What, Me Worry?

A friend of mine told me, in response to yet another far-fetched concern of mine, that the worries of pregnancy are just a prep course for the lifetime of worry inherent to having a child.  Darn her for being right!  Always striving for excellence in my undertakings, I believe I have taken the art of worry to an entirely new level.  For example, rather than just reading the current literature on the vaccine debate, I have created an Excel spreadsheet to calculate her risk for contracting each of the childhood diseases versus the risk of an adverse vaccine reaction for each disease.  That way I'm not needlessly worrying, it is a calculated concern. Yep, that makes me feel sane and even justified.

But worry is a circular thing, feeding on itself like a tribe of cannibals.  I find myself hovering over her sleeping form in the crib worrying that she's not breathing.  Just to be sure, I eventually place my hand on her chest.  I think I feel her chest rising...maybe I'll just touch her hand to make sure she responds.  Oh, yes.  She's responding.  At 136 decibels, she is definitely responding.  Guess her hands are responsive too as she balls them into fists and shakes them in protest.  But now I'm worried that she won't get back to sleep; and didn't I just read an article about sleep deprivation in babies and the development of ADHD?  See what I mean?  It's a vicious cycle.

And, always the planner, I have begun to pre-worry.  A friend of ours kindly brought us a collection of back issues of the now out-of-print, "Daughters Magazine" which is an excellent resource for the many issues which plague teenaged girls.  They will undoubtedly prove to be invaluable in helping us sort out Izzy's adolescent angst and avoid parental blunders once she enters those awkward years.  In the meantime, why procrastinate?  I can worry now! I'm concerned about her not-yet-existent eating disorder, the carpel tunnel syndrome from the computer use she has not yet experienced, and the incessant and possibly inappropriate texting that she may eventually exhibit.  And that's after reading only the first issue.  Next month addresses coed sleepovers and provocative clothing.  

One of my major sources of anxiety is the fact that babies are especially astute at picking up nuances of emotion.  So what is all of this worry doing to her delicate psyche?  My overwhelming concerns that she may one day run with scissors or become a fanatical nail-biter may in fact contribute to the very behaviors I'm trying to avoid.  And trying not to worry is like trying not to picture a pink elephant with black glasses.  Ha!  You can't do it, can you?  (Part of that may be the picture I have so conveniently placed next to the text in a subliminal gesture to make my point.)

So far, despite my anxiety, I have avoided being labeled as Munchausen by proxy by our pediatrician.  The concerns that I have aired at her doctor's appointments have thus far fallen into the realm of normal.  But I also haven't mentioned my observation that her pinkie toe is longer than her other toes, the unusual width of her tongue, the irregular shape of her belly button, or the asymmetry of her ears.  Perhaps I'll mention only one of these at each of her next vaccine appointments. (You know, spread out and mask the psychotic behavior.)   Speaking of vaccines, and in case you're wondering, by my calculations she has a 1 in 600 chance of contracting one of the vaccine-preventable childhood illnesses, and an overall 1 in 2500 chance of having a serious vaccine reaction.  Divided by each of the 13 vaccine appointments, this equates to just under a 1 in 200 chance of problems at each visit.  But who's counting...

Good thing we didn't see this first...

A Piece of Work

Well, the time has come; both sanity and funds have run low and I'm heading back to the work force.  I have enjoyed the good fortune of an extended maternity leave, due in part to a lull in business at my place of employment (thank you, federal government for your timely mishandling of our fragile economy!), partially due to Izzy's initial prematurity, and mostly due to my just wanting to cling to 12 pounds of beloved offspring for dear life! 

I am terrified of walking out of the front door for 8 hours while someone less adept at deciphering Izzy's nuances takes over the helm.  I am almost equally concerned that Melanie won't come out of her coma and that Sammi will never find out that E.J. has kidnapped her baby.  That's right - I've become addicted to daytime tv during my stint as a stay-at-home mom.  Gone is the gal who hustled to work whistling 9 to 5 under her breath donning a pressed pair of scrubs and ready to take on the veterinary world at large.  Now it's pajamas until noon, a splattering of spit-up on my shoulder, and intoning with zombie-like fervor, "Like sands through the hourglass, so are the Days of our Lives..."

