Day Ten Update

Maddie is on the planet! And things are very good around here. She eats and sleeps, and if she cries, she's either hungry or she's about to do an explosive poop, both of which can be easily remedied. In fact, Maddie has been the easiest part of the last ten days.

I am thrilled not to be pregnant anymore; as Mother Load readers know, I was ready for my delicate condition to end about two months before it did. The labor itself was as good as it can get, really. I was in early labor when I arrived at the hospital on Friday morning- enough that I could read the paper in between contractions. But, being eight days late, they took pity on me and admitted me anyway. We started the Pitocin drip at 8:30 am, and by 12:30 pm, an APB was put out for my OB so our baby could be born. (He had predicted a 3 pm birth, and was not in the hospital.) Once the good doctor arrived, Maddie arrived within ten minutes, and was exercising her lungs before her shoulders were even out.

So far, so good. But in the adrenaline-fueled euphoria that follows a birth, I always lose sight of the fact that I may have left the Pregnancy Frying Pan, but am about to land in the Post-Partum Fire. The swelling! The stitches! The ice packs! The cabbage! (If you're thinking, "Huh? Cabbage?" count yourself among the blissfully ignorant and ask no questions.) For about ten days now, I've sprinted about the house for a few hours, doing laundry and cooking and saying, "What? I'm fine! No I don't need to sit down!" Then, I feel like a train has hit me, and I need to lie down, and that's right about when the boys get home from preschool.

The boys, you ask. How are they adjusting? Well, well. They were so thrilled to welcome Maddie home that they started vomiting and diarrhea-ing all over the apartment before she and I even got home from the hospital. So far, Maddie has slept peacefully in a baby carrier, or in Nana's arms, while I try to tend to the insatiable needs of two sick little boys. The bug seems to have passed over our home at last, and now the hardest part is keeping Maddie away from her brothers' MRSA-ridden kisses and dirty hands.

Did I say two sick little boys? Sorry. I meant three. David came home last Thursday night and, when I asked him what he wanted to do about dinner, said, "Huh. I'm not hungry." Now, anyone who knows David knows that these words have never come out of his mouth before. Before we went to the hospital last Friday morning, he had a protein shake and a bagel with tofutti spread. Once we got there, he had a Power Bar, and he left me to go get himself a turkey burger at 10:30 am. David's metabolism is so high he needs to eat approximately every 17 minutes merely to avoid wasting away to nothing. So when he said he "wasn't hungry," I said, "Do. Not. Do this to me."

Poor Daddy's stomach cramps started that night, and we slept in separate rooms so at least we'd each be up all night for different reasons. He didn't get out of bed at all the next day, except to plod to the refrigerator for more Gatorade. And while he was not able to be much help, I will say, he suffered a terrible 24 hours without so much as a kind glance from his formerly loving wife. That's the breaks when you have 3 kids.

I am being summoned by La Principessa from the next room. Lunch time!

It's a GIRL!

Mairead Catherine Wilson Flaherty, aka "Maddie," was born last Friday, October 19th, at 1:15 pm, after a short and easy (relatively speaking) labor. The shocker was, it's a girl; the even bigger shocker was that she was eight days late and weighed over a pound less than her brothers, a featherweight at 7 lb 3 oz.

We are all doing great so far! More soon!

Book Traps. Wow. GENIUS.

I'm really digging daddytypes.com, there's always interesting stuff to be found on there. And one of this week's entries was pure genius: from a blog named "Recovergirl," a parenting tip called Book Traps.

Here's what you do. You lay out an enticing book or two in a spot where your children will happen upon them, and see what happens. If you have more than one child, set multiple book traps. According to Recovergirl, your child will happen upon the trap and happily sit down to read, and it works every time.

Even better? Unscheduled naps may occur.

Recovergirl has expanded the "book trap" concept to "game traps," and will lay a game out on the floor in another room whenever she needs 10 minutes to herself. (She says she uses this time to clean her children's room. I say, you're a better mom than I am, Gunga Recovergirl.)

