What color is my parachute?

Every so often, Bob tentatively asks me if I’ve given any more thought to what I’m going to do for work after the children are all in school. And I usually get defensive and throw out a few ideas that aren’t very practical . And he’ll remind me that we don’t always want to struggle financially and then I get more defensive. I launch into how unfair it is that I had to give up the bulk of my professional life and that I had to completely transform myself for our family and he didn’t have to change his external life much at all and now I have to plan to do it again in a few years? And then we argue for a bit and go to bed sort of angry and then don’t talk about it again for a while. During this hiatus, I first get a little depressed and then go searching on-line and read some of my ‘What Color is Your Parachute’ book. Then I get busy with being a mom and wife and part time business owner. But while I’m still in the thick of the contemplation phase, I’ve compiled a short list of possible futures and some notes about each one.

1. Unitarian Minister: This sounds like a lot of fun to me plus I’d have the summers off and a housing allowance. I’m definitely a people person and would feel like I could really contribute to something meaningful. I have the healer thing in my favor and I’m not afraid to speak in front of groups. Downside is that I know little about religion, history or finances and committee meetings make me want to naw on my own major arteries.
2. Nurse: I’ve been accepted to a program once so I could probably do it again. It’s only 2 years of fairly inexpensive school. I’m not grossed out by blood or needles, but I can’t say that I’m particularly fond of them or any other bodily fluids. Decent pay. Long hours. Lots of jobs and areas of concentration. Could travel, have a somewhat flexible schedule. Could work with new moms and babies, but would have to take orders from doctors. I don’t like to take orders from anyone and I am easily annoyed by doctors.
3. Farmer/farm worker: Love everything about farms. I don’t mind the smells. Could get a discount maybe on decent food. Would feel like I was contributing to something worthwhile. Could be outside a lot and work with animals. Am allergic to some of said animals and would eventually be eating the others. Not sure if I have a problem with this. Very hard work. No stability. Low pay especially for someone with no experience.
4. Writer: Lifetime dream. Many variables. Have a hard time actually sitting down to write. Am terrible with punctuation and grammar (if you haven’t noticed) Need I say more?
5. Waitress: Can’t even believe this is on the list. I swore when I left New York I would NEVER do it again. Being on the front line of hungry obnoxious people and their unresolved conflicts with food and then being dependent on them for income is unbearable. BUT, in the right restaurant, it’s great money, flexible and a really fun environment.
6. Nutritionist: Am passionate about food particularly that which contains nutrients unlike most of the stuff we call ‘food’. Would love to be part of educating people on what’s really going on out there . What’s really in our food. How it affects our bodies and minds. And what we can do to change it. Down side is that there is such a small group that wants to hear these truths and do what it takes to make real change. Am not sure how this passion would translate into a paying position that would be fulfilling.

Surely these ideas will soon get lost in the shuffle of washing diapers, blending baby food, playing endless rounds of Chutes and Ladders and trying to return client calls. So, until the next time Bob tries to nonchalantly ask me what my next career move might be. It’s not that he doesn’t want me to return to massage full time and try to build my business, but like he kindly points out, do I really want to still be massaging people when I’m sixty? Probably not.

Silence

2/5/10

 

I don’t know how long you can let babies cry without scarring them emotionally, but I may have just tested the limits.  The babies are so tired that they refused to eat their freshly pureed organic lunch.  Sam refused to eat his macaroni with butter and parmesan.  I refused to give him anything else (since I had already okayed it with him prior to serving it).  He continued to not eat it and pitched a 15 minute fit.  We compromised by my washing it off.  He took a couple of bites and declared it tasted like water.  I said, “what a surprise.  Did you think I rinsed it off with apple juice?”  He giggled, said no, ate a few more mercy bites and said he was finished.  Then he commanded me to give him an apple.  Peeled, sliced, STAT.  I blew up saying I’m not his slave.  Then I put the wailing babies down for a nap.  Then I got Sam down for a nap.  The babies continued to wail so I gave them each a bottle in case they were starving to death because they didn’t eat lunch.  They both glared at me and pushed the bottles away.  I left the bottles in the cribs and decided to ignore them by taking a shower.  When I got out, they were quietly whimpering which has since given way to blessed silence.  So I got dressed in my most comfortable ugly clothes and wrapped a scarf around my head turban style the way I imagine Gandhi’s wife might have.  Why?  Well, why not.  And anyway, it keeps my hair out of my eyes and will catch the pieces if my head explodes.

