The Follies: Purposefully Having Another Child Despite All Reasons to the Contrary

 elisesramblings.blogspot.com

We’re broke, like most of the 99% these days. We have a house we couldn’t sell before moving to California which we rented out until a sociopath squatted there for almost a year until we evicted her. That adventure drained our savings and left us borrowing money from family and living off of credit cards. Then no one would rent it once she was gone and the repairs had been done. We stopped paying the mortgage several months ago, choking on our Midwestern sense of duty, but unwilling to move back or borrow more money. Now we’re in the short sale process with the Bank of Darkness, also known as Wells Fargo. We go back and forth about whether to just move back. What’s right? What’s responsible? What’s best for our daughter? What feels best to our souls? Basically, it’s a dual between Midwestern practicality and California spiritual self-fulfillment. Someone other than me should write a dissertation on it.

Amidst all of this indecision and financial strain, we have been fighting, mostly about everything but sometimes about other stuff. We cry (mostly I cry), we harden in fear and anxiety, we vent our overwhelm on each other, and then remind ourselves we’re in this together and we’ll be okay. Up and down and back and forth, around and around we go. We break the cycle, and then more Wells Fargo bullshit rears up to clobber us with cloven hooves.

Then, in the eye of the storm emerges a question so asinine it is hard to believe: Should we have another baby? Folly! Madness! Outrage!

My spouse is ready. As with Baby, she believes things will fall into place and work out. It’s true—they did. We didn’t know how we would afford things and do it all, but we did. Because of my fibromyalgia and CFS, I feared my body would fail all of us. It hasn’t, though it’s been worn down. We’re not getting any younger. We want Baby to have a sibling with whom to complain about us and possibly share a therapist.

There are many “howevers,” however: first, we have no money, no space, no time, and little energy. Few emotional resources, little sex, lots of fights. Don’t even get me started about overpopulation and guilt about not adopting (which we definitely cannot afford). We have sperm on ice from the better days, having known we might want to try and wanting the same donor. Further down the wormhole is another ridiculous question: Do I want to have the baby this time? Another blog entirely.

The trump card is that there is never a good time to have a baby. Someone about to have his second child told me that when things are perfect, you don’t want to ruin them, and when things are hard, you don’t want them to get harder. It’s a bomb going off in your life no matter what.

So, if parts of our lives are already exploded and we’re sitting in the rubble of finances and stress, is it a good a time as any? Is it better to continue on with what we want despite our circumstances or is it better to accept life on its terms and say, “Uncle”?

First world problems for sure—we’re lucky to have a place to live, a healthy child, and a deep commitment to each other. We are grateful, and then we feel sorry for ourselves when the bills arrive. Breathe in, breathe out.

            

At some point, people make this decision. People as lower-middle class as we are. Do they just forget about the retching and heartburn? The constant painful fog of the first few months? Believe the money will work itself out?

           

 Maybe we should just stumble in to the clinic, poke around, and hope for “an accident” like our hetero friends have. Maybe I should quit my Hamlet-y whining and just get on board already.

Bill Cosby said this: “Having a child is surely the most beautifully irrational act that two people in love can commit.” So maybe we double-down on the irrational, hope for the beautiful, and hang on tight. And start selling plasma.

"The Terrible Twos" : Privatizing Personhood

"The terrible twos" isn't really much different than all other stages: the kid is going through something in order to become a funcitonal human and the parents have to deal with the fall-out without fucking it up too badly.