I have not actually tried this idea yet but I think it is so brilliant that I can't wait for the boys to get home. I'm hoping it will help with those half-hour nursing sessions that are in my very near future.

If anyone else gives it a try, let me know how it works for you!

Baby, you are officially on notice

OK here's the deal: Baby, if you have not arrived by this Friday morning, we're going in after you.

My OB suggested this to me today, very gently, and then said "I know you're going to say, oh please can't you just leave me alone--"

"Stop right there," I interrupted. "You had me at 'Friday morning.'"

Watch this space for further updates. I'm not kidding, Baby. We can do this the hard way, or the even harder way. But you're comin' out.

note to phone: please stop

No, there is no baby yet.

No, I really don't want to talk about your utter exasperation and disbelief that I am still pregnant.

Yes, I am past my due date at this point.

No, there's nothing wrong with that, as long as nobody is giving me a hard time about it.

Yes, I feel fine.

Yes, you will be the first to know when something happens.

Until then, I'm not picking you up. Love, Me

OK, it's my fault, but it's not my fault

 

Finally, a scientific study we moms can applaud, because it tells us something we actually didn't know already, and even gives us a break in the process.

According to this week's New York Times, if your child is a Picky Eater, They Get It From You. But not because, as non-parent parenting experts like Rachael Ray have said, you just didn't work hard enough to vary their diet-- but because children can inherit "neophobic" food genes from their parents. It's nature, not nurture.

I breathed a huge sigh of relief upon reading this, since it vindicates me and what I have been saying to snide "you just have to let them go hungry, they'll eat eventually" sanctimommies for a few years now.

My older son suffers from what Kim Severson's article calls "childhood neophobia." For those unfamiliar with this syndrome's symptoms, it manifests itself as a basic inability to eat much besides PB&J, chicken nuggets, and pizza.

My younger son, on the other hand, is a Hoover like his father, and will suck up absolutely anything in the refrigerator, including stuff even I wouldn't dream of eating: unseasoned egg whites, day-old swordfish, olive tapenade. He opens his mouth, chews, and THEN says "What this?" If anyone is a freak of nature, it's him.

I swear that I have really done nothing to create this difference between my two children. I do make sure to give my younger son a variety of foods, so that he won't shut down like his brother. But when I put a spoonful of pad thai, or whatever, on my older son's plate, I watch him gag at the sight of it touching his penne pasta. (That's penne only. Not mezze rigatoni, not other tubular pasta, just penne.)

Now, one reason to seek out this article, if you have a picky eater like me, is to feel a little better about your kid's place on the spectrum. My son will eat a variety of fruits and vegetables, white beans, edamame, stuff like that. One of the kids profiled in the New York Times has self-limited her diet to egg noodles and pizza crust without toppings. So I'd like to thank her for making my son look like the Galloping Gourmet by comparison.

I have always rankled at the smug parents who suggest that my son's eating habits could be easily solved by not catering to them. "Let him go hungry and he'd eat," they say. "MY daughter Clementine has been eating sushi since she was 14 months old." Believe me, I've tried the "eat this, or nothing" technique, and often, still do. But he doesn't eat. At all. Until his lowered blood sugar creates a tyrant that you can't live with. He would truly rather starve than let meatloaf pass his lips.

Now, armed with the evidence of my younger son's robust eating habits, and this new study, at least I can accept that it's not my fault. Well, kind of my fault. I actually wasn't a particularly picky eater as a child, but my youngest brother was, and he still prefers everything he eats to go from freezer to microwave to table, encased in a succulent pastry shell. So I think my son can really thank/blame his Uncle Mike for the taste buds he has.

Which doesn't mean that I'm giving up. We have two months until my son's 5th birthday, at which point, we have been brainwashing him, his tongue will magically change overnight and he will like lots of foods he never liked before. This morning, while my younger son and his daddy were scarfing down egg whites, my picky son said, "We don't like egg whites, right Mommy?" I had to agree. He thought this over for a moment. "But when I wake up and I'm five," he said, "I will put one little bit on my tongue."

oh no, you're still here?

