Private Parts

I have a confession to make. I usually feel like I'm on top of things when it comes to the philosophy of parenting. But there is one parenting issue that I haven't quite figured out yet. What is the appropriate name for a child's private parts? I disdain euphemisms. When Esme farts, we call it a fart (although she strangely enough has renamed it "burping from your bottom" as opposed to "burping from your mouth", expressions that are always accompanied by gestures pointing to the various body parts).

But when I change Esme's diaper, I can't bring myself to say vagina. It seems like such a big word for such a little girl. Or maybe it's just that I don't like the word. I don't know. I read somewhere that women have a hard time using the word vagina, even if they are in conversation with their gynecologist. The word vulva doesn't sound much better, to me. So what's the right word to use? Without really planning it, I started saying "wee-wee". And somehow it has stuck. I change Esme's diaper, and she points down there and says in her two-year-old questioning voice, "Dat my wee-wee?"

"Yes, Esme, that's your wee-wee," I say, unsure even as I say it how I picked that word. For some reason, in my mind wee-wee has always been the euphemism for a boy's parts (yes, I have just as hard a time with the word penis as I do with vagina). So I started specifying, "You have a girl's wee-wee, and Emil has a boy's wee-wee." Curious as to what a wee-wee really is, I looked it up on dictionary.com. Apparently it's the pee itself, not the private parts. Who needs a euphemism for pee-pee, I wonder?

Baby Time

Mornings are supposed to be my productive time at home. Esme goes to daycare and Emil just hangs out. I should be working on stories and pitches and doing household chores, but instead, I find myself hanging out with Emil. He doesn't need to cry to get my attention. When he's awake and alert, I want to be there with him. It's fun to watch him swing his arms and kick his legs, wide-eyed at the world around him.

But it's a different pace, hanging out with a baby. I just sit there, and enjoy changing facial expressions, the way he moves his head at the sound of my voice. It's like slowing down, reminiscent of my childhood, hot summer days in Kentucky, where you don't want to do anything but sit on the porch and drink iced tea, rocking back and forth. Emil smiles at me and sometimes manages a coo, those first explorations of voice. I like this slow time. Baby time.

The Goldfish Blues

It's a sad day. Dorothy the goldfish has kicked the bowl. I changed her water today, and when Jacob came home, he noticed that Dorothy was swimming upside down. Within an hour or two, she wasn't moving anymore. I know she's just a goldfish, but I can't help feeling sad and guilty that I let this poor creature down.

We bought Dorothy for Esme when she started sleeping in her big girl bed, as a way to celebrate her graduation to this next stage. Esme named Dorothy (after Elmo's fish, of course - there must be hundreds of thousands of Dorothy fishes around the world thanks to Sesame Street) and helped feed her everyday. The day we bought her, I asked the store clerk whether the fish would be happy alone in a bowl. She said that the fish would probably be happier with the extra space than with a pal.

But I noticed everyday as I went to the changing table where Dorothy's bowl was that Dorothy swam towards me with a look that seemed like a cry for help. Okay, so maybe she was just conditioned to me because the sight of me often meant food. But I couldn't help but wonder if she could possibly be happy in that little bowl. Then one day, I was reading about goldfish online for tips on changing her water. This website says that you shouldn't keep a goldfish in a little bowl. But I wasn't ready to invest in a larger fish tank because we have no room for it.

Now I feel just horrible. Pets (even goldfish) become part of the family and it is sad to say goodbye.

How do you explain death to a two year old? Jacob is talking about a "long vacation." I'm not sure what I'm going to say.

______________

Post Script:
When Esme finally asked me instead of Jacob where Dorothy was, I tried to explain, "Dorothy had to go bye bye. We all have lives, and our lives don't last forever. It was time for Dorothy to end this life and go on to the next stage."

Esme started to cry. I held her and said, "It's okay to cry. I cried, too. We're going to miss Dorothy, aren't we." She only cried for about five seconds, and then she was off playing again.

The Mixed Blessing of Extended Family

We just said farewell to the last batch of family in the parade of Emil's well-wishers. It's been non-stop since he was born, and with today's divorced and remarried set of parents, it just extends the family further and further. Where there used to be two sets of grandparents, now there are often four. We have three sets of grandparents, and I am thankful for all of them.

But I'm glad they're gone for now. The problem with living so far from all the grandparents is that getting time with them becomes a big ordeal. You have to interrupt your daily routine to spend time with them. If we lived close by, we could have more casual, spread out visits. A dinner here, a lunch there. But as it is, it's morning, noon and night with ne'er a break between.

They come with the claim that they are here to help. And they are. It's been wonderful having someone help cook and clean. But our house is small, and with four adults and two children, the chaos quickly gets out of control. So their additional cleaning doesn't always outweigh the additional mess.

