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The Compromise
Is everyone ready for the holidays? Cards sent? Packages wrapped? Ha. Hardly. It seems like the holidays sneak up on me a little more quickly each year. We’re off to Italy for a few days with our family and looking forward to one last Christmas with relatively portable children who don’t fully understand what is going on. Of course this then lends itself to the big question: to decorate or not to decorate. I love a house that looks like the North Pole for the entire month of December. But now I have two curious little people living here and I’m not sure it’s worth all that trouble just to chase them around, pulling them off the tree and making sure the lights aren’t within reach when we aren’t even here for The Big Day. So here’s my compromise:
No tree. Actually that is a lie. No big tree. I bought a hideous little tabletop number with flashing lights. There are no ornaments to break, no tinsel to choke on. The only real danger is the electric cord, but I can keep that tucked back against the wall out of reach.
Lots of jingle bells. The girls love them, they can’t hurt themselves (so long as they are securely fastened to one another and don’t pose a choking hazard) and it makes me feel good when I hear that little jingle. Helps to make up for the absence of my giant tree.
Nothing less than 3 feet from the floor that isn’t in keeping with our usual safety standards. Oh, and within 12 inches of any part of the sofa since Zoe has learned to climb up on the back of it and bend forward at a frightening angle trying to reach everything that isn’t allowed.
And finally, we have an appointment with Santa on Saturday and I’m going to let the kids sit directly on his lap. Last year I was all crazy about Eva being so little and I had her wrapped in a blanket that Santa was allowed to touch and then it went straight to the washer. But this year they are big girls and are probably the ones that all the little babies should be afraid of, with their chronically runny noses and hacking coughs.
So there you have it: the Christmas Compromise. I won’t be putting them in danger and I won’t be pulling out my hair trying to police the two of them around all my decorations. And my family can stop making fun of me for disinfecting my daughter last year after one of Santa’s elves touched her at the mall. Seriously, could I imagine a germier place this time of year?
The Germans Seriously Lack Creativity
Mystery solved! Eva woke up on Sunday morning covered in a horrifying red rash. Roseola! My husband couldn’t really understand my happiness to find my child looking like a jar of spaghetti sauce had exploded in her crib. But he doesn’t understand the curse of Too Much Information. When a little one has a fever, I know (and I continually say!) that it is not so much about the fever as it is how she is acting. I didn’t actually take her temperature until the 2nd day and then only when she felt really hot and even then only for documentation purposes. I mean, what if it turned out to be something serious and when the doctors asked me how long she’d had a fever for I said something lame like, “Oh well she felt warm for 14 days,” or something equally unhelpful.
Anyway, knowing too much means that my mind was heading in all kinds of directions last week, from pneumonia to ears to bladder infections. Even though I knew that the runny nose and disgusting old man cough meant viral, I couldn’t help myself. So it was with a sigh of relief that I saw her rash on Sunday. Roseola: 3 days of high fever followed by a terrific rash. The Germans take it quite literally and call it: Dreitagefieber Glanzmann, which translates to, “Three Day Fever Glossy Man.” Germans are funny.
And this means that Zoe is probably next. After all, they lick the same floor at Gymboree. I’m half shocked that she’s remained completely well to date. On the other hand, I couldn’t have made it through the weekend with two of them clinging to my body, crying every time I tried to even go to the bathroom. So I guess that while it would be nice to get it all over with quickly, one sick kid at a time is probably more than enough, thank you.
p.s. I’ll post some pics on my Facebook page: Lara Zibners, MD
Yet one more reason not to…
Anyone who knows me knows that I’m against bed sharing, or co-sleeping for a few reasons. Firstly, it can be dangerous. Every year a few infants die from sleeping with an adult. Oh, yes, I know that many of these cases may involved alcohol or drugs, but not all, so having cared for a family who lost their newborn when a very exhausted, sober, mother fell asleep and suffocated him, I just think it’s too risky. But that’s me. I know there are plenty of families who do it and survive. (So don’t send me a million messages about it.) And then there is the argument that a child really need his own sleeping space and it is much harder to get them to their own bed when they are older. Also true, but that’s a personal choice and if you’d rather argue with a toddler than with an infant, on any issue (binkies, bottles, toothbrushes) go right ahead. But I’ve got another, perhaps even better, reason for not sharing a bed with a child: it sucks!
The girls got shots on Tuesday. They’ve both had colds, pretty much, since September, but they tend to do pretty well with their immunizations and I always figure it’s better to feel really cruddy all at once and get it over with. So we got our “jabs,” as the English say and it all went fine. On Wednesday, they both woke with their runny noses and old man coughs that have been our constant companions for practically the entire Fall. But by afternoon, Eva had taken 4 naps and was feeling very warm. She’s such a good little sport, I didn’t want to make her unhappy but just out of curiosity I took her temperature anyway. 101F. Not that I care about the numbers, but it’s really cold in London this week and I wasn’t sure if she had a fever or if my hands were just frozen so I needed to see. Anyway, she’s been playing and eating and drinking and otherwise acting sick but “okay” so I’ve just been keeping an eye on her.
