULL UPS. I'm so ashamed.
It has been this significant event in my life that I have regretted all the times I have tsk'd tsk'd a parent when they told me they were still using pull ups and decided that despite my 14 years in the field, I didn't know SHIT until I became a parent and began experiencing it all myself. I tried underwear one day, she peed all over my floor, I was disgusted when I was cleaning it up, I said "pull ups it is!" and that was that. The exact excuse every parent who came my way soliciting potty training advice said to me. Sigh.
I did also try the "bare bottom" method where I stripped her naked and allowed her to roam free in carpet free zones one afternoon. In fact, that method is what got her poop trained. She pooped on the floor, I, the professional, freaked out and reprimanded her. And the next day, she was telling us when she needed to poop. I don't know why so many people outside of my field think that I've got the whole child raising thing wrapped around my little finger. What most people don't know is that professionals in the field have a huge delay time when it comes to dealing with our own children. It lasts anywhere from 1 day to 6 months, when finally all that specialized training kicks in and we say "oh right, we should be doing this". And most of the time, it's usually our colleagues that are telling us what to do because we go to them seeking help. And that's what happened to me to a degree. Even though I dilly dallied with the underwear thing here and there, it was one of my teachers who said to me "She needs to be in underwear 24-7".
It didn't matter how many stickers I gave her or during moments of Mama desparation, how many ice cream cones I promised her (although they help reinforce eliminating in the potty, they don't really teach the consequences of being wet)...eventually, I made it to the final step in the process which should've been my first step all along. I said goodbye to all things diaper like and put her in underwear. In fact, even the occasional pull up during long trips in the car is a no-no because it only served to confuse her. I cleaned the mess up over and over again, gave her the light reprimand, praised her for staying dry intermittently throughout the day and she finally got it. We've had some setbacks here and there (especially when we're dragging her around from place to place and can't get to a bathroom) but she pretty much has it and now I save 110 bucks a month in daycare fees!
Sometimes my "issues" are my best friends....
People constantly looked at me funny when I said I was potty training Julia. Constantly. I also heard many a story about how kids will just do it when "it's the right time" or I potty trained lil Johnny boy too early and it backfired....yada, yada. Some just looked at me like I was crazy. Carl was one of them. He tried to convince me, weakly, that she was just too young to be potty trained. You can't convince a headstrong mama who also happens to work in the special education field where potty training is one of the major things I am involved with.
Truth be told, Carl had told me about potty training newborns by using an audible cue when Julia was around 3months old. Although I don't think he was completely serious about doing it, he did mention maybe "I" would want to do that - with the key word being "me" of course. During the time my attitude was more of "Are you effin' kidding me? You want me to add potty training to the every 2 hour boob feeding schedule too?". I didn't know exactly when I planned on potty training, I just figured I would do it when the time was right. The time came when my best friend was changing her 18 month old's poop filled diaper. I remember asking her "Is that the size of her typical poop?". After a heavy sigh and a defeated sounding "Yup", I was determined there was no way I was going to be doing that.
So there you have it, the cat's outta the bag. I potty trained Julia early because I didn't want to deal with the bigger and smellier poop as she got older. I wish I could say it was because I knew statistically that the rest of the world potty train their kids early on or because there isn't any supporting evidence that states early potty training is damaging to the kid's psyche or that I'm an expert on potty training or that daycare would reduce their tuition by 110 bucks a month just because she was potty trained! Nope, it was out of pure selfishness but everyone else hears the statistics and lack of research justifications.
So Julia was poop trained by 18 months.
I say I began aggressively potty training at 18 months but that's not completely true. I left out one crucial step in all of this that despite my training, despite what I've told hundreds of parents in the past, despite how much I advocate for it, despite what I've told hundreds of teachers...instead of underwear, I USED PULL UPS. I'm so ashamed.
It has been this significant event in my life that I have regretted all the times I have tsk'd tsk'd a parent when they told me they were still using pull ups and decided that despite my 14 years in the field, I didn't know SHIT until I became a parent and began experiencing it all myself. I tried underwear one day, she peed all over my floor, I was disgusted when I was cleaning it up, I said "pull ups it is!" and that was that. The exact excuse every parent who came my way soliciting potty training advice said to me. Sigh.
