Reclaiming Adult Space

Julia is an artist extraordinaire. She is constantly working on her 'projects' in her play area, cutting and taping, and drawing and glittering, and wrapping... She brings projects home from school every day. She makes projects at home every day. Our small Brooklyn apartment is overrun with art, notes, pictures, and projects. AND, she wants to post these projects all over our home. She gets out her tape and tapes them up in the living room, her playroom, the kitchen, her bedroom, our bedroom, even the bathroom has displayed an occasional piece of her art.

This weekend Dave and I made a small effort to reclaim a little space of our own, moving some display shelves from her play area to the dining area of our living room (yup, no dining room, no living room, this is NYC we are talking about, where real estate is a premium), and putting up an art gallery wall in her play area. She insisted on having it written in German (a nod to our bilingual household) so it says "Cates-Addison Art Gallery" on the wall.

Compromise achieved. Our dining area now looks like a dining area, free of the 30 pieces of paper scotch taped to the wall, and her play area has a designated space for us to oohhh and ahhhh over all of her masterpieces...

Early Intervention...

Yesterday was Oliver's 11 month birthday. And he isn't eating. He will take a couple of crumbs of bagel, a couple of dried blueberries and that's all she wrote. For all intents and purposes, he isn't eating. He is still getting about 99% of his calories from nursing. After the swallow assessment and the endoscopy last month, we were directed to NYC's Early Intervention program to see if he would qualify for behavioral feeding therapy services. In order to qualify, he had to have a delay in at least one other area, so we have had a troupe of therapists parading through our home in the last two weeks. We've been assigned a case worker, and he's been assessed by a physical therapist, an occupational therapist, a speech and language therapist, and a teacher has done a general assessment and parent interview.

So here's where we freak out. Not only has he qualified for the feeding therapy, but it turns out he is delayed on ALL fronts - gross and fine motor skills, receptive and expressive language AND feeding, and he is also being recommended for play therapy. His final assessment took place yesterday - the most important one, the feeding assessment - and now we just hurry up and wait. Our big meeting with the Department of Health and Hygiene (yes, that's what the department is called... how could I make this stuff up?) happens May 20th, but time is of the essence. I go back to work in 4 1/2 months now, and each day that he doesn't eat is another day closer to the day I return to the classroom... and take the food source with me.

All sorts of irrational thoughts are flooding my brain and making me crazy. Have I failed him in some way? What have I done / not done with Oliver that I did / didn't do for Julia? Could I have prevented these delays in some way? What can we do differently now? What is causing these delays? Will he always be delayed, or will he at some point catch up and be on par with his peers? What's the long term prognosis here?

Of course there are the logistical questions too - seriously, FIVE therapists? What is our life going to look like? How will I parent Julia in any kind of an enriching way when our entire life is taken over by Oliver's therapy schedule? And by the same token, is Oliver's entire life going to be therapy? What about tumbling, and music, and swimming and all the fun things Julia got to do when she was a toddler, or just a trip to the playground? What about downtime? While we can't afford for me NOT to go back to work in the fall, how CAN we afford for me to go back to work? Clearly our son needs his Mama to be home?

I look at my boy and know he is a beautiful, happy little boy. I know he is bright and curious because I see the sparkle in his eyes. However, I an consumed by worry... what is going on in his little head and in his little body? And what can I do? Once again, I remind myself to breeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaattttttthhhhhheeeeeee, and take this one step at a time. But then the crazy seeps back in, the panic starts to rise in my chest, and I leap ahead 53 steps...

The Eve of 38

So, it's the eve of my 38th birthday... hard to believe. There are so many moments where that Talking Heads song runs through my head - you know the one... Once in a lifetime... truly... how DID I get here? How am I 38 years-old racing towards 40? Where did those crow's feet around my eyes come from? How have I been married almost 12 years? How do I have a child who is entering kindergarten in the fall? How is my baby almost a year old? How am I responsible for two other people?