My office is my living room, and frankly, I haven't gotten much work done. My house is now returned to me, and this morning in the space of three hours, I have managed to research an article I'm working on, communicate with two of my editors via email, meet with a house painter, do two loads of laundry, and clean out the fridge. Somehow, doing any of those things with people sitting around hanging out seemed very difficult.

Emil is sleeping peacefully in his swing, and Esme is at daycare. There is not a sound but the hum of the fridge, and that is beautiful. There are days that I think I will never be able to balance this parenting life with my own career, but then there are days like this that are smooth sailing.

I wish that we lived closer to our extended family. Then maybe I could see less of them. ;-)

People in Progress

I was holding Emil today, and he was fully smiling and cooing at me. He has filled in (I should say "rounded out"), changing from the emaciated newborn look to the chubby baby look. But he is also focusing more on objects and studying the world around him. He was fascinated by my shadow art on the wall above his changing table.

Then I looked at Esme. It's almost impossible to believe that she was his size just two years ago. Today, she got ahold of my purse, pulled out the keys, put my sunglasses on, threw the purse over her shoulder, and said to me, "Where's the car?" Yikes! And I thought that wouldn't happen until she was 16.

Yeah, we're all changing everyday, even as adults. But we are not changing anywhere as rapidly as these little people. I have to admit, it's pretty cool to watch. They're little people in progress.

Groundhog Day

Ever since my son Emil was born, I have been living a sort of Groundhog Day experience. It happened again this weekend, first at a birthday party, and then later, at home talking to my husband’s father and stepmother who are in town visiting the new baby. I have the same conversation repeatedly, sometimes with the same people.

But let me back up, and start with the birth, so that you will know where I’m coming from.

We had planned a homebirth from the start, because we live in the woods, at least half an hour from the nearest hospital, and I knew that this baby was going to come quickly. As it turned out, Emil was born before the midwife had time to arrive, after just two hours of labor and a few minutes of pushing.

It was a wonderful experience. I was in the bathtub, my favorite place to be, and my husband caught the baby while our two-year-old daughter Esme slept peacefully in her room. The midwife arrived soon after the birth, and checked to make sure that the baby and I were both doing well. Esme woke up in the morning and came into our room to exclaim, “Baby brother’s out!” It was like Christmas morning.

When I tell this story to people, I expect them to pick up on the fact that from my perspective, this was a wonderful experience. Much better than being at a hospital, where I had my first child. I felt like I was constantly fighting for my rights, forcing them to tell me what they were doing to me, having my doctor tell me to push when it wasn’t necessarily when my body was wanting to push. And then afterwards, having nurses wake me up what seemed like every 15 minutes to check my vitals when all I wanted to do was sleep.

But what people inevitably say when they hear Emil’s birth story is something along the lines of, “Oh my God! Weren’t you terrified?” When I convince them that, no, I didn’t have time to be terrified, they interject with, “Well, wasn’t Jacob (my husband) frightened?” And he answers that he didn’t have time to be scared either. We were both elated to be holding what was obviously a healthy baby boy.

I know, I know, I can put an end to this Groundhog Day by shutting up about the birth story and just smiling blandly when people ask how the birth was. But in a society where people view birth as a medical problem, it seems important to share anecdotes about positive birth experiences. It seems like women in our society are raised to think that they can’t go through this without major help in the form of painkillers and medical interventions and so forth. And yes, there are definitely times that those things are helpful and even necessary. But for a low-risk birth, a woman should have her confidence built on rather than have society feed her fear of a natural process.

So I will go on living my Groundhog Day and sharing my story, stressing yet again that No, we were not afraid. Yes, it hurt, but it was also a wonderful experience. Maybe someone will hear and get the message that birth doesn’t have to be viewed as a medical emergency but that our bodies were meant to do this.

Store-bought Patience

Ah, both children (and even the dog!) are napping, leaving me a moment to myself. It's been one of those days that no matter how hard I try to be the model parent, I feel like I'm drowning. After thoroughly cleaning the house yesterday, it looks like a hurricane went through it today. That would be Hurricane Esme.

In trying to get things done while entertaining Esme, we did lots of projects together today. She helped me wrap presents, and for the most part I was very patient. But there were a few times that I just snapped and found myself raising my voice in frustration (like when she practically climbed up onto the dining room table and ripped the wrapping paper trying to grab it and the present I was wrapping). It's impossible to be a perfect parent, and while I got control of myself quickly, I was mad at myself for letting my temper flare. Then the thought crossed my mind that if I can't even keep my cool with my own children, how will I ever find a child care provider who can? Yes, I've been thinking about childcare lately as I face the fact that my writing career will stall completely unless I have more time to write.

In the meantime, is it possible to buy an extra store of patience for those times that I run out?