It's official. I have been pregnant for an Ice Age.

This baby will NEVER COME.

Never mind that my actual due date is still 6 days away. My OB told me two weeks ago that I was probably going to be early with this one--and I, fool that I am, believed him.

Now I am 39+ weeks pregnant, having Braxton Hicks contractions about 95% of my waking hours, but when I go to my OB he tells me I'm "maybe a fingertip dilated," which we all know means, nothing is happening. And everyone, including me, thinks that I should have had this baby long ago. I mean, I've nesting-instincted my way through every closet and junk drawer we have. What is this baby waiting for?

The worst part of it isn't my own impatience. Or even that my friend three blocks away, due a week after me, had her baby two days ago. It's that I am now disappointing people, everywhere I go, just by showing up. It's like being Norm and walking into the bar on Cheers, only I make everyone really depressed.

"Ammmmyyyyy!" my apartment building's doorman, super, and elevator operator chime in unison every time I get off the elevator. "Still waiting?"

"Oh no!" the moms and dads say at nursery school dropoff. "You're still here? What is going ON?"

None of this is really helping. You think YOU'RE frustrated that I'm still pregnant? I think. Try being in here with both of us.

Yes, I've tried walking. Spicy foods. Red raspberry leaf tea. I went for a prenatal massage and, for the full hour, the therapist pretty much only touched the pressure points that can trigger labor. If you've heard of the method, I've tried it, trust me.

So it's fine. I've made my peace with it: no baby, ever. I'm going to walk around with a bowling ball belly that sags to my knees for the rest of my life. Honestly, that's starting to sound better than the eleven-pounder that will descend through my birth canal if I ever do deliver.

Note to self: someday, when I'm talking to a woman who I thought was supposed to deliver weeks ago, I'm going to SAY NOTHING. Not even mention it. Or, if I forget... duck.

is a "mom job" right for you?

The New York Times has hit a nerve this week with their article Is the 'Mom Job' Really Necessary? At first I thought I was going to be pissed off because it was going to say that being a mom, as your job, was not "necessary" to society. But, hold on, it's worse than that.

This article asks, is post-partum plastic surgery, to correct sagging breasts, stomachs, and thighs, REALLY necessary? Well, what the hell kind of question is that? Of COURSE it's not necessary. A "muffin top" is not a burst appendix; it's not even a potentially impacted wisdom tooth. Cosmetic plastic surgery is never "necessary." But that's not the message that we mothers are receiving these days.

"Narrowing beauty norms are recasting the transformations of motherhood as stigma," author Natasha Singer warns, and she does hit the nail on the head there. I think that our mothers didn't worry about saggy breasts or stomachs after they had had children. Maybe they wished they weren't there, but they would never have deemed it "necessary" to change them. They were simply what a mother's body looked like. You weren't supposed to wear bikinis when you were pushing 40, anyhow.

Now, in addition to having perfect children, we are supposed to have perfect, barely pubescent-looking bodies that bear no signs of having borne children whatsoever. If Denise Richards can pose for Playboy ten minutes after having her second child, then what are you doing wearing that Land's End one-piece?

Singer does give plenty of ink to saner voices who argue that this pathologization of women's bodies is way out of hand, and even dangerous. And maybe she didn't write the title of her own article. But I found it offensive that there was any suggestion that such surgeries could ever be "necessary." And the New York Times has now given lots of free ink to sites like amommymakeover.com, which is only too happy to point out all the things that are wrong with you once you "lose your hourglass figure." Come on, let's all take amommymakeover.com's Mommy Quiz:


Take Our Mommy Quiz

How many times have you wondered if cosmetic surgery could improve your appearance and outlook? Now its easier than ever to find out. Just answer a few short questions and we'll give you some helpful tips on how to look your best.

Which area of your body has changed most since childbirth?
My thighs and hips are heavier than they used to be.
My stomach looks stretched out and flabby.
My breasts don't look like they used to.
My face is really starting to show my age.