I did also try the "bare bottom" method where I stripped her naked and allowed her to roam free in carpet free zones one afternoon. In fact, that method is what got her poop trained. She pooped on the floor, I, the professional, freaked out and reprimanded her. And the next day, she was telling us when she needed to poop. I don't know why so many people outside of my field think that I've got the whole child raising thing wrapped around my little finger. What most people don't know is that professionals in the field have a huge delay time when it comes to dealing with our own children. It lasts anywhere from 1 day to 6 months, when finally all that specialized training kicks in and we say "oh right, we should be doing this". And most of the time, it's usually our colleagues that are telling us what to do because we go to them seeking help. And that's what happened to me to a degree. Even though I dilly dallied with the underwear thing here and there, it was one of my teachers who said to me "She needs to be in underwear 24-7".
It didn't matter how many stickers I gave her or during moments of Mama desparation, how many ice cream cones I promised her (although they help reinforce eliminating in the potty, they don't really teach the consequences of being wet)...eventually, I made it to the final step in the process which should've been my first step all along. I said goodbye to all things diaper like and put her in underwear. In fact, even the occasional pull up during long trips in the car is a no-no because it only served to confuse her. I cleaned the mess up over and over again, gave her the light reprimand, praised her for staying dry intermittently throughout the day and she finally got it. We've had some setbacks here and there (especially when we're dragging her around from place to place and can't get to a bathroom) but she pretty much has it and now I save 110 bucks a month in daycare fees!
Sometimes my "issues" are my best friends....
On how it feels to have your boobs "owned"
It's strange.
For many young women, when a boy lustfully gazed at her breasts and groped them like he "owned" them, we probably thought "Yes, you can have them now but I still control how and when you get to see them". When I got married, I still continued to think like that. Then I had a baby and entered the world of breastfeeding. As someone who does have an "over controlling, I am woman hear me roar" streak to them, giving up my breasts was not an easy thing for me. I already had to take 9 months to get used to the fact that I had to share my body but even in the aftermath of that, I was and am still struggling with the fact that I still don't have complete control of my body yet. Worse still, is the constant knowledge that Julia thinks my boobs are hers and hers only. She will at any given moment attempt to expose my breasts whenever she wants to quench her thirst. She'll grab, grope, nag, and cry hoping to gain access to her most prized possession - not too differently from many men in my life in the past and present. Until recently, there's been many a night I have awoken to find my shirt at my armpits, and her attached to me nursing away blissfully.
Nowadays, Julia has been successfully weaned to once a day, right before bedtime (typically the hardest time to give up). Usually, I sit her on the bed to wait for me as I change into my pajamas. The moment she sees my breasts she screams out "Ni Ni!" which is "milk" in Chinese. She squeals in delight, clasps her hands together at her chest and cries out "Yay!" And despite how much I hate to feel "owned" in any way, I still manage to break a smile and relish one of the last types of bonding moments I will have with her as a baby.
For many young women, when a boy lustfully gazed at her breasts and groped them like he "owned" them, we probably thought "Yes, you can have them now but I still control how and when you get to see them". When I got married, I still continued to think like that. Then I had a baby and entered the world of breastfeeding. As someone who does have an "over controlling, I am woman hear me roar" streak to them, giving up my breasts was not an easy thing for me. I already had to take 9 months to get used to the fact that I had to share my body but even in the aftermath of that, I was and am still struggling with the fact that I still don't have complete control of my body yet. Worse still, is the constant knowledge that Julia thinks my boobs are hers and hers only. She will at any given moment attempt to expose my breasts whenever she wants to quench her thirst. She'll grab, grope, nag, and cry hoping to gain access to her most prized possession - not too differently from many men in my life in the past and present. Until recently, there's been many a night I have awoken to find my shirt at my armpits, and her attached to me nursing away blissfully.
Nowadays, Julia has been successfully weaned to once a day, right before bedtime (typically the hardest time to give up). Usually, I sit her on the bed to wait for me as I change into my pajamas. The moment she sees my breasts she screams out "Ni Ni!" which is "milk" in Chinese. She squeals in delight, clasps her hands together at her chest and cries out "Yay!" And despite how much I hate to feel "owned" in any way, I still manage to break a smile and relish one of the last types of bonding moments I will have with her as a baby.
On what it's like to give birth the good ole fashioned way - C Section!!
