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Enough About Me, What Do You Think Of Me?
I know this is going to shock you but today I’m just going to talk about me. Yes, I’m tired of talking about children, even though they are the future. Today is all me. I’m entitled. Because it’s my birthday. My big birthday. The one that took me to “XL” in Roman numerals, as one of my darling friends pointed out this morning. So today, September 14, is Dr. Zibners Day.
Unfortunately I’ve spent much of the day in tears. It started with the enquiring little “Mommy?” coming across the baby monitor at 6:30. We did our good mornings and hugs and kisses and came upstairs. But instead of our usual routine, whereby I try to answer emails while the girls try to destroy the living room, I didn’t even pick up the computer and instead the 3 of us had a “cuddah” on the sofa and watched Tangled. Cute film. The girls liked the singing and the horsey. I cried a little. Poor Rapunzel’s parents!
Then I took us all to the kitchen table where I served a fine breakfast of Angel Food cake (homemade!), fruit and marshmallow fluff. It’s my birthday, after all. Of course I had to light a candle and sing to myself while Eva and Zoe stared at me like I had 2 heads. We spent the next 10 minutes relighting the candle and practicing. Zoe quickly learned how to blow out a candle like a pro. Eva learned that fire is hot.
Note to self: marshmallow fluff and toddlers don’t mix.
Next came opening the cards the girls “made” me with the help of our sitter. Who knew a piece of pink construction paper covered in little photos of the girls and decorated with sparkly “40”s could make me weep like a baby.
And now I’m sitting at the computer, crying like a baby all over again. Because even when it’s all about me, it’s still all about them. But that’s okay. It makes 40 pretty tolerable.
The Case of the Missing Binkies
As you know, I’m a big fan of the American Academy of Pediatrics. That said, sometimes I just have to wonder whether the people who write their policy statements are actual humans, let alone parents. Sometimes their rigidity just doesn’t seem practical. Absolutely no TV before age 2? Really? Are you sure that an hour of Sesame Street in the mornings will really ruin them? Truly? Then I guess I’d better be content with never brushing my teeth again. Or going to the toilet. Because that’s what Elmo does for us. And when it comes to pacifiers, the party line is to use them in small infants both for developmental nonnutritive sucking and to decrease the risk of SIDS. But then, just when they’ve figured out how to stick the thing back in their own mouths, I’m supposed to take it away? Honestly? Have any of them ever had a 6 month-old baby? I’m still wondering.
Anyway, this is yet one more piece of advice that I decided to sort of ignore. At least the taking away part. Don’t get me wrong, I have big issues with 3 year-olds walking around the grocery store with a binky hanging out of the corner of his mouth. That’s a habit that hinders both speech development and teeth alignment. But at night? To fall asleep with and have handy in case they wake? I just don’t think it’s that big of a deal.
One problem with my plan, however: Eva will only accept the newborn Soothie style pacifier. The ones that are only available in the US. In fact, they are so unique to the Colonies that when she was a small baby someone came up to us in an airport and asked if she was American. So every time we visit home, we stock up. And yet, despite the fact that these stupid things haven’t been allowed out of the house in over 9 months and only come out of the cribs at bedtime and early mornings, we keep losing them. 6 months ago we had 10. Today we’re down to 2. I’ve searched everywhere but apparently there is a binky blackhole in our home.
Now she’s almost 2. Knowing the AAP policy as I do, and having preached publicly about the dangers of pacifier dependence in little kids, I felt stuck. On one hand, she really should be getting rid of them. On the other, she will never give up her binky so long as Zoe still has hers and that child is just not ready. I felt too embarrassed to confess our sins to my family and request a care package. So for the last few months I have done daily pacifier counts, crawling around furniture, searching through Lego containers, my blood pressure creeping slowly up with each loss.
But last week at the pediatrician’s, while having Zoe tested for allergies, I just casually asked if he knew where I might be able to buy American style Soothies. Their doctor just looked at me and said, “can’t your family or friends send some?”
“Ah, yeah, but I’m so embarrassed that she’s still using one at her age…”
He cut me off. “So?” he scoffed. “It’s a little comfort at night. Get over it.”