But all good things must come to an end.  And there are furry critters out there who need me, right?  Instead of creeping into Izzy's baby-powder-scented sleep space in an attempt to cut her miniscule (but deceptively sharp) fingernails, I will return to wrestling bent-on-destruction rottweilers for an action-packed mani/pedi. And Pampers, who needs them?  I'll spend my days with latexed fingers probing the north end of many a south-bound animal to retrieve lost items, take samples, empty glands, and just really tick off a variety of pampered pets. 

There are many more similarities between infant care and veterinary work than might be evident to the casual observer.  Prior to motherhood, I stared in disbelief when a client would march in toting their balding, farty, toothless poodle, plant a lipsticked kiss on their wart-infested skin (smelling faintly of old lady perfume) and claim to love this creature more than life itself.  But now I think I can relate; after all, my mostly bald, frequently farting and still toothless Izzy tugs on my heartstrings in ways I never imagined possible.  And I will admit to a previously low tolerance threshold for the jewel-encrusted dog carrier which typically housed a  ferocious chihuahua dressed in a pink boa accenting a sequined hoodie.  But I can no longer throw stones as I obsessively match pink bows and ruffles from head to toe on poor, hapless Izzy. 

I really do think that the baby experience will make me a kinder, more empathetic veterinarian (although my frequent calls home might make me a less-than-desirable employee).   I am going to strive for balance between these two job descriptions.  I have pledged to myself that I will not fret about Izzy while listening to a client describe, in agonizing detail, the shape and color of her cat's hairballs.  Conversely, I will attempt not to worry about the outcome of the tennis ball swallowed by an intellectually-challenged Golden Retriever while Isabel is urgently and persistently telling me something that sounds like, "Aflac, gurgle gurgle, Oh boy" (her favorite phrase to date). 

It is an impossible and age-old dilemma:  we fickle humans always want to be where we aren't.  And I know that there will be times while I am cuddling Izzy that I will be thinking about squeezing a kitty tumor or dissecting a ruptured spleen.  It's human nature - or maybe I'm a genuine freak show.  Either way, I will charge ahead ready to continue my work life as if nothing has changed when, in reality, everything has. 

I've Got the Music in Me

It is a universal truth:  every expectant parent, within minutes of the positive pregnancy test (and after the smelling salts have kicked in) start imagining the accomplishments their little embryo will someday achieve.  As those first tentative fetal flutters progress to relentless kicking, the hopeful parents anticipate the Heiseman trophy with their progeny's name on it.  When the ultrasound technician informs them that those three little lines on the screen mysteriously translates into, "It's a Girl!", the Heiseman trophy dream evaporates only to be replaced with some equally-unattainable-but-gender-specific bragging right. 

In my case, I started searching for subtle hints from inside my belly that she had somehow inherited the prodigious talents of Yo Yo Ma, Mozart, and Carrie Underwood all rolled into one.  In other words, I was hoping that she didn't get the Grandpa Goodman gene that has left him hopelessly tone deaf and with the inability to carry a tune in a bucket (sorry, Dad). While I was pregnant, I sang to her in the shower, car, and while shopping to encourage her musical development. Her Daddy even sang soulfully to her the Paul Robeson version of "Lullaby" in his rich baritone while she was parked in the NICU.  And as a final bid for her musical development, while walking in the metropark, I had the inspired idea to put one earphone in my belly button (I retained my innie) and the other in my ear so we could share my musical selections as we enjoyed some hands-free exercise. Bet you'll never ask to share my IPod.  But I digress.

But what if she doesn't share my love affair with music?  It has always been a large piece of who I am - whether live or recorded, hummed or strummed -I can't imagine an existence that doesn't have a stream of music running through it.  But an almost worse thought: what if she does love music, but her tastes are so contrary to mine that we can't stand to be holed up in the same house with each other's CD's?  Think about it - Lady Gaga is most likely someone's daughter (although it is possible that she was created in a laboratory from some very life-like silicone - I mean, really...Mother Nature does not grow hair like that).  And does Lady Gaga bond with her mom over lyrics like, "I want your ugly, I want your disease....?"  I'm a bit skeptical.    Another example is the life and music of Ozzy Osbourne, but that's a whole 'nother blog.

Well, I guess I won't worry yet.  Hopefully we will be able to share the passion and language of music.  And it is likely that she will develop a talent or interest that I can't even fathom yet.  Who knows, she might want to collect umbrellas or carve wooden shoes; it's all still in front of her.  One thing I know for sure is that whether she decides to become President of the United States or President of the PTA, I will be a fan.  And so that I still stand a chance for the feeling to be mutual, maybe I won't tell her about the whole earphone in the belly-button thing.  