I really wanted to have a natural birth but it just didn't happen that way. Julia was anticipated to be at 8 pounds, way too big for me and the Dr. was eager to get her outta me. And of course I was in complete agreement and just as eager! I was definitely tired of being grossly huge, severely bloated all over and not looking forward to having to push out an 8 pound baby. So it was decided that I would be induced at 39 weeks.
There was a small part of me that wistfully wished I could've experienced the "Oh, honey, it's time!" as water gushed out of me at probably the worst time and place while I grunted and groaned in pain and Carl frantically searched for the always no where to be found hospital bag. But I think I was happier this way, knowing what was coming and when to expect it even though I was probably more nervous because of it. My nerves were probably further elevated when, after I was finally admitted, the nurse stabbed me all wrong with my first ever IV. I felt my hand gush with warm blood and heard the once chatty nurse quietly whisper "Oh damn". When I finally had the courage to turn and look, I saw my blood all over her and floor and thought "Well this is starting off well".
Other than the occasional poke and prod from random doctors and the need to go to the bathroom every half hour while dragging everything you're attached to with you, the first few hours were uneventful and sort of pleasant. I laid there and watched a lot of TV. A lot of TV. And I went through the same series of questions with each new round of doctors, nurses, and assistants; Is this your first? Do you know what you're having? Did you pick a name? Do you have any allergies? Do you mind if I check you even though I've already got my fingers up you before you get a chance to say no?
Unfortunately, the several hours of waiting meant that the drugs they were giving me was not working and they eventually upped their game and gave me the big P - Pitocin. Now, I've watched a plenty of "A Baby Story" and "Birth Day" to know that Pitocin was it. It was IT and baby was a comin' soon and that meant it was time to give me the good stuff - the epidural. I also knew, from watching all my reality tv child birthing shows, that no matter what the situation, 90% of the moms-to-be ALWAYS end up wanting the epidural. So when they came around asking if I was ready, I was all for it - granted, I wasn't really feeling much labor pains yet but that was just what I was aiming for.
Getting the epidural was almost as tough as having a c-section. The hardest part was having to bend over and hold still - the anesthesiologist kept telling me I had to bend over further which made it difficult to breathe and hard to do in the first place, I mean, hello? Did he not see the huge belly I was sportin'? But once that epidural kicked in, I could not feel a thing. I think they're suppose to provide you just enough to take the edge off but I seriously could not feel anything chest down. So when they asked me to move my legs, all I could do was giggle and think "Sure, I'll give that a try" and would mentally will my legs to move which never seemed to work. The nurses and the pink graph paper spitting out beside my head told me I was having contractions but I didn't feel a thing...until...until the epidural began wearing off on the right side of my body. This was the only point during the experience that I did the typical "I'm having this baby and I hate you" behavior by grabbing Carl by the back of his head and "strongly urging" him to get the doctors to give me more of the good stuff.
They gave me more of the good stuff and I was happy. When they told me the push, I pushed as hard as I could mentally will myself to. I was pretty sure I was about to burst a vein and pushed for an hour when the Dr. finally decided it was time to have a c-section. I remember asking if there was anything else I could do - I mean, I did take Lamaze class!! Couldn't I squat, hold onto a handle bar, get on all fours....anything?! But, at the moment, Julia was literally stuck and a c-section was a necessity!
I couldn't believe that I was getting cut! I don't know if I was disappointed, but I did know that I wasn't happy about having to be cut open! And little did I know about how bad recovery was going to be after! But truly, I felt nothing, not a thing, not even when the nurse said to me "Ok, you may feel a big whoosh, like a bus coming out of you" when they were pulling Julia out. I FELT NOTHING and it was GREAT!
Everything happened just like they did on all those damn baby shows. They pulled her out, I watched as they cleaned her off, cut her cord, measured and weighed her, and then wrapped her in a blanket. JUST LIKE ON TV! I really felt I was watching one of those shows until they brought her over for her first kiss from Mommy and I felt her warm skin against my cheek....whoa...that baby is actually mine, I thought!
What they don't show on TV is them sending dad out of the room with the baby while mom lies there for 10-15 minutes listening to the doctors and nurses gossip as they sew you back up. That glorious moment of turning into a mom is quickly over as you lay there like a slab of meat and quietly listen to the details of your nurse's inability to find a man and your doctor's need to find the right school for their kid. Once in a while they acknowledge your presence as they continue to sew away until finally, they give you a little pat on the hand and tell you you're ready to go.