I can’t tell you how reassuring it was to have a fellow pediatrician tell me that a 22 month old using a binky at night is really not terrible parenting. I felt like a massive burden had been lifted off my shoulders. Seriously. You think I’m exaggerating? I’m not.
And the care package is on its way. Thanks to Grandma.
The Evil Green Fruit
Zoe had a kiwi fruit this week. I know that may sound utterly boring to all of you but to me, it was a heart stopping moment, one filled with fear and anxiety. And it took place in a hospital under the watchful eye of her doctor and a team of nurses. There was a crash cart standing nearby and her mother was relegated first to the waiting room and finally told to leave her little baby there alone. Alone with her sister, her babysitter, and a giant hairy green fruit. I’m still having flashbacks. It was terrifying. What, you think I’m exaggerating?
The reason for all the hoopla will soon be clear, my friends. See, when I was a little girl, I ate some kiwi. And then my face swelled up. My parents were used to watching my diet carefully given my extensive food allergies but kiwi was a relatively new addition to our local supermarket and they had no way of knowing that this innocent looking little sweet delight would actually one day be the leading cause of fruit-related true allergic reactions. Until the day my face blew up.
After that unfortunate incident I managed to avoid kiwi for some 20 odd years until one night when I dined in a restaurant that ran out of cactus pear and decided to substitute kiwi fruit in its place. It was only after I’d taken a bite of my dessert that I realized what had happened. Fortunately the ambulance crew was very kind and took me directly to my place of employment where I spent the night hooked up to wires and tubes, hoping that modern pharmaceuticals would abort a severe or even life-threatening reaction. Since then I’ve been insane about avoiding kiwi, carrying an Epi-pen everywhere I go and actually running in fear from dessert trolleys.
So what was I to do with little Zoe, the poor child who got half her genes from me? Well, I did what any neurotic pediatrician mother would do: I demanded testing. And our doctor happily obliged. First we did a skin test. I wasn’t allowed in the room while they did it, but I understand she was a very brave girl. After 15 minutes and no reaction, I was shown the door. Her doctor wanted to follow up with an actual oral challenge and the risk that she would kiss me or try to shove some fruit in my mouth was too great. My awesome babysitter took over from here and I headed home, checking my phone every few minutes.
Per report, Zoe attacked that kiwi with gusto. She even shared a piece with Eva. (Hey why not kill two birds?). After an hour of observation they headed off to lunch (to make sure any trace of the poison was totally washed away) and then home for a complete soaping and teeth brushing. And finally back to her Mommy she came.
Allergy testing in little kids isn’t perfect so there is still a risk that she could one day develop an allergy like mine. And I have zero intention of actually bringing that evil stuff into my home. But at least now I can relax a bit when she steals other children’s food at playgroup. Fingers crossed it stays this way.
Steak l’Americaine
At what age would you allow your child to eat raw beef? This is a tricky one, right? Of course I’m sure many of you are thinking, “um, never?” because steak tartare is not as commonly eaten in the US as it is in, say, France. But it happens to be one of my absolutely favorite dishes, bonus if there is a raw egg yolk on top. (I know!) And while there is a risk from eating raw beef, if handled correctly the risk is actually very low. Only people with weakened immune systems or chronic illnesses should be very careful to never eat undercooked meat. (And eggs for that matter.) Infants, as in babies, are generally thought to fall into the “immature immune system” category and are at higher risk for more severe illness should they fall prey to food poisoning. But how exactly should I categorize an almost-2-year-old who licks the playmat at Gymboree on a regular basis? And worse than that, how could I deny her the joy?
We were having dinner with friends this weekend and they decided, having just returned from a month in France, to whip up a tartare for us. Complete with raw onion, capers, gherkins and herbs. It was delicious. And Eva, my darling little carnivore, went absolutely insane when she saw me digging in. Complete with sobs and big fat crocodile tears when I said no. So I gave in. Because I’m a sucker.
And that child proceeded to eat ½ my plate, licking the meat off the toast points I had so thoughtfully provided for her. Warmed up, she then ate a good portion of the grilled broccoli in lemon before sucking clean 3 lamb chop bones with her little tiny teeth. It was good to see those sharp little suckers being used for something other than leaving marks on her sister, but even so, it was a little terrifying.
