What's in a word?

My daughter is experimenting with the "F" word. She has heard it, knows its bad, but wants me to acknowledge its infamous nature. First experiment, while driving in the car we play a rhyming game. She loves to play the game, but is not the best at creating rhymes; often she just adds the letter f to the word, for instance - mouse rhymes with flouse. She starts it up last Tuesday with, "Mom, what rhymes with f*#k?" I thought, "nah...that's not what I heard." So I ask, "I'm sorry hunny, I didn't hear you?" I readjusted my rearview mirror so as to clearly see her as she spoke. "What rhymes with F*#K?" Yes. That is what I heard. I giggled and said, "That's not even a word. You can't just keep adding f to the beginning of words to make a rhyme." Phew. Cleared that one with ease. Not likely. Four year olds are mastermind manipulators. Experiment two: my mother is a singing grandmother. She sings a million songs and I can remember about fifty of them. One that I do remember goes like this: I love you a bushel and a peck A bushel and a peck and a hug around the neck... Thursday of last week while driving home my daughter belted out her version of the song: I love you a bushel and a f*#k A bushel and a f*#k and hug around the neck... I said, "Hunny, those aren't the words. Its peck - a bushel and a peck." She yells at me, "What are you even saying? A bushel and a what?" "PECK!" I scream, "PEEECCCKKK!" I was losing the battle to keep the "F" word out of our vocabulary. This morning, four short days later, I pulled into the garage and exited the car. I walked around to open the door to take my son out of his seat and as I open the door I hear it again, "F*#k!" I said, "What did you say?" She repeated it. I said, "OK - you are not allowed to say that word. It is a bad word. If you say that word again I am going to wash your mouth out with soap." She said, "What word? Puck?" I said, "Oh no - don't try that. You know the word I am talking about. Do not say it again." As she hopped out of the car, she surreptitiously glanced at me and grinned. She won the battle.

Advice: how to talk to the preggos

When I was younger I worked with a woman who was a bit overweight. We were at the front desk of a very popular, busy restaurant in Chicago. One night while she was walking a group to their table a man congratulated her and asked, "When is your due date?" She was devastated. I tried to console her with positive thoughts, "He's just a jerk..." and "Please, you look great!! I love that dress!" Regardless of my efforts to cheer her, she was devastated. Suggesting that a woman is pregnant when in fact she isn't is quite possibly the meanest thing you could say to a woman..

The truth is, asking a woman if she is pregnant EVEN IF SHE IS PREGNANT is frowned upon, too. My rule of thumb is never, never, never, ever, even if she's clearly about to have a baby ask the question. Don't comment at all about her physical appearance. For instance, does she have a gigantic belly, gorgeous glowing face, shiny perfect hair and look as if she is bursting with joy? You then say, "You a hockey fan?" Do NOT say, "Oh, you must be pregnant you're looking so full of life..." Because you can bet your sweet patoot she will lose her glow, her hair will instantly dull, and she'll give you the "what an awful human" glare you rightly deserve.

Starting a conversation with a woman you suspect to be pregnant you should never indicate your suspicion. Talk about something else entirely. Talk about yourself until she brings it up - and trust me, if she IS PREGNANT - she will bring it up. I'm pregnant and its all I can do not to talk about it. The reason for this is simple: pregnancy consumes you. Your body lives for a ten month period in a state of constant change; every day the hormones shift and you never know what that will bring. Good mood, bad mood, shiny hair, zits, tears, smiles, constipation, diarrhea, vomit, bloating. I mean, you really do not know what the day will bring. Nausea ends during week eleven, but then boom - week 16 and there it is again. Besides those physical indicators everyone asks about, a pregnant woman's brain is not like a non-pregnant woman's brain. My point is simply: if she is pregnant she will talk about being pregnant. Somehow, someway - it will come up. So you needn't worry yourself with bringing it up at all.

You certainly shouldn't feel compelled to bring it up just to "congratulate" her. If for some odd reason she doesn't bring it up and you don't get the chance to congratulate her - she isn't losing any sleep over that, so again - don't fret. If you did bring it up and she isn't pregnant, she will lose sleep over the insult. If she is pregnant and you brought it up in an improper way again, she's not sleeping tonight.