I feel I spend so much time watching the clock, watching the calendar, making plans, looking towards the future. I can't wait for nap time so I can have a moment of down time. I can't wait until 7 PM until the relief shift comes home. GOD LET THIS HORRIBLE NIGHT OF TORTURED SLEEP BE OVER. I can't wait until the cold weather is over. Can't wait until summer. Can't wait until the beach. Can't wait until the heat is over. Can't wait until Christmas. Can't wait until my glass of wine after the kids go to bed. Can't wait to go for a run later... Can't wait, can't wait, can't wait...

I forget I am living in the present, that the little moments here and now are my LIFE. They are guaranteed, not the ones 6 months from now, or even 6 minutes from now. It's so hard to appreciate the little moments, to live in the moment, to enjoy the NOW, when you are constantly looking forward, looking forward, looking forward, and essentially wishing your life away.

The end of my maternity leave is in sight... As I look at my huge girl, my almost real-deal school girl, and my little boy who is very quickly losing his baby look and racing toward 'little boy,' I just want to slow down this crazy ride. I know I only have a few more months at home with my littles, and I want to appreciate those crazy moments, good, bad, and ugly. And try to remember to live for the NOW, not the THEN. Easier said than done, but no time like this beautiful 80 degree springtime day to give it a go.

Going Under... and resurfacing...

Phew. The week is over. Well, at least it's over for all intents and purposes. Too many procedures, too many appointments, too much stress. Tomorrow, we breathe.

Our day started at 4:45 this morning. That was the time we set the alarm to go off, because Oliver couldn't nurse beyond 5:00 AM. You see, today was his dreaded endoscopy. We got to New York Presbyterian around 8:00 AM for paperwork and consultations with the anesthesiologist and the gastroenterologist. Oliver was given super cute scrubs to wear. We tried to keep him happy. And we started to panic. With each passing minute, I just wanted to get it over with. We hadn't anticipated that he would have to be on a respirator during the procedure. The idea of my little boy being put under anesthesia was enough for me to digest, but the fact that his body couldn't breathe on its own while he was under? Terrifying.

9 AM, they were ready. Was I ready? I felt like we were marching to the gallows as we walked back to the procedure room. They put monitor sticky pads on his back and chest. They put an oxygen monitor on his toe. They asked me to lay my baby boy down on an inflated, heated pad on the bed. They put a mask on his face and he started to cry. And then he stopped and became eerily calm. And then his eyes grew blurry and rolled back. And they told me to kiss him and leave the room. And I cried.

And we waited. 30 minutes. 35 minutes. They came to get us to bring us back to the recovery room. And we waited. Then I heard his cries. The anesthesiologist carried him to me and placed him in my arms. He flailed and cried, all the while his eyes were closed. They brought a warm blanket and wrapped it around his little body, and he fell into a deep, calm sleep in my arms.

So, nothing really to report. We survived it, he survived it. The waking up process was pretty grueling, with more tears, vomit, and some blood, but the good news is there are no major obstructions in his digestive tract. We should get the pathology report in another week. So no real answers as to why my otherwise healthy 25 pound 10 month old won't eat, but also no real bad news... so do we call it a draw?

Tonight, he splashed around in his bath, happy as a clam. The bruises on his foot from his IV and the red square marks on his chest and back from the monitors stuck to his tender skin were the only reminders of our morning. But PHEW. It's over.

How do people do it all?

How do people do it all? I know there are people who manage to look put together, have children who are clean and eat organic, home-cooked meals every day, keep on top of laundry, errands, cleaning, take the time to exercise and do things for themselves and also spend quality, engaging time with their children. HOW?

My uniform every day is jeans and a sweater. If I apply make-up, it's because I have a funeral to attend. Moreoften than not, I have some errant body fluid on me - spit up, poop, drool... Lookin' good Mama. I spend little time without one or two children hanging off me and demanding things from me. Time for me? What's that?

At home, I feel like I spend the majority of my life moving things. Moving things from one point in my apartment to another - much of this migration is caused by my four year-old, who brings things out of her play area or bedroom and then leaves them elsewhere, but there is also the clutter of things that are dropped somewhere in the moment when we arrive home and there is a bathroom emergency or a nursing emergency, etc... and then they stay there.