Mommyhood still doesn't start right away - you shake uncontrollably for god knows how long and the only thing you want is something to drink (you can't drink anything from the moment your admitted and hooked to that IV). And afterward, you become focused on hitting the button for the automatic release of morphine or whatever pain medication they give you to numb away the horrible feeling of, well, having your gut sliced opened.
A lot less exciting than "A Baby Story" but in the end, if you asked me if it was worth it, of course it was! Though not the natural birth I wanted, it ultimately didn't matter. Had this been hundreds of years ago, I and/or Julia probably would not have made it. Thank goodness for the advancement of medicine so that now, I have a little one to tell me "no" about 500 times a day, puts herself in "time out" when she knows she's done something wrong about 2-3x a day and when it's over, comes to me and gives free kisses and hugs. That's what it's all about....
There was a small part of me that wistfully wished I could've experienced the "Oh, honey, it's time!" as water gushed out of me at probably the worst time and place while I grunted and groaned in pain and Carl frantically searched for the always no where to be found hospital bag. But I think I was happier this way, knowing what was coming and when to expect it even though I was probably more nervous because of it. My nerves were probably further elevated when, after I was finally admitted, the nurse stabbed me all wrong with my first ever IV. I felt my hand gush with warm blood and heard the once chatty nurse quietly whisper "Oh damn". When I finally had the courage to turn and look, I saw my blood all over her and floor and thought "Well this is starting off well".
Other than the occasional poke and prod from random doctors and the need to go to the bathroom every half hour while dragging everything you're attached to with you, the first few hours were uneventful and sort of pleasant. I laid there and watched a lot of TV. A lot of TV. And I went through the same series of questions with each new round of doctors, nurses, and assistants; Is this your first? Do you know what you're having? Did you pick a name? Do you have any allergies? Do you mind if I check you even though I've already got my fingers up you before you get a chance to say no?
Unfortunately, the several hours of waiting meant that the drugs they were giving me was not working and they eventually upped their game and gave me the big P - Pitocin. Now, I've watched a plenty of "A Baby Story" and "Birth Day" to know that Pitocin was it. It was IT and baby was a comin' soon and that meant it was time to give me the good stuff - the epidural. I also knew, from watching all my reality tv child birthing shows, that no matter what the situation, 90% of the moms-to-be ALWAYS end up wanting the epidural. So when they came around asking if I was ready, I was all for it - granted, I wasn't really feeling much labor pains yet but that was just what I was aiming for.
Getting the epidural was almost as tough as having a c-section. The hardest part was having to bend over and hold still - the anesthesiologist kept telling me I had to bend over further which made it difficult to breathe and hard to do in the first place, I mean, hello? Did he not see the huge belly I was sportin'? But once that epidural kicked in, I could not feel a thing. I think they're suppose to provide you just enough to take the edge off but I seriously could not feel anything chest down. So when they asked me to move my legs, all I could do was giggle and think "Sure, I'll give that a try" and would mentally will my legs to move which never seemed to work. The nurses and the pink graph paper spitting out beside my head told me I was having contractions but I didn't feel a thing...until...until the epidural began wearing off on the right side of my body. This was the only point during the experience that I did the typical "I'm having this baby and I hate you" behavior by grabbing Carl by the back of his head and "strongly urging" him to get the doctors to give me more of the good stuff.
They gave me more of the good stuff and I was happy. When they told me the push, I pushed as hard as I could mentally will myself to. I was pretty sure I was about to burst a vein and pushed for an hour when the Dr. finally decided it was time to have a c-section. I remember asking if there was anything else I could do - I mean, I did take Lamaze class!! Couldn't I squat, hold onto a handle bar, get on all fours....anything?! But, at the moment, Julia was literally stuck and a c-section was a necessity!
I couldn't believe that I was getting cut! I don't know if I was disappointed, but I did know that I wasn't happy about having to be cut open! And little did I know about how bad recovery was going to be after! But truly, I felt nothing, not a thing, not even when the nurse said to me "Ok, you may feel a big whoosh, like a bus coming out of you" when they were pulling Julia out. I FELT NOTHING and it was GREAT!