 

I’m not sure what I’m going to do with my next few minutes of peace, but I’ve decided that I’m not cleaning up from lunch, or doing laundry, or cooking or sewing or returning calls or paying bills.  I might get into bed with a cup of coffee and a book or sit staring out the window at the pond for a while.  And when they wake up, we might take a ride to nowhere until Bob gets home.  They’re always pretty good in the car.  At least it’s quiet now.  So musically, beautifully quiet.

Hotdog. It's what's for dinner.

Okay, so don’t even get me started on hotdogs.  Mmm…hotdogs.  Images of summer barbeques.  Perfectly grilled dogs in the middle of toasted rolls just smothered with your favorite primary color condiments.  Or how about wrapped in a Pillsbury crescent roll surrounded with cheese.  Ultimate hot dog decadence.  And what trip to Coney Island would be complete without a trip on the cyclone – subsequent chiropractor appointment not included, watching fathers and sons trap crabs off the pier using coolers of raw chicken as bait and enjoying a famous dog at Nathan’s.  Nothing like standing over their outdoor counter bar while underfoot sprawls a mélange of ketchup and pigeon crap.

It’s hard to say exactly how hot dogs came into being or who coined the term.  It seems to be an Americanized version of sausage.  I completely understand and condone our resourceful forbearers who wasted nothing.  By all means, if you’re going to kill a cow, use every part of it you can.  Boil the bones, make a broth and take all the itty-bitty pieces of ‘waste’ meat and stuff it into a casing before you cook it.  Voila, a hot dog.  One that was produced from a happy roaming grass eating, therefore not antibiotic injected, animal.  One that didn’t need a shelf life of a couple of years therefore didn’t need the addition of nitrates, nitrites, or other preservatives along with artificial color and flavor.  I don’t care if it’s Kosher or has a natural casing.  The inside of today’s wiener is made up of a product most appetizingly called ‘meat slurry’ or ‘meat emulsion’ which is leftover muscle and accessory parts mechanically scoured off the cow bones.  It is used for two purposes only:  animal feed and. …hotdogs. 

Hotdogs consumed in high enough numbers are carcinogenic mostly manifesting in childhood leukemia.  Yet, this ‘food’ lurks on every NY street corner and children’s menu from restaurants to schools.  Now, I understand why this is on one level.  It’s cheap, easy, long shelf life and most of all, there’s an undying demand for them.  Kids love ‘em and so do their parents.  I own a picky 4 year old and one of the 5 foods he’ll eat is hotdog.  But what I learned early on is that there are alternatives and I’m not talking about the truly tasteless vegetarian versions that my child wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole.  Once only found in natural grocers, packages of uncured, nitrate/nitrite free organic beef hotdogs are now nestled between the plethora of regular dogs in mainstream grocery stores.  Buy them if you or your children eat them.  Of course they’re still made from some form of ‘meat slurry’ and are high in sodium and fat.  But at least no one will get cancer from them and at least we can stop supporting the companies that make the gross ones.  They smell the same.  They taste almost the same.  They are a little denser in consistency and are a darker color.  And they cost about a dollar more per package, which is about twenty cents more per dog.  No big deal.  Yet no one I’ve ever talked to has heard that there is a choice out there.  And most people know that hot dogs aren’t good for you, but don’t really know why.

Read the labels carefully.  There are uncured, preservative free, natural, organic, nitrate/nitrite free, grass fed, grass finished hotdogs.  You want the label to say all of these.  Splurge.  After all, it’s a hotdog not caviar. Trader Joe’s makes a decent product.  So does Applegate Farms which also has a good article on their web-site about all this.  It can be found at:

http://www.applegatefarms.com/uploadedFiles/Resources/News/nytImes_070506.pdf

I am not a purist.  I will eat the ‘bad’ kind of hot dog again in my lifetime, as will my children.  But not often and never in my own home.  I do the best I can in our imperfect world as do we all.  But I encourage all of us to take all the teeny steps we can to eat real food especially when it’s as easy as sifting through packages of hot dogs at the store and asking the manager to carry them if we don’t see them.  The same goes for lunchmeat and bacon by the way.  

Enough is Enough

I fear I'm heading in the direction of a blogger flunkie based on the number of blogs I manage to spit out into the www. I'm writing constantly in my head where thoughts and stories whirl around each other like square dancers on speed. Maybe I should cut down on the java. Anyhow, Sam and I had an interesting discussion this morning on the way to preschool. It was about jail. Fascinating.