Some days she doesn’t eat but one berry. And other days it is, apparently a red meat free-for-all. No, I do not advise feeding small children undercooked food. The government wouldn’t approve and my job is to keep people as safe as possible. Especially when an E.coli infection can mean severe illness, even death in rare cases. Then again, spinach and bean sprouts are as notorious a source of E.coli as raw beef. And it wasn’t hamburger (where the bacteria laden intestines are likely to contaminate) but a hand chopped sirloin. From a very clean cow. (Or so they claimed). Plus, little French kids seem to do okay. Just like the little Japanese and their sushi. Even if it did make me a bit nervous.
But all that aside, it was simply delicious. How could I say no?
Mommy v Dr. Zibners: It’s Been A While
I had to have a talk a couple months ago with Mommy. We had done everything right, I mean everything, when it came to getting the girls to sleep at night. No rocking, never holding them sleeping, always encouraging self-soothing. And for the most part, the girls have slept through for nearly a year, not counting jet lag or illness. But unfortunately, for all her good intentions, Mommy messed up bedtime—the actual going to bed—badly. I mean disastrous. So we had a chat.
“You screwed the pooch, lady,” Dr. Zibners said. “This is a disaster. Nice bedtime routine. Too bad it only works if there are no other adults in the house. That’s practical.”
“But Eva wants her ‘Mommy time’ and I can’t put them down together because how can either of them fall asleep with the other making so much noise? I’m so blessed tired, it’s just easier to give in. When their father is here, he can’t stand to hear them cry. And they are only little girls!” wailed Mommy.
“Look at yourself, do you like the way you look? I mean, 7 or 8 trips up and down the stairs every evening between 7 and 8pm is one way to tone up. Nice circles under your eyes, by the way. But are you happy? Do you enjoy bedtime?” countered Dr. Zibners.
“No. Friggin dread it. And it seems the later they go to bed, the earlier they wake. I understand that science says that’s true but it seems so counterintuitive. And an 8:30 bedtime means 90 minutes of fighting, followed by a 5am wake up. I’m miserable. And embarrassed. After all, I’m supposed to be an expert!”
“Yeah, well, we always mess it up with our own kids. Don’t beat yourself up over it. But what are we going to do to fix it? This can’t go on, can it? I mean, we’re at the point where you can no longer have guests for dinner unless you hire a sitter to put the girls to bed. In your own house. While you are upstairs. That’s disgusting, woman. Oh and by the way, if you don’t act now, soon they’ll be able to get out of their bed and then you are burnt toast, toots.”
Mommy caved. Dr. Zibners was right. One child, a ranch style home? Maybe I could have waited a bit longer. But I was at the end of my rope. So I made a plan. And I stuck to it. It involved a 7pm start time, two stories, two songs and a kitchen timer. 5 minutes. Then 7. Then 10. The first night took 45 minutes. The second took the same. But then, like a miracle, Eva got it. Zoe did her best to fight it, pelting a slumbering Eva with every binky in her crib, tossing toys and her wubbie onto her sleeping sister. But eventually she too admitted defeat. And here I am a week later, with two toddlers who clearly understand bedtime. And who wake at 6:30, on the dot. (Okay, that’s a lie. 5 or 10 minutes either way. And there is a training clock involved—-another story.)
And why am I telling you this now, after I dug myself out of the miserable pit of nocturnal hell in which I have been living for months? No, it’s not to gloat. It’s to confess how bad things got before I reached my limit. Everyone’s “rock bottom” is different and I finally hit mine. And in this case, I needed to truly scrape the bottom of the ocean to give myself the strength needed for what lay ahead. But the important lesson here, besides shattering your image of my perfect parenting, was that whatever the problem, it’s never too late. No matter how deep in the doodoo you’ve gone. I’m living proof.
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"WHAT I LIKED: This book is written in a funny, down to earth way that doesn't make you feel like an idiot. I really would have appreciated something like this when my kids were really little and I freaked out over everything they put in their mouths. It has a scenario/question and answer format, with clear answers on when not to panic and when to call 911."
- Chic Book Chick
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