What is different is the strange melange of language, emotion, and emergent personality. Not only is Baby a little human with a will of her own, but she can think original thoughts and (mostly) express them. For instance, we were driving up the mountain through the trees and she said, "I want to live in the trees." At first I thought she meant we lived among the trees, but she was talking about living in them, monkey-style. That does not seem amazing in an of itself; the awesome part was the moment just before, as she gazed out the window up at the trees. She was thinking about it, perhaps picturing herself nestled in the leaves. Who knows? But that's the beauty: her brain was conjuring private, independent thoughts and then she decided to share them. All a far cry from pooping weird green stuff and staring off into space. Usually, Baby shares every single God-blessed thought that floats between her ears in a running monologue that would exhaust even the most experienced slam poet. When she runs dry of actual English (and Spanish) words, she fills in with nonsense chatter: "Go jo, ba pa, jo jo." Why she won't go to sleep at night after this daily performance is a total mystery. I'm exhausted just from listening. Maybe someday she'll deliver a historical filibuster that will change the course of history. Maybe she'll just talk on the phone a lot. Jo jo.

The emotional world of the two-something is also fascinating. While watching a seemingly harmless cartoon about a little girl who lives next door to a zoo and visits the animals at night, Baby had some sort of existential crisis. A hairy hippo had been ostracized by her peers and was wandering through various ecosystems trying to find a home. When the hippo got to the jungle, Baby asked in a choked voice, "Where the hippo?" We looked down and saw she was crying. I scrambled for the pause button and asked," What's wrong, honey?" She replied, "Nothing," ask she swiped a huge tear from her cheek. Nothing? Really? She is two and a half, for the love of Pete, not fifteen. We explained the plot and assured Baby that the hippo was fine and would go home. She wanted to keep watching and, despite my urge to march right down to Zoo Lane and kick some hippo arse, I thought it best that Baby get some closure so the story of the hairy hippo would not haunt her as a defining metaphor all her life long.

The hippo, of course, was welcomed back; the other hippos had missed her. My bullies never missed me, as far as I know, but I won't split hippo hairs. At the end, Baby seemed fine, her hippo-sized hole filled. But the whole thing crossed us over into a new wilderness of boundaries, separation, and personal process. She chose not to share something, this little girl who announces, "I love poo-poo!" after using the potty. It just about killed us.

On the up-side, however, she is learning love. Hopefully, she knew about it from before she was born in that deepest, marrow, mystery way, but she is learning to express it in a recognizable, self-generated way. She gives spontaneous hugs and kisses. Sometimes she says, "I love you" all on her own, like she knows what it means and is feeling it right then. And then I wonder, since people have been exploring the meaning of love through art and science for millenia, what is it exactly that she understands it to be? What is she feeling when she says it? Is it as bottomless and fierce as mine? As I put her in bed at night, I often say, "I love you as big and wide and deep and powerful as the ocean." There are a million other similes I could use, but that's what I feel in that moment. As we cross this bridge into a place where she can mostly express herself but can also keep secrets, I hold close those glowing, wonderful times where she surpasses the poets and scientists, holds my hand, looks up at me, and says, "I want to dream about you, Mommy."

DSM-IV: Toddlerhood

Let’s face it—toddlers are crazy. They exhibit behaviors that would get adults committed. The DSM-IV confirms that toddlers are certifiable.

Anxiety : “…inappropriate anxiety is when a person's heart races, breathing increases, and muscles tense without any reason for them to do so.  Once a medical cause is ruled out, an anxiety disorder may be the culprit.”

Example - My daughter freaks out when she realizes her stuffed cat, Tessie, in is her crib, a full room away, instead of in her arms. I remind her that the toy is, in fact, retrievable, but she repeatedly calls out (muscles tensing, heart presumably racing), “Tessie! Where Tessie???” 

OCD: “…persistent, often irrational, and seemingly uncontrollable thoughts and compulsions which are used to neutralize the obsessions”

Example – We must perform the same bedtime routine in the exact same way every night. It is entitled, “Baby Mine.” The ritual consists of my spouse and I holding Baby together, her head facing the crib, while we sing the song of the same name from Dumbo. It is an exercise in timing and precision, followed by meticulous choosing of the proper blankets for that night’s optimum slumbering. 