Last night she woke up around 11, crying, warm and flushed. She looked so pathetic that I picked her up and her took her upstairs. She lay there looking so sad that I decided I would let her sleep with me so that I could keep a better eye on her. She’s not a baby anymore and is perfectly capable of rolling away and pushing off blankets so I wasn’t concerned about her safety.
What I should have been concerned about, however, was my safety! I suffered through 4 hours of sharing my bed, complete with poking me in the face, kicking my head and talking loudly at me. After the final swat to my nose, I’d had enough. I picked her up and took her back to her crib, where she happily lay down and went right to sleep. Apparently sleeping with Mommy was a fun new game. But it wasn’t sleeping and it definitely wasn’t in the best interest of my own safety. I’ll find a new way to express my love when she doesn’t feel well, thank you.
Brusha Brusha Brusha
I’m going to tell you a little secret, one that not many people know about me. You know how some people freak out at the sound of nails on a chalkboard? Or are deathly afraid of circus clowns? You know what gives me shivers and makes me cover my ears screaming? The sound of someone brushing his teeth. I’m serious. I have to leave the room during toothpaste commercials. My sister used to chase me around the house when we were younger, brush in hand. My own mouth I can handle, but there is just something about that sound coming from other people that makes my skin crawl. So you can imagine how I’ve been dreading the required adult-assisted tooth-brushing that all parents must do.
As you know, I’ve been crazy about the girls’ oral hygiene since before they had teeth. Yes, I was a gum wiper, and while people made fun of me, the pediatric dentists I met praised me. Even if it isn’t absolutely necessary to wipe down an infant’s gums to prevent tooth decay, it does get them used to having someone sticking her fingers in their mouths. Wiping didn’t bother me at all. But now they have teeth and I decided it was time to introduce real brushing at bedtime, because you know I’m a big believer in creating habits before kids realize what’s happening.
So I got the girls little brushes. We’ve already talked fluoride but to remind you, If you live in an area with fluoride in the water, then you should be using fluoride free toothpaste until you kid is old enough to understand spitting instead of swallowing. If not, it’s special supplements or kid’s toothpaste with minimal fluoride added. Anyway, you can imagine what the first night was like: me cringing, Eva screaming and spitting and Zoe opening her mouth and patiently waiting for her two little teeth to be attended to. (That kid is weird).
Fast forward two weeks, and I’m happy to report that my persistence has finally paid off. I’ve discovered that if I loudly sing the toothpaste commercial sung during the slumber party in the movie Grease, it not only makes the girls stop wiggling but it masks the sound of the bristles rubbing against enamel. And while Zoe continues to be a perfect dental patient, Eva only started cooperating a few days ago. Last night she took her brush when I was finished and spent several minutes rubbing her little pink baby toothbrush around her mouth in imitation of me. It was not only very cute, but gave me great hope that soon enough I can just hand them the tools and hide in the closet with my hands over my ears until they are done. I generally don’t want them to grow up too fast, but on this one, I’ll be thrilled to pass the reins.
Postprandial Recovery
Did everyone have a wonderful Thanksgiving? Ours was lively, chaotic and full of good cheer. My family has much to be thankful for this year. Last year at Thanksgiving, we were a family of three; this year we are four. And Thanksgiving 2010 was much more entertaining, mostly because I discovered a new repository for leftovers: my monkeys.
I’m pretty lucky in that the girls are still at the stage where they will pretty much eat anything, so long as it tastes good. Which means they usually just refuse baby food. Probably because sugar and salt make things taste better and most baby food companies cater to the parental belief that infants and toddlers must exist on a diet devoid of flavor. Fortunately my girls have a mother who knows that a little bit of salt is essential to our bodies and who doesn’t think that sugar in moderation is poison. So while they refuse baby food fish pie, they’ll happily eat a fish cake from the ready meal counter at our grocery.
Because they eat what I eat, this year was an exceptionally fun holiday. With the exception of the chipotle sweet potatoes (although Zoe did try some before crying and spitting at me), there was nothing off limits to them. Stuffing was a hands down winner. Turkey meat was a so-so (but that applies to adults too. Admit it.). And pumpkin pie brought cheers and applause. Having little ones means I can cook with all the fat and butter I want, because it would be irresponsible of me to not help their little brains myelinate, so we had real Crisco pie crusts and honest-to-God butter in our potatoes this year. (I’d never actually bought Crisco before. It’s a little weird.)
Anyway, just like all of us, by Sunday the girls had had enough with the stuffing and pie. It was back to hamburgers, avocado and strawberries for dinner last night. Unlike me, they don’t have to go to the gym to work off that cheesecake; they don’t stop moving from morning til night. Kids will take in the calories they need if just left to their own devices. Not like their mother. I should really have taken a page from their book: all things are good…in moderation. Off to spin class, I am.
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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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