Dream Big, Izzy!

Time in a Bottle

Over the past year, my mind has loitered around the subject of time like a buzzard circling fresh road kill. Looking at the big picture, I have felt the passage of time in terms of what I am no longer likely to accomplish.  For instance, I am no longer eligible to compete for a spot on American Idol due to my advanced age (well, my singing voice might be a contributing factor).  And it is highly improbable at this point that I will qualify for the Olympics due to my current state of antiquity and delapidation (and lack of a sport, fitness, or a sponsor). 

On a smaller scale, time has lately been compressed and then doled out in baby-sized increments.  Nearly 9 months of pregnancy was sweated out in tiny, week-to-week achievements. I read every book and website that described what to expect at each moment of incubation.   Gradually, as I tracked Izzy's progress, the excitement of her graduating from the size of a flax seed to a kidney bean and beyond gave way to the thrill of her first kicks which occurred right on time at 17 weeks.  Once she emerged on the other side of my protruding abdomen, time was measured on another scale:  12-hour NICU nursing shifts, 9 a.m. doctor's rounds, and the daily run between hospital and home. 

Now that Isabel is home and we have established about as much routine as possible in the insanity that we are loosely calling life with our new baby, time is measured by yet another formula.  We live in the small windows of time that open briefly between feedings, diaper changes, wardrobe malfunctions (usually in the form of The Little Diaper That Couldn't), rubber-ducky time, and my personal favorite, cuddle time. 

The large blocks of time we once reserved for luxuries such as using the bathroom, showering, and changing the litter box are things of the past.  And of course, we've come to realize that sleeping is for sissies. To think we once felt the need to slumber for more than four hours at a stretch seems almost decadent.  With the amount of time we save by truncating our sleep, as well as the absolute neglect of personal hygiene and housekeeping, one would think that the days would just yawn, stretch, and drift slowly by.  But to our amazement, entire days and weeks zip by in a blur of milestones reached and baby clothes outgrown.  By contrast, when functioning (or not) on 2 hours of sleep, the emptying of a 4-oz bottle of milk can seem as long and painful as the Clinton years. 

These comments about time are not a revelation; everyone knows that an hour spent reading a novel does not equal an hour rocking your colicky baby no matter what the clock face tells you.  Time is most definitely a relative dimension.  As a friend of ours likes to say, "Life is like a roll of toilet paper - it goes faster as you get towards the end."  And while most people will agree with that profound statement, the following anonymous (and much sappier) quote comes closer to describing the effects of a new baby on our perception of time and all the ways we spend it:

A baby will make love stronger, days shorter, nights longer, bankrolls smaller, homes happier, clothes shabbier, the past forgotten, and the future worth living for.

Feeling Listless

When my husband and I were first dating and started revealing to each other the innermost workings of our minds, I confessed to him that I make lists. Not just your ordinary lists such as shopping, to-do, or books to read this summer. No, I make Lists, with a capital L. With “pro” and “con” columns and an objective numerical ranking system, these psychotic masterpieces allow me to function in a world where indecision and forgetfulness are lurking everywhere.

What this obsessive list-making reveals about me is a need to control things before they occur; I like to get all of my ducks in a row so that I can predictably control outcome. And perhaps I am delusional, but I think I was doing a commendable job. Then into my neat and orderly world entered a baby girl. Control and order exit stage left. While I am still able to rule my immediate environment with an iron fist (evidenced by the alphabetized baby products in Izzy’s changing table), I am suddenly helpless as a fish on land when it comes to the present and future actions of this new child of mine.

My mind is consumed by the disconcerting concept that she might not follow a predictable or controllable (by me)course – from potty-training to choice of her future marriage partner, I cannot reliably prioritize and manage her choices! I urgently realize that I must arm her with all of the knowledge I have accumulated in the four decades of my trial-and-error living. This is the only shot I have of avoiding chaos and anarchy.

As soon as she has mastered some rudimentary conversational skills, we must discuss, in no particular order: the power of tequila, the longevity of tattoos, credit card use, the futility of lying to authority figures, keeping the gas gauge above ¼ tank, and boys who drive vans. Not to overwhelm her with my vast knowledge in one sitting, another session will be in order which covers body image, the use of the word “Love” (use it often when you mean it and be skeptical when it is spoken by boys who drive vans), and the evils of tanning. But wait, there’s more..! I envision many long-winded sessions during which I explain my experiences with the world at large.