Since Oliver was born 10 months ago, our laundry has EXPLODED. There is ALWAYS something in the washer and dryer, and I would venture that we probably do about 10+ loads of laundry a week. That's 10+ loads of washing, drying, folding, sorting, and putting away.

Because of Oliver's food sensitivities, we have to go to two different grocery stores each week - Trader Joe's and then an organic health food store that carries milk free / soy free alternatives to a lot of products so I can actually eat more than twigs and berries. I have to bake my own bread each week, because almost EVERY major brand of bread on the market has soy flour or soybean oil or soy lecithin in it.

And then there is the shuttling - pick ups, drop offs, etc. School, German School, ballet, tumbling, playdates, etc. etc. etc. It feels like we always should have left for somewhere about 5 minutes ago.

This morning as I was walking to Julia's room with a huge basket of laundry to put away, I noticed the clutter in other parts of the apartment, the tumbleweeds rolling underneath the bookshelf, the layer of dust on the television cabinet. Don't get me wrong - I am not sitting around eating bon bons and watching TV all day, but HOW do people get it all done without support staff? Or do we just resign ourselves to the fact that this time, this time when my children are small is a very intense time and that SOME day I will go back to being able to accomplish it all? Do I lower the bar and my expectations, or is it actually within reach and I am just doing a poor job of time management?

Well, off to punch down the bread dough and scarf down some lunch in the time I have while Oliver is napping. And yes, there is a basket of laundry calling my name... sigh.

Now... or later...

I know she is asleep in there. There is precious little noise coming from Julia's bedroom, and it is her 'rest' period. And to tell you the truth, I am ambivalent about that fact. On the one hand... Ahhhhhhhhhhh... a momentary break, I can exhale, and drink a cup of desperately needed coffee - normally I am not an afternoon coffee drinker, but it's been a hectic crazy day. I started the day at a funeral for a colleague, and came home to find out Oliver had only napped 30 minutes for his morning nap... suffice it to say that ain't enough.

Friday right after school, Julia has a yoga class taught by one of her teachers who is also yoga certified. That means I pick up, take her to yoga, figure out what to do with the boy for an hour smack during his nap when he is exhausted, go pick her up, and everyone gets home at 2, WAY later than usual. Because of the funeral this morning and worried I wouldn't make it to pick up, I asked a friend if she could grab Julia if she didn't see me in the lobby at dismissal and I would catch up with them. I prepared Julia that this could be a possibility. Well, I got there a moment after my friend did, and Julia PITCHED A FIT. A HUGE one in the lobby, which then continued up on the sidewalk where she ran away from me screaming I could walk by myself and she wanted to walk with my friend. She almost got a 1 1/4 mile schlep home for that Oscar-worthy performance.

While Julia was in yoga, my little man decided he wasn't going to nap in the stroller, wasn't going to nap in the carrier, and fought sleep until we were almost home, and THEN, after a 30 minute nap this morning, took a 17 minute afternoon nap. A SEVENTEEN MINUTE NAP. AND THEN, it took me another hour to get him back to sleep in his crib, FINALLY at 3:15.

As a side note, ironically, my teaching contract for the fall arrived in the mail today. After the day I have had, I might just drag the two kids into Manhattan and personally hand my contract to the principal TODAY.

Sooooooooooooo... I know she is asleep in there. But I am going to enjoy this cup of coffee, and know I will pay for this later at bedtime - but for now, a moment of peace.

Spring!

It's predictable. By February every year, I start to question why we ever left the sunny south. Pummeled by one snow storm after another, exposed to the elements, walking (as Julia's former sitter puts it) the 'Bhutan Death March' - AKA 1 1/4 miles - to pick her up from school three times a week in sub freezing temperatures and being housebound with two young children is enough to make you crazy.

However, sitting on the lawn with friends overlooking the Brooklyn and Manhattan Bridges today and basking in the 70 degree spring sunshine, I fell in love with Brooklyn all over again. It's a relationship that waxes and wanes with the seasons, but my love always returns with the spring sunshine. And, it appears spring is returning to the Big Apple.