What should be your utmost concern is not hurting a woman's feelings for any reason at all. If you say nothing and she brings it up and you have the opportunity to congratulate her let that be it. If you MUST say something else - the only thing you should ever say to a woman who is pregnant no matter how close you are to her is this: "How are you feeling?" and/or "You look great!" Never say anything like:
1. "I thought you were pregnant, you normally take such good care of yourself."
2. "I can't believe how big you are!"
3. "Maybe you're carrying twins."
4. "Well, you weren't that big with your other children, were you?"
5. "When I was pregnant I didn't start to show until I was (fill in the blank) months along."
6. "I guess you've had some cravings for junk food, huh?"
7. "Hitting the ice cream shop, are we?"

Chances are if you have said anything like that to a pregnant woman she cursed you out behind your back for a day or two - minimum. You may think that seems an excessive amount of time - but each of the comments a pregnant woman hears is registered in a location in her brain that she will not forget. Oddly she'll forget to buckle her eldest with a seat belt, but she will not forget the nasty comment her neighbor said.

I will review. It is really just this simple. First, never ask the question. Let her tell you of her own free will. Two, if it comes up you have three things to say, "Congratulations! How are you feeling? Well... you just look great!" If you follow these simple rules you will be certain to stay in the good graces of pregnant women everywhere and certain not to offend any non-pregnant women along the way.

First Time Isn't a Charm

My husband is a snow plower.  He goes out alone, a solitary man and his truck.  With our most recent storm he was out for 36 hours...or something insane like that.  He seems to like it quite a bit.  I liken it to his hobbies: hunting, fishing.  A man, alone with his gun or fishing pole - silence.  I am well aware that he leaves here on a daily basis to escape the constant sound, even if he has to go to work to do it.  Three year olds and wives talk constantly; the one year old boy exists only with a steady stream of grunts and growns.  We are a loud bunch.  I can tune the kids out pretty well, when needed.  Dinnertime, for instance, I have to shut down my mommy-entertainer mode so as to prepare a meal.  In this mode, however, I can still register anything happening in my kitchen that requires my attention.  A child climbing upstairs or playing in an off limits cabinet.  A child moaning for more peas.  Whatever the case may be I can hear what needs to be heard. 

Sunday was the Superbowl.  We were heading to a small gathering for the event and on the way my husband thought he would check on a couple driveways.  Turned out we did need to plow two driveways.  It was the first time we had a family plowing excursion.  It was less than ideal for the solitary snow plow hubby of mine in that a three year old fields a lot of questions during her first experience with anything. 

This day was also special because it was the first day our youngest, newly one year old just last week, got to face forward while in the car.  Initially he seemed quite pleased to be able to see us and more of the world around him.  The first driveway was quite short.  The baby started moaning a little bit - my dinnertime mommy ears were listening as I watched, fascinated by the movement of snow from one location to the next.  When my husband got out of the truck to shovel the walk I turned and chatted with the kids a bit.  The chicken just wanted to get to the party but my little man seemed downright pissed.  I tried to cheer him up and then we were moving on.

At the next (very long) driveway we pulled up, dropped the plow, and pulled the snow away from the garage door.  Forward and then reverse. We did that three more times.  Then I noticed the moaning again.  Then I noticed my own stomach was starting to turn a bit.  Then the truck lurched forward again and we had our next first experience: the little man puked up his lunch all over himself - twice.  He and I made a not so quick exit from the truck and watched from the sideline.  Needless to say, it was unpleasant and we both felt badly for the Mister.

Evidentally, I need to tune my mommy ear's a bit for the sound of "child about to puke".  My husband will certainly stick to solitary man plowing snow from now on... but who could of have seen that coming?

Nonsense

Sometimes weird comes out of our mouths. I occasionally talk in my sleep. Last night I actually woke myself up while talking to my husband in my sleep. I woke up to the sound of my own voice saying loudly, "Jamie! Can I have a chew in bed? Jamie! Can I have a chew in bed?" It was very odd as I am not a fan of chewing tobacco. When I woke up at 5 a.m. and my husband was no where to be seen, I assumed he'd had it with my middle of the night verbal attacks and sought silence in the basement. I can't imagine his perspective - the poor guy is just trying to get a good night of sleep and then his loony-tunes wife starts yelling at him out of the darkness about having a dip in bed.