Eating Disorders: “Eating disorders are characterized by disturbances in eating behavior.  This can mean eating too much, not eating enough, or eating in an extremely unhealthy manner”

Example – One night my daughter might actually eat the healthy, well-balanced meal prepared for her. The next, she may only eat ketchup. 

Impulse Control Disorders: “Disorders in this category include the failure or extreme difficulty in controlling impulses despite the negative consequences.”

Example – Throwing a wooden train at someone’s head will result in a time out. Baby knows this. Yet, our caregiver may bear the scar of Thomas the Train forever.

Intermittent Explosive Disorder: “This disorder is characterized by frequent and often unpredictable episodes of extreme anger or physical outbursts. Between episodes, there is typically no evidence of violence or physical threat.”

Example – Baby is cute and sweet. She gives hugs and kisses, says “please” and “thank you,” and remembers who gave her certain gifts. Then, she punches my spouse in the open eye.

Mood Disorders: “The disorders in this category include those where the primary symptom is a disturbance in mood.  In other words, inappropriate, exaggerated, or limited range of feelings.”

Example – Baby would like to go outside naked in only her tap shoes. It is 50 degrees. I say no. Baby begins to cry, swipes everything off of the coffee table, and then runs through the house laughing and yelling, “Nakey! Nakey!”

Sleep Disorders: “Dyssomnias are those disorders relating to the amount, quality, and timing of sleep.  Parasomnias relate to abnormal behavior or physiological events that occur during the process of sleep or sleep-wake transitions.”

Example – Baby announces at 3A.M that she is awake and is wondering, “Santa doing?” Christmas was weeks ago. During “nap” time, I enter her room to find stuffed animals strewn everywhere and a motionless figure standing in the center of her crib silently under the sheet, ala The Blair Witch Project. During post-nap “transition,” Baby asks for water in the yellow cup. Once the cup is filled, Baby tearfully accuses, “I want milk in the straw cup! No water!” No want yellow cup!” I have become a beverage enemy, standing in the way of post-sleep hydration.

Psychotic Disorders: “The major symptom of these disorders is psychosis, or delusions and hallucinations.”

Example – Lately, Baby has begun to talk about her sister. She is an only child, thus far. We ask where her sister is, and she replies, “Out of the house.” Requests for more specific information result in this reply: “Blahdeblahblooblahbleebloobloopltthththth!!!!”

Antisocial Personality Disorder: “angry outbursts, failure to consider consequences of behaviors, irritability, and/or physical assaults…Finally, irresponsible behavior often accompanies this disorder as well as a lack of remorse for wrongdoings.”  

Example: See Exhibit A and B below. Photo A taken on Halloween as we smile and play. Photo B taken just after Baby bitch-slapped me.

Photo A

Photo B

Clearly, toddlers, and, therefore, humans, are inherently cuckoo. It is the parents’ job to suppress as much of the insanity as possible before sending their offspring out into the public. School then squashes whatever is left of the child’s spirit in its institutional vice-grip, which either finishes the job or makes us start over from the beginning.

So, buck-up moms and dads. You were right this whole time. Your baby is fucking crazy. It’s okay. We now follow in the time-honored traditions of spanking, banishing, smothering, or punishing the crazy right out of our kids to make them fit for society. Of course, along the way, we are free to plant our personal brand of Nutty McNutNut seeds in there, usually sprouted in us by our own parental units.

Some may argue that their behavior is simply a product of growth and development, and that these behaviors are developmentally appropriate. Yeah, I get it. But when my kid won’t clean up her toys and I tell her, “That makes me sad,” and then she hits me and smiles, I derive some cold, desperate comfort in knowing that she’s just categorically crazy until, somehow (for the love of all that’s sacred) I teach her not to be.