Sam asked me if I remembered to lock the front door. He wanted to be sure no one would enter our house because it's OUR house. I think he's been watching too much CSI after we all go to bed at night. I assured him that I had to which he replied in his usual round about fashion, " It's a good thing, mama, 'cause 'cause they'd not be- our house inside - it's OUR house - and if they got in - that'd be very naughty and they'd have to go to a BIG time out."

"Yes, they would." I responded.
"Where would time out be?" he asked.
"Well, Sam, there's a special place where grownups go for time out when they do things like go into houses that don't belong to them. It's called...well, it's called jail."

That led to a discussion on laws and how they differed from rules and that children don't ever go to jail, just grown ups. I decided to pass on letting him in on juvenille detention centers for now. That can wait until he's at least 5. He then wanted to know who would take care of a little boy or girl if their grown up went to live in jail. I assured him that his daddy and I would never go to jail because we don't break the laws. He was visibly relieved, but then joyfully said, " Just Grandma Rose and Papa Bob." These are Bob's parents. Hmmm....I would love to have known what was going on in Sam's mind to cast his grandparents as criminals. "No, honey. Grandma Rose and Papa Bob don't break the laws. So they won't go to jail either." "Oh," he answered nonchalantly and changed the subject. I gave his teacher a head's up about the jail thing in case the school thought someone in our family had been arrested by the end of the day. The look on the teacher's face told me that talking about jail with a 4 year old was probably inappropriate.

So, I then went on to Target with Lucas and Skyler to buy a cartload of organic baby food and formula because it was on sale and I had some coupons. Later that day while everyone was napping I looked up, in my earthy crunchy baby book, when I should start feeding them more than thin watery fruits and vegetables. I came away seeing the look on the author's face if she could see my shelves stocked with jars, boxes and cans. And I reply weakly, "But it's organic! Well, some of it is!" And the author shakes her head and reminds me how easy and quick it is to make my own homemade cereals and freeze my pureed vegetables in enormous batches of ice cubes for convenience. And why would anyone in their right mind buy a jar of bananas when you can mash your own organic banana in the comfort of your own home. And I say, but what if it's not ripe or it's too ripe and I'm were too busy scraping the poop off of the cloth diapers I insist on using and hanging out to dry on the line for natural bleaching and to reduce your carbon footprint and it's sort of nice to bathe the children once in a while and it would be a good idea to actually empty the dishwasher instead of taking out the clean dishes as we need them because the dirty ones are piling up precariously and I like to eat and sleep and I'm working too and the kitchen floor looks like a science experiment gone bad so mash your own damn banana lady! I bought mine on clearance at Target in a JAR!!! And I slam the book shut before I read the bit about if you must use jars make sure to clean them before you open them to avoid....damn - I couldn't help myself - I read it. But then I did shut it and put it back on the shelf.

So when is enough enough? Sam and I had a year of bonding as I nursed him and he fell asleep peacefully in my arms. These babies are lucky when I stick bottles in their mouths and keep them in by propping them up on towels. Whichever one I'm not holding is usually looking pissed off or crying. Sam is constantly scaring them until they cry. And now they've been relegated to sleep in the basement because they cry too much at night and we're trying to space out their feedings so we shut the door and set an alarm for the next feeding. In the interim, what goes on downstairs stays downstairs. I don't need to know about it.

So I don't wear them, nurse them or cook for them. Will they be okay? Sam lives mostly in time out, still only eats about 4 different foods and we have discussions about jail. Will HE be okay? Since the babies were born, we've stopped composting, started using occasional paper plates, eat more frozen food, consume more coffee and the Board of Health would shut down our house if they visited unannounced. Will WE be okay? What IS okay? And what is enough?

My uterus as a playground

1/9/09

Sam has been talking about the babies more lately. Today, he seemed very put out upon learning that they do not have to wear clothes even though he does. And recently, a very concerned Sam asked me if the babies in my belly had any toys to play with. I answered no and Sam, disturbed by this news, said that we needed to get some to them. Every so often since then, I ask him what he thinks the babies are doing. Sometimes he thinks they’re sleeping, but mostly he thinks they are playing. So, I’m trying to envision what he thinks it looks like inside my uterus. I think he sees it as a sort of playground or maybe like his day care with a couple of cribs for them to nap in when they are tired. It’s like the first time I walked up all those stairs in the Statue of Liberty. I was certain after the claustrophobic ascent, there would be a little coffee shop or something at the top where we could stop and rest. Instead we only had a few minutes at the top to look out the observation windows at the top of the crown before being ushered back down the stairs of the narrow chamber. Once we got to the ground, I looked back up at Lady Liberty’s head while shaking my own. How exactly did I think a refreshment stand with tables and chairs was going to fit in there? So, I can understand the warped perception of what’s going on in my abdomen. However, I also think there may be some truth to it.