The strangest things come from the imagination, though. I liken my subconscious dream state to the imagination of my three year old because, while I am good at pretend play, I stick to nonsense speak in my sleep. She, on the other hand, spews nonsensical stories, thoughts, tales, and gibberish from morning until night.

We've encountered a hiccup in her potty training. She seems to be missing the cue more often than not lately. I try not to be hard on her because, after all, she is three. Today though, after her second accident, I sat down in the bathroom and said, "I wonder why you keep having accidents?" She sat on the toilet holding her head in her hands, pondering my question. Then she replied sincerely, "I think, Mom, that my panties are just thirsty and I am giving them a teeny tiny drink with my pee." I replied, "I see..."

We're full of nonsense around here. I love it.

my blues

The road of parenthood is a long one. I've learned this recently while sitting at a table with my aunt. She and I were discussing her very long and, more often than not, challenging road with her forty-something son. I sat at the table holding my own son, just six and a half months old. She said, "When he was young, I thought 'he is amazing, so special' and he was - he was so full of possibility." I looked at my little blondie and thought the same thing: he is so little, but simply so perfect.

The beginning of my relationship with my son was complicated by my own emotional mess. I felt tortured by my own mind. I would wake up each day in the very beginning and feel the weight of responsibility. For six weeks I cried because I was happy, stressed, disappointed, thrilled, exhausted, blessed, frustrated, blissful and alone. I could not put my finger on why I cried, why everything seemed to add stress, nor why I felt so lonely and consumed by sadness while surrounded by a large family. All of the unknowns seemed only to make me cry more.

There were obvious triggers. Breastfeeding this child wasn't as easy as the first child. He seemed to fight me on every go. I worked with a lactation consultant at the hospital and met with her twice afterward, but even while she was trying to help me and while I wanted it to work, the fact that it wasn't smooth sailing created a desperate disappointment and made me feel as though I was failing. In moments of clarity, I knew that wasn't the case. I wasn't a failure as a mom - I'd done a fine job with everything else-growing him, delivering him, nurturing him, bonding with him. Feeding him, though, was so critical that it overrode all other aspects.

Trying to make the transition smooth and emotionally uncomplicated for my three-year-old daughter was a battle. It was, however, a battle I was fighting with myself alone. I created the complications in my head before they arose, I planned for the worst case scenario. I was certain the introduction of a brother was going to cause strain on my perfect relationship with her and send her into a state of worry and sadness. I was projecting my own feelings onto her. Again, in moments of clarity, I knew that wasn't the case. Additionally, if she did initially struggle with the newness of the boy - she certainly wasn't going to be permanently scarred by it. She wouldn't likely even remember her life prior to his existence. The frustrating element was that it was my own mind creating the majority of the anxiety - as it turned out, there was very little going wrong for my daughter. She had a heck of a good time with Mama and Papa; she got presents from everyone she knew for several weeks for no reason at all. She made out like a bandit.

At my first post-partum doctor visit I cried from the moment my doctor stepped into the room until she left. The whole time. It was as if the sight of her unleashed all feeling. We talked at length, she filled in so many blanks, she said "Call me anytime - night or day and we can talk more. I want to hear from you." She put me on depression watch for weeks afterward; she wanted to see me every other week until I felt better, and at each visit she offered a prescription. Instead, we created a plan for coping: ride it out for six weeks, then she would refer me to a therapist if it hadn't passed, and prescribe something if at the end of six weeks I wasn't feeling more like myself. Her plan and proactive approach gave me immense hope and encouragement.

While I sat at the table with my aunt listening to her lifetime of struggle, I wondered when, as mothers, we aren't happy, stressed, disappointed, thrilled, exhausted, blessed, frustrated, blissful and alone. While the crying spells of the baby blues had an end for me it is ever clear that the emotional roller coaster will never cease. Where is the doctor on call for the next 40 years? It will always be something, and we will never have control of it as we think we do. The only thing we can control is how we respond in the moment. I hope to maintain my doctors proactive approach - have a plan, be hopeful, have encouragement.