"Beware the Croup" and Other Wormholes

 1st-art-gallery.com

Baby has the croup, which one might think was trounced back in, say, 1818 or so. But, no--the croup is alive and well and seems to be taking one child after another in its clammy chokehold. Currently, Baby, who is almost two, sounds like a three-pack-a-day hamster. She can barely choke out a word. I've learned that the croup (which sounds eerily like The Boogeyman or some other freaky shit that lives under a bed) can shrink a baby's larynx and trachea, thus producing a sea lion cough and a squeaky, pained voice. Oh, one other thing: it mysteriously worsens at night. Suddenly, the child's lungs are flooded with thick mucous. No one knows why. I do. It's clearly the work of the devil, or some other evil force testing my sanity. And not just mine, oh smug non-parents or parents with older children who look on with that "been there, done that" expression. We're on the road driving people, we parents of children with The Croup. We are fixing your cars (rag left in engine), depositing your money (forgot a zero), and teaching your children (lost patience AND infected your child).

So, along with the croup and life's other recent hilarious misadventures, I've encountered some seriously surreal shit. Here's a short list of my favorites:

1. Baby can't breathe. Do I rush her to the hospital? No. Instead, I have a movie flashback to the scene in Terms of Endearment when parents are sitting in a steamy bathroom with a croup-y baby. I take her into the bathroom and turn on the hot water. 10 minutes later, she can breathe. Deborah Winger's memorable performance provided medical help to my child.

2. Allowing Baby to watch a little television while she's sick. Cartoon called Dinosaur Train. Already there are problems. Dinosaurs, on a train, you say? Can their tiny arms steer? How to they put the baggage up...well, it's a cartoon. But then, the dinosaurs are talking about going to find fossils. The dinosaurs are going to look for fossils. The conductor (a velociraptor?) is explaining what fossils are...to the child dinosaurs. It self-referential in the most terrifying of ways.

3. Eating dinner, trying to have a conversation with spouse while Baby squeaks pathetically. She asks us to play "Peek-a-Boo" so now it's like this:
Me: Covering face. "Should we open the zero percent account?"
Spouse: "Peek-a-boo!" Covering face. "Probably, if the interest rate doesn't shoot up."
Baby: "I have The Croup! I have The Croup!"
Okay, she didn't actually say that, but it's presence it palpable.

4. At work where I endeavor to teach the youth of America to read, write, and do arithmetic passably. Student walks in, "My grandfather just came back and he was bitten by fire ants." On so little sleep because of The Croup's nocturnal wonders, it took me several minutes to process this, only to find that there were just too many questions to ask and no energy to ask them.

5. Holding a sweaty, miserable Baby and looking down on her exhausted face and thinking, "Holy shit, I'm her mother." One part wonder, one part gratitude, one part terror, one part exhausted, needy little girl who wants a mommy to take over.

Basically, this shit's crazy, and it only gets crazier. I thought the mysterious vomiting period was bad! Actually, that might have been worse. Not sure. I am sure that you should beware of The Croup and all of its associates--typhoid and consumption. I am also sure that "this, too, shall pass" and all of that bullshit. Until then, you might find me sweating in the steamy bathroom, holding a squeaking toddler, and singing "Baby Beluga" just one...more...time.

Parent Politician

 

3riversepiscopal.blogspot.com

Much of my time as a parent is spent carefully crafting my next sentence for possible tantrum prevention. It goes something like this:

Baby, at 8:30 right before leaving for daycare: "Bubbles outside."

Pause, wait for "No," "Not right now," and "Are you kidding me with this?" to pass through me like dark clouds before opening my mouth. 

Me: "Sure. We can blow bubbles when we get home."

Baby, not fooled: "Bubbles outside!!!" Stomp, stomp.

Me: "We'll blow bubbles later. We are going outside right now. Do you think we'll see a doggie?"

Baby, turning head toward door: "Doggie. DOGGIE!!!"

Much like the American public, my daughter is not stupid, just easily distracted. Much like an American politician, I know how to spin, how not to answer questions directly, how to misdirect, and how to completely change the subject. 