Oh, boy. I’ve got some shplainin’ to do. An insurmountable amount. I can probably detail to her all of my failures, successes, and observations and it won’t amount to a hill of beans . I get that. She has to make her own way and I will have to lead by example; show her not just by my words but also actions the kind of person I hope she’ll become. For example, with my experience to guide her, when she encounters the opportunity to replace her band camp roommate’s shampoo with Nair, she might pass (that one really backfired.) Conversely, over the course of my life I have faced my fears and acted in ways that, with a little embellishment, I can be proud of and may actually be a source of inspiration for her.

I guess the next list I need to make will be titled, “Jen’s Not-To-Do List” and will start with the entry: Underestimate the power of a parent’s example.

Nothing New Under the Sun

No sane person is alone in worrying that they are indeed becoming their parents.  Prior to having a kid, this particular piece of truth was whispered only in the dark recesses of my mind.  But now, it is out in the open screaming louder than a cat walking across a lit 4-burner stove. It hit me at 3 a.m. this morning as I attempted to calm Izzy with the most famous line from the universal parent playbook: "This hurts me more than it hurts you."  This was in reference to the blue bulb syringe I was using to vigorously suck snot from her poor little rudolph nose.  As I uttered this pronouncement, it conjured images from my own childhood:  toddler-me in the doctor's office getting a shot from the world's biggest needle; tearful-and-contrite-me receiving a multitude of well-deserved spankings for my latest transgression; and tomboy-me having a Louisville Slugger splinter extracted painfully from my throbbing finger.  And, in tandem with these images, my parents droning this same unbelievable phrase:  "This hurts me more than it hurts you." 

But now I am a believer.  The sound of her pitiful cry was viscerally painful to me, the bearer of the syringe. It really did hurt me worse than her!  But then I had an epiphany...if I'm going to embrace the "hurts me more" mantra, then what about all of the other parental treasures?  Am I expected to say, "One of these days, you'll thank me" with a straight face?  Or how about, "If all of your friends jump off a bridge, will you?"  And in the acerbic category: "Do you want me to give you a reason to cry?"; or "If I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times!" and, or course, "Do you think money grows on trees?"

I don't really have a conclusion about my recent verbal vomit; I'm just waiting to see which archaic phrases from my childhood surface and trip off my tongue as Izzy grows.  Am I doomed to admonish my child with, "Close that door...were you raised in a barn?!"

Thanks for listening to my rantings.  And you'd better get back from that computer or you'll ruin your eyes. 

Running Amok

Since well-meaning friends who remember Jen, B.C. (Before Child), and the associated running obsession, have inquired tentatively if I've been "getting out", I thought I would dedicate today's thoughts once again to the subject of running.  They ask kindly in the tones reserved for the recently rehabbed alcoholic; as if bringing up the subject conversationally is somehow crass or insensitive and may propel me into the fetal position clutching my running shoes to my chest.  It is true that I miss the old running me with an odd brand of intensity.  Gone are the carefree days of flouncing out the door at the drop of a hat to run whatever distance my legs are willing to carry me.  It currently takes me longer to plan the outing than it does to actually cover the ridiculously short distance over which my postpartum body is willing to withstand the forces of gravity before collapsing into a quivering heap.


It goes like this.  First I feed Izzy and place her soundlessly into her crib.  As I tiptoe away, her eyes pop open into full interactive mode and the rocking, feeding, and off-key singing cycle begins all over again.  Repeat 3 times.   Then I pump, strap my, um, assets to my body, dress in triplicate layers (it is winter in Michigan, after all) and then...what was that?  It is the discreet sound of the pacifier popping from Izzy's little rosebud mouth and onto the sheet (amazing what my newly acquired Mama brand spy-ears can pick up).  This tragedy seems to happen in slow motion like a scene from a bad spy thriller.  If she is not stirred by the air currents created by the falling pacifier, I'm good to go and Daddy is on the clock.  If not, back to step 1.