Everything happened just like they did on all those damn baby shows. They pulled her out, I watched as they cleaned her off, cut her cord, measured and weighed her, and then wrapped her in a blanket. JUST LIKE ON TV! I really felt I was watching one of those shows until they brought her over for her first kiss from Mommy and I felt her warm skin against my cheek....whoa...that baby is actually mine, I thought!
What they don't show on TV is them sending dad out of the room with the baby while mom lies there for 10-15 minutes listening to the doctors and nurses gossip as they sew you back up. That glorious moment of turning into a mom is quickly over as you lay there like a slab of meat and quietly listen to the details of your nurse's inability to find a man and your doctor's need to find the right school for their kid. Once in a while they acknowledge your presence as they continue to sew away until finally, they give you a little pat on the hand and tell you you're ready to go.
Mommyhood still doesn't start right away - you shake uncontrollably for god knows how long and the only thing you want is something to drink (you can't drink anything from the moment your admitted and hooked to that IV). And afterward, you become focused on hitting the button for the automatic release of morphine or whatever pain medication they give you to numb away the horrible feeling of, well, having your gut sliced opened.
A lot less exciting than "A Baby Story" but in the end, if you asked me if it was worth it, of course it was! Though not the natural birth I wanted, it ultimately didn't matter. Had this been hundreds of years ago, I and/or Julia probably would not have made it. Thank goodness for the advancement of medicine so that now, I have a little one to tell me "no" about 500 times a day, puts herself in "time out" when she knows she's done something wrong about 2-3x a day and when it's over, comes to me and gives free kisses and hugs. That's what it's all about....
On why I started The Mamalogs...
I am a master at creating blogs. I create them and eventually abandon them with little or no regard to my audience (usually my husband) and my internal need to let it all out. I've been spilling my digital guts since 2002 - I feel like I should get some honorary props for that but I'm pretty sure about several million other people beat me to it. But this time, I promise it'll be different, The Mamalogs will have purpose as oppose to the ole "Everything and Nothing" blog days when blogging about my bowl of Lucky Charms in the morning was the meatiest post I'd have. No, The Mamalogs will have purpose, purpose because I have Julia, whose given me one of the biggest responsibilities I have to parents-to-be; to tell it like it is.
And I promise I won't abandon this one....at least not until Julia becomes a teenager and forces me to lock her in her room....
And I promise I won't abandon this one....at least not until Julia becomes a teenager and forces me to lock her in her room....
On why I "chose" full time work over part time Julia...
Over the past four months, the one major question many people have asked me was why I decided to go full time, especially when I had such a "good" gig working part time. In many working parent's eyes, I did not have the best option (which was stay at home) but I did have the not-so-bad option (which was work part time and stay at home). My deal was even better because I was making any where between 90 -110 dollars an hour. This allowed me to ideally, work 10-12 hours a week without feeling a pinch in my wallet. I know a lot of people thought I was nuts especially Carl, who was dead set against me going back to work full time. But truthfully, I was extremely unhappy professionally and those of you who are in the biz, may understand why.
Let me just preface this by saying, I love Julia more than anything in the world, more than I could ever imagine I would love her, more than I love Carl, more than I can even understand myself. It was no easy decision to leave her to my parents every day and feel jealous every time they took her on an outing and I wasn't there. I wish I could say that I went back to work full time because of my dedication to children with autism, because of my passion for my field or because I'm just a workaholic but that just isn't it. I wish I could say that it was because I love my job, I love being a supervisor, I love the kids, the parents...etc. but that's not completely it either.
Working and supervising in home early intervention cases was really tough on me both financially and mentally. It was draining me on both ends. Although it paid well, it pays what you get BEFORE taxes because you're a contracted employee. An obsessive compulsive control freak - not at all like myself - would, ideally, save a bit from each check and pay an estimate of what you owe to Uncle Sam quarterly. A Mariann-type person who also happens to live in a very expensive city, would instead, shrug her shoulders and say "I'll wait until tax time" despite their husband's dismay.
It was also draining financially because I was constantly buying new toys and because I was a supervisor, I was constantly buying program materials (binders, flash cards, pencils, copies of data sheets, dividers..etc) for every new case I had. In addition, I didn't get paid holidays or sick time and if the kids got sick and had to cancel, I either had to make up the time on a day that I scheduled to be with Julia or lose the money.