For example, when Baby demands Puffs (essentially baby crack) in the car, and I foolishly do not have any because I was rushing out the door, but I do have some broken crackers packed as my own snack from two days ago, I might say, "Ooooo, look what I have...crackers! Yay!" Yes, I seriously might do this. It even occasionally works. Sometimes she'll even clap her hands, like she asked for them in the first place, like tax cuts for the rich. They're not good, but I make them sound pretty good, and sometimes that's all that's necessary.

As Americans wean themselves from credit cards, employment, and their own homes, we are trying to wean Baby from her night-night bottle. For two nights she didn't even ask for it, so we didn't offer it and gave her a cup of milk which she completely ignored. On the third night, the jig was up: "Bottle!" she cried, horrified and appalled, as I poured milk into a cup. So I brought both the bottle and cup into her room. The next step, according to websites and her doctor, might be to slowly snip the top off the nipple until it's almost like drinking from a cup. Slow, premeditated treachery. You and I both know that when that milk starts flowing out with nary a suck, she will look at me and wonder at the depth of my betrayal (we're looking at you, Greenspan and Madoff, et.al.). "What has happened?" her eyes will ask as milk runs down her chin. "What have you done?"

I believe in honesty. I do. But sometimes toddlers, much like Tom Cruise in A Few Good Men, cannot handle the truth. After Baby eats three pickles and asks for more, I might eat the last one just so I can honestly say they're "All gone." Am I as bad as the bankers and blustering politicos? Hard to say. Many parenting books back up my choices, but then again, many covert, international, conspiratorial organizations probably back up the bankers' choices. The biggest difference may be that, as Baby starts crying because I am limiting her sodium intake by restricting her pickle binge, I--the parent politician--simply say, "Let's blow bubbles outside!" and all is well. Unfortunately for them, the real politicians' bubbles keep bursting.

Foreign Exchange Student Announces "Toots" and Other Tales of Language Acquisition

“Utha Tessie,” says baby, now 18 months old. Then she bends over and farts. “Toots.”

Amazingly, I know what she’s talking about. “Yes, that’s our other kitty. And you tooted.”

Sometimes, I’m not so lucky:

“Mommy, agua no-no utha beeb.”

“What, honey?”

“No-no utha beeb. Agua.”

"Utha peeelow"

Rinse and repeat twice until my daughter is in tears because her dumbass mother can’t comprehend one Godforsaken sentence. At those moments, her need could not be greater. Clearly, whatever she is asking for would fulfill some basic need that is imperative to meet immediately. Then I figure out that she’s trying to tell me she shouldn’t spill water on her bib or we’ll have to get another one. 

Watching Baby learn to talk has been one of the most amazing parts of parenting thus far, and the weirdest. Suddenly, it seemed, this tiny alien was walking around my house, pointing at things and saying facsimiles of their names. Then she was stringing those things together to make original ideas that express needs, wants, and statements of fact: “Mommy bell”  = “Mommy has a belly.” Yes, yes I do.

Trying to communicate with her is what I imagine it might be like living with a foreign exchange student, albeit a really cute, whiny one with very shiny hair. You want to encourage the learning process and make the student feel comfortable, but sometimes, after a hard day, you just want to say, ‘What the fuck are you talking about? Can you just point to it? Christ!” 

Only, you can’t do that. Instead, you repeat whatever it is you think she’s saying. Over. And over. I think we get about 80% hits, but that other (“utha”) 20% exacts a few pounds of flesh. For instance, Baby wants a certain food. I think it’s blueberries, because yesterday she was saying “bluers” when she was eating them. I very confidently extract the blueberries from the refrigerator, expecting Baby’s slightly guttural “I am about to get what I want” laugh, but instead, I get the high-pitched whine. “No, no!” she says. No, no? What the fuck? “Blueberries,” I say. “No, no,” she says.

“What do you want, Baby?”

“Bluerberrs.”

“Yes, these?” I show her.