Eventually, I am on the road.  I have progressed from huffing and puffing a run/walk distance of 1 mile to now running 1.5 to 2 miles at a decent clip (by my new, lowered standards) and with minimal air sucking.  I even covered a 3 mile run a few days ago. A far cry from my glory days of marathon training.  But I was feeling pretty pumped about hitting my stride yesterday until a pickup truck pulled up beside me and asked if that was my car kissing the telephone pole a mile or so back.  Geez, I don't look like a runner, I look like a criminal fleeing awkwardly from a car crash!   Well, I am nothing if not stubborn.  I will continue to cram myself into lycra tights and a sporty hoodie to grunt out my daily miles, Izzy willing.  And feel free to ask openly about my progress: My name is Jen, and I am a runner.

Paper or Plastic?

I'm not necessarily one of those hemp-obsessed crunchy earth moms, but I do love our planet and intend to live here for the forseeable future.  And with that plan in mind, I really don't enjoy the notion that Izzy's diapers will outlive her by several centuries.  So we have entered the strange fourth dimension known only as the "Cloth Diaper Zone" (cue eerie music). 

Like everything baby, purchasing and using cloth diapers is not as simple as one might think.  I really thought I would be slapping a piece of cloth at the appropriately spewing end of the baby and pinning it in place.  Not so.  There are more methods for applying a cloth diaper than Tiger Woods has mistresses.  Even the lingo is intimidating:  all-in-ones, Chinese certified organic prefolds, Snapis, angelwing folds, and microfiber terry inserts to name a few of my new vocabulary words.  With the time I have dedicated to reading diapering blogs, I could have earned an advanced degree online. 

CDM's (cloth-diapering moms - see how casually I can insert the lingo?) are truly passionate about the wardrobe that covers their babies' bottoms.  It is considered a badge of honor to swirl dirty diapers in the toilet or to scrape poo with a spatula before dropping it into the toxic waste zone of the old-fashioned diaper pail.  But I am not knocking it.  In fact, I may even be a convert to this time-honored ritual.  And with the latest technology in textiles and diaper closure apparatus, even dad has professed his willingness to abandon the plastic landfill fodder that is disposable diapers. 

So Izzy's bum is swathed in an organic, non-bleached Chinese prefold and she closely resembles a sumo wrestler.  But Mother Earth is a happy lady; and when Mama is happy, everybody's happy.  Now off to hug a bunny...

Here and Away

Yesterday was a red-letter day.  We left Isabel in the capable hands of my sister-in-law, Jane, and went galavanting off to church together.  There was a sense of freedom in trading in my ratty sweatpants for outside-the-house clothes and pulling out of the drive to mingle with other adults.  And I felt surprisingly little guilt in this action. 

As I sat through the church service (with cell phone on vibrate and placed strategically by my side), I would receive occasional and random bits of visual input from my overactive imagination.  Images of Izzy suffering a slip and fall would surface to my cerebral cortex only to be quashed by the adept actions of Jane.  The imagined choking via pacifier?   Countered by a speedy but calm Heimlich maneuver.  And the house fire that never happened....of course thwarted by the resourceful hand of Jane.  As my unfounded fears were met by a rapidly growing image of my sister-in-law's total invincibility,  I began to relax and enjoy my outing.

But once on the road toward home, my sleep-deprived and coffee-addled mind began to swirl.  I raced into the house with the expectation that my home environment would bear the scars of the many dramas that had played out in my absence.  But instead....utter tranquility.  Izzy was sleeping peacefully in Jane's arms in a dry diaper and a clean onesie. Her rosy cheeks looked a shade pinker and her state of contentment a little deeper.   Even the dog looked happier. 

I won't go as far as to say that I wanted Jane to suffer one of Izzy's infamous meltdowns, but this serenity in my absence was almost more than I could bear!  It would appear that almost anyone could step into my shoes and fulfill her needs.  "What is wrong with me?" I chided myself.  This should be a dream-come-true! We survived our first babysitting experience (albeit with a family member), I didn't succumb to the speed-dial trigger finger, and Izzy was no worse for the wear. 

Later in the day, I put it all into perspective.  I stared into her baby blue eyes which remind me of my dad's.  Her mouth is definitely my mom's, but when she smiles, it looks more like my hubby's.  And her long fingers and disproportionately big feet - those all belong to her dad!  As she grows, it will be me who tells her these things.  I will provide her with love only a mother can give and I will fill her in on the details of the fine ancestry she has inherited (ok - a little sarcasm there). 

It shook my foundation a little yesterday, but I'm solid today.  Secure in the fact that I'm Izzy's mom - no one else, no matter how capable - and I will be the center of her adult therapy sessions.