Early intervention also entails a large amount of paperwork. I spent A LOT OF TIME doing paperwork when I should've been hanging out with my daughter. Truthfully, I AM a workaholic and it DOES take some effort on my part to leave work at work. But when I was doing Early Intervention, I could not do that. I had to do a lot of work at home and being at the child's home also meant being emotionally invested in the case too. And although I chose to work part time so that I could spend time with Julia, I actually feel like I spend more quality time with her now working full time than I did then.
Mentally, it's exhausting. Many teachers I had were untrained, and I, myself, felt I wasn't growing professionally and I felt isolated. I spent a lot of time trying to train teachers or putting together presentations for workshops for other agencies. I spent a lot of time traveling from one place to another. I spent a lot of time scheduling and rescheduling. I spent a lot of time trying to find just time....
I think it works for a lot of people out there - and truthfully, I wish it worked for me. I loved working hands on with the kids, with the families and just seeing the impact I made. In fact, maybe it would've been better if I was NOT a supervisor and had less responsibility but I knew I couldn't do that either. I've been a supervisor for a very long time and it's hard going back. So eventually, I just had to stop. I still get jealous when my mom tells me how happy Julia was at the park or how she did this and that and I missed it all. But truthfully, even if I won a million dollars, I'm not quite sure I could honestly say that I wouldn't go back to work. But there are still days when I wish I was at home and at home with my baby, but ultimately, I don't regret the decision to return at all.
Let me just preface this by saying, I love Julia more than anything in the world, more than I could ever imagine I would love her, more than I love Carl, more than I can even understand myself. It was no easy decision to leave her to my parents every day and feel jealous every time they took her on an outing and I wasn't there. I wish I could say that I went back to work full time because of my dedication to children with autism, because of my passion for my field or because I'm just a workaholic but that just isn't it. I wish I could say that it was because I love my job, I love being a supervisor, I love the kids, the parents...etc. but that's not completely it either.
Working and supervising in home early intervention cases was really tough on me both financially and mentally. It was draining me on both ends. Although it paid well, it pays what you get BEFORE taxes because you're a contracted employee. An obsessive compulsive control freak - not at all like myself - would, ideally, save a bit from each check and pay an estimate of what you owe to Uncle Sam quarterly. A Mariann-type person who also happens to live in a very expensive city, would instead, shrug her shoulders and say "I'll wait until tax time" despite their husband's dismay.
It was also draining financially because I was constantly buying new toys and because I was a supervisor, I was constantly buying program materials (binders, flash cards, pencils, copies of data sheets, dividers..etc) for every new case I had. In addition, I didn't get paid holidays or sick time and if the kids got sick and had to cancel, I either had to make up the time on a day that I scheduled to be with Julia or lose the money.
Early intervention also entails a large amount of paperwork. I spent A LOT OF TIME doing paperwork when I should've been hanging out with my daughter. Truthfully, I AM a workaholic and it DOES take some effort on my part to leave work at work. But when I was doing Early Intervention, I could not do that. I had to do a lot of work at home and being at the child's home also meant being emotionally invested in the case too. And although I chose to work part time so that I could spend time with Julia, I actually feel like I spend more quality time with her now working full time than I did then.
Mentally, it's exhausting. Many teachers I had were untrained, and I, myself, felt I wasn't growing professionally and I felt isolated. I spent a lot of time trying to train teachers or putting together presentations for workshops for other agencies. I spent a lot of time traveling from one place to another. I spent a lot of time scheduling and rescheduling. I spent a lot of time trying to find just time....
I think it works for a lot of people out there - and truthfully, I wish it worked for me. I loved working hands on with the kids, with the families and just seeing the impact I made. In fact, maybe it would've been better if I was NOT a supervisor and had less responsibility but I knew I couldn't do that either. I've been a supervisor for a very long time and it's hard going back. So eventually, I just had to stop. I still get jealous when my mom tells me how happy Julia was at the park or how she did this and that and I missed it all. But truthfully, even if I won a million dollars, I'm not quite sure I could honestly say that I wouldn't go back to work. But there are still days when I wish I was at home and at home with my baby, but ultimately, I don't regret the decision to return at all.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)