Insult to injury. “No, no!!!” She stomps away and collapses onto the carpet. She throws very sensible tantrums.

“Use your words,” I say. What? I think. She is using her words, dumbass.

“Bluerberrs. Bluerberrs.” In a final desperate attempt, she tugs at the refrigerator door handle. I open it. She points to the strawberries.

Son of a bitch. Really? “Oh, strawberries,” I say, “Strawberries.”

“Strberrs,” she says.

I went to Germany when I was in high school, and I remember having to order food at the deli counter for lunch. My Deutsch was pretty good, but one day I got something wrong and watched in horror and confusion as the deli man grabbed a wurst that was not the wurst I wanted. It was far too pale and utterly wrong, but I didn’t have the words (other than, “Nein, nein!”)  to tell him. I politely took my disgusting meat and left; however, if I were 18 months  old or an 80s hair band star, I might pitch a pretty good fit until I got what I wanted, too.

On those days when we have string after string of misunderstandings and she’s started to give up on me and ask for “Utha Mommy,” I can only try to redeem myself.

“Purple posa on, no dojees night-night.”

“You want your purple butterfly pajamas, not the doggy ones?”

Gutteral laugh. Redemption.

“Chaya Mommy moh bok night-night.”

Oh shit.

Tyrant Tantrums

napoleanguide.com

Napoleon used to throw his shoes and stomp on his hat when things didn’t go his way. He was short and in charge, much like my toddler. 

Well, she’s not officially in charge. But that’s how tyrants work their magic. They let someone else think he’s in charge and then attempt to overthrow the existing powers that be. 

Napoleon decided that he would try to take over most of Europe. Baby decided she wanted to play with the clicker torch thing—the device I use to light candles. Being safely ensconced in the role of Queen Mother, I felt completely righteous in saying a firm, “No, that’s for Mommy.” 

Here’s where it gets interesting. Baby expresses her disdain and disapproval of my response as utter devastation. She arches her back in fury, then falls to the ground in apoplectic rage. “Down,” she yells, emphasizing that I have brought her low with my cruel and oppressive rule. Her hitching breaths belie somatic torment brought on by my blind denial. 

Though I never give in to these tantrums, I can’t say I am unaffected. I crouch near her and speak to her calmly as her kicking subsides (Baby enjoys a classic scream-and-kick-the-floor tantrum), and then the storm is over. However, it is more than likely that the next item she requests is a knife, or a bottle of medicine, as if she senses poison and lethal sharpness in some special toddler-specific brain part. The “totler tantrumic cortex,” perhaps.

So then there’s another. And another. Napoleon invades Russia. Then Leipzig. The going gets tough.

After the third or fourth flail, I feel myself lose that calm equilibrium and I’m suddenly wondering “Who’s the boss?” and not in an 80s sitcom way. The tantrum tirade takes over. There is no washing dishes, doing laundry, or engaging in meaningful play with my glorious daughter as she has been taken over by a need to do and have every single thing she cannot do and have. Distract? Oh, yes, I try. Remove from circumstance? Um, yeah. But you parents know what I’m talking about here. Sometimes a tyrant is hell-bent on a bender and there ain’t no escape for either of you.

Yes, I am sure that Napoleon looked just about as funny as Baby as he worked his diminutive self into a snit, but there is also the exasperating, heartbreaking plop of fat tears, and the increasingly exhausted wails. She wants what she can’t have, just like Napoleon, and who likes that? She’s only been here 17 months after all, so the concept of the clicky fire-starting thing is a little beyond her (as it is, clearly, for me).

During these years of emotional turbulence that give way into…more emotional years of turbulence, just with more vocabulary, I intend to hold the hard line when necessary and compromise when I can. I intend to be a benevolent Queen Mother who recognizes the plight of her people and knows a coup before it comes. I intend that even the longest string of tyrant tantrums will not—for Baby or me-- be our Waterloo.