Specifically, what concerns you about your thigh and hip area?
Those notorious "saddlebags" just won't go away.
I feel like cellulite is popping up everywhere.
I have uncomfortable chafing between my thighs.

What would you say about your abdominal area?
I've given up trying to slim my tummy.
I exercise and eat right, but my stomach just doesn't look good.
My stomach is pretty flat, but I'm embarrassed by stretch marks.

Which of these statements do you most agree with?
My breasts are stretched and sagging.
I wish my breasts could look perky again.
I miss the larger breasts I enjoyed during pregnancy.

When you look at your face in the mirror, what would you most like to change?
My eyes look tired and make me appear old.
My face and neck skin is beginning to sag.
I have wrinkles and unwanted facial hair.
I have breakouts or other skin imperfections.

What other area would you say could use some attention?

My thighs and hips

My stomach

My breasts

My face

That's it! Hit the 'submit' button to find out what Mommy Makeover procedures would be right for you.

Notice, there's no option to say, actually, my face looks fine. My stomach looks like I've had three children, and who cares? And at every turn, you're invited to click on what ELSE, what IN ADDITION, has been horribly disfigured by the ravages of pregnancy and childbirth.

I think mothers have to take a stand here. Our breasts, stomachs, thighs, and faces aren't bad. Aren't ugly. They are badges we should wear proudly. If men were the ones to go through having children, they'd walk around with their shirts hiked up to proudly display their stretch marks and muffin tops at all times. The worse their bodies looked, the more they would be revered by their peers. Look what I have endured, they would say. I am man, hear me roar. Why can't we do the same?

they could have just asked a mom, part two

This week, a thunderous news flash from livescience.com:

Older Brothers Fuel Aggression in Siblings.

Yes, "children who have older brothers tend to be more aggressive than children with older sisters." Shocked? Wait until you hear this:

Older siblings who were aggressive tended to have younger siblings who were also aggressive.

Scientists at UC Davis looked at 451 pairs of siblings to figure this out. Again, I ask: couldn't they have spent that time, that money, that modern science know-how, curing cancer? Or figuring out where the missing socks in the dryer go?

I couldn't even write this blog post without stopping three times to separate my fresh-from-preschool gladiators. And the aggressor was... wait for it... the older one. He is now sitting calmly (albeit on his brother's bed, which probably counts as a passive-aggressive act) leafing through one of his Ranger Rick magazines, while I ply the younger one with plums and animal crackers in the kitchen. Actually, scratch that- each of them have come in separately during this very sentence to lure me away from the computer. "Why aren't you reading me a story?" the older one demands. "I want to be on your lap," my younger lad pleads, which is ludicrous, considering I am 39 weeks pregnant. I have now shooed them out of the office and have about 30 seconds to type before one of them draws blood.

This study was funded by the National Institute of Child Health and Human Development, the National Institute on Drug Abuse, and the National Institute of Mental Health. I can only assume there's not a mom in the funds-apportionment bunch. Or at least, not one whose oldest child is a boy.

um, this isn't so funny anymore

The world wide web is abuzz tonight with the news that Britney Spears has lost custody of her two little boys.
This is making me feel so very sad (for the kids) and so guilty, for enjoying her very public meltdowns over the last couple of years. I loved "Britney's Top 20 Meltdowns" on VH1, or whatever it was called, as much as anyone else. And yet I sort of forgot that the forgotten lyrics, the shaved head, the panty-less outings, were all signs of something much darker:

Los Angeles Superior Court judge Scott Gordon said that according to evidence presented in closed door hearings, Spears was a "habitual, frequent, and continuous" user of "controlled substances and alcohol."

I read this and thought, RIGHT. We all kind of lost sight of that: Britney is an alcoholic. A drug abuser. There's even been speculation that there's something seriously WRONG with her, mentally.

And now she can't be with her two little boys. Which is probably the best for them. I just wonder, who is going to love them? Who will tuck them in every night? How many different nannies do you think they have had so far? And what are we going to be reading about them in 16 years or so?