It seems like my bladder has been turned into a makeshift trampoline making me feel the need to pee whether or not it’s full. My intestines are being used as a ropes course based on the bouts of flatulence and constipation that even a half a bag of prunes a day can’t seem to remedy. And from the amount of back and hip pain I’m experiencing, I’m quite certain that the boys are looking for handholds and footholds in my pelvis and spine to begin their budding rock climbing careers. My first guess would be to say they’re learning to boulder, but technically they are always tied in by their respective umbilical cords. During certain excruciating moments, I wonder if they’ve also dislodged a kidney in order to play dodge ball.

So, yes Sam, the babies do have toys. They’re called viscera. I’ll be a little happier when we can hand them those puppets that you used to love so much and some teething toys.

The Magic Pull Up

11/29/08

So, we’ve tried just about everything to get Sam to poop on the potty. We’ve tried bribing with M&M’s (worked once), begging, demanding, insisting, promising, lying, holding him hostage on the toilet etc to get him to poop (and then guiltily adding money to his therapy fund) and all has failed. The only thing we haven’t tried is the magic pullup. That is, until 2 days ago.

We were in the house for the day – in no hurry at all. And we decided that today was the day for Sam to take the next step in growing up. He needed to poop and demanded his pull up for the occasion, which is our usual ritual. However, on this day, we said no. It was time for him to poop in the toilet. He would get hugs and prizes and treats, but he would not get a pull up. He begged and pleaded and cried. He ran toward the bathroom and then stopped himself and ran away. He sat on the toilet for about 1 second and then jumped off like it was a fire pit. He rolled on the floor in anguish.

And then I remembered the magic pull up. It was something my friend Diana told my friend Megan who told me. I never thought it would work so I never tried. But Sam was desperate and so was I. So I took a pull up and cut out a hole in the back toward the bottom. I told Sam that he couldn’t have a regular pull up, but he could have a magic pull up as long as he promised he would sit on the toilet with it on. He agreed. We put it on and he sat down and before you know it, he pooped in the potty. We laughed, we sang, we cheered , danced and immediately set him up in the kitchen with a bowl of chocolate ice cream. So happy were we.

The next day he said nothing about having to poop. The second day, each time he told us he had to go, we mentioned the magic pull up and he changed his mind. This went on until we had dinner in Friendly’s. We must have taken him to the bathroom 3 times. Nothing. We then went to Loews to look at flooring. I spent most of the time in the bathroom with him going so far as to sit on the toilet with him because of how scared he told me he was. Nothing.

Returning home, he first refused the magic pull up, but finally relented. He pouted and cried for a while, but finally…finally sat on the toilet and pooped. He was so happy that he ran out to the living where my in-laws were and proudly announced his success. We cheered, danced, sang and gave him M&M’s.

My God this is a lot of work, but thanks to the magic pull up, there is hope.

Fertile Ground

8/27/08

 

How do I feel right now?  I wonder if it’s like finding out you just won the lottery.  First you’re jumping up and down with joy, but that only lasts a short time.  Then you get really quiet inside.  You aren’t sure who to tell or if you should tell anyone right away.  You can’t quite wrap your mind around this – it’s sort of surreal.  You know your life is going to change in indescribable ways, but you don’t know what they are.  You have no idea what your future life will look or feel like  But you know on a deep level that you are incredible lucky and blessed.  There are lots concerns to worry about, but for now, they’re not really on the radar.  There’ll be plenty of time to deal with them

 

So, that’s pretty much how I feel.  Of course, I’m scared of another loss.  How can I not be?  But I feel a sense of security in this pregnancy.  It feels like when I was pregnant with Sam.  I’m really tired and hungry a lot.  My feet are a little sore and I’m out of breath when I walk up stairs.  This all happened really early on with Sam, but not with the others.  What were all their uterine names?  Speck, Gumball…..hmmm…I can’t remember the last one.  It’ll come to me.  We’ve already named these two (just in case there ARE two, we don’t want one to feel left out) – They are Jake and Shmo.  I don’t know why.  It just happened that way.  Good luck Jake and Shmoe.  Burrow deep, my friends, and hang on tight.