Preparing for the big adventure

I am starting to think positively again. But the past few weeks have been difficult, and the idea of packing two very young children around Europe suddenly seemed ludicrous. Of course there was the vomit and the diarrhea at 3 a.m. That didn't help my outlook.

A few weeks ago (the night before Mother's Day), Esme got sick. She was ill for a week, and just as things were getting back to normal, Emil got sick. Another week of fevers, throwing up and constant diarrhea (all very scary things when they are occurring in a 7-month-old). Somewhere in there, Jacob got sick and then I got sick, and it's been just one big illness fest.

When I thought forward to this month-long journey, my stomach clenched. Was I nuts to think this was possible? What if one or all of us were sick on the trip? How were we going to get on the Tube with Esme and Emil? What were we thinking? The echoes of people's shock upon hearing of our trip started reverberating around my head: "Wow. You're brave." Brave, or stupid?

But we've turned a page. Now both kids are healthy. Jacob is healthy. I'm at least on my way to healthy. We leave on Wednesday, and suddenly the fog is lifting. My emotions are switching from frightened and anxious (the bad kind of butterflies) to getting excited, daydreaming about streets that I once roamed and miss, as well as streets I've never seen before (the good kind of butterflies).

Maybe Esme and Emil won't remember any of this trip, but I believe they will be affected by it. They are little sponges right now. They are forming their fundamental understanding of how the world works, how people talk and interact, so exposing them to other cultures will only richen that core world view.

And then there is the ultimate truth of the matter: I need to travel for me, not for them. They are just too young to be away from me for that long, so they have to come along because I absolutely have to go. There's a reason I used to run a website called Travelfiend.com. Traveling fulfills something deep inside. It's a passion that helps make me who I am, and I can't quelch it.

I know that I have gone through some serious transitions since having children. There are times that I feel like my soul explodes with happiness, and other moments that my soul feels like it's lost touch with its passions. There is so much that is all about the children: growing them in the womb, feeding them, cleaning them, making their first experiences of this world as magical as possible, it is all very positive. But then there are those moments when I sit back and think, "I had other interests before having kids. What were those again?" And I wonder how the passions that used to define who I was were all pushed to the wayside, discarded like old clothes.

I'm trying not to lose my old passions. I rediscover them in the closet of my mind and pull them out to look at them in the sunlight. I hope you are all trying to hold onto your passions, too. It can be difficult sometimes, but it's doable. I think traipsing about London and Barcelona with two babes will be difficult at times, but overall it will be amazing. An experience that we will remember forever. Yes, I'm able to be optimistic again. Just please pray for me that none of us get sick.

Screw the pink or blue!

Ok, so anyone who knows me knows about my multiple parenting issues: pink everything for girls, plastic everything for children, kids' food, routine circumcision . . . now add boys clothing to the list. Not having had a son before, I've paid very little attention to boys clothes and the conditioning that lies therein. But now I have, I am stunned. I have always been a little flamboyant (!) as a dresser- favouring costumes as often as possible for everyday wear (something you can get away with better in SF than rural England). My tastes may be a little quirky, but I don't punish my kids and make them wear what I choose (well I suppose I do with Atticus, but that's what he gets for being 9 weeks old!). Imogen wears things she can play in- climbing trees, digging in the garden, paddling in the stream. It's just that she might choose a charity-shop bridesmaid's dress instead of overalls. Now that I look at boys' clothes, I am stunned. Blues, browns, muted greens and occasional rusty orange. The only animals I see as images are either big (hippo, dinosaur, etc) or violent (t-rex, shark, monster etc); there are vehicles on everything (JCB even has a Hight St kids clothes line!); and pirate, fireman or construction worker seem to be the boys' equivalent of girls' princess or fairy quandry.

.

It also seems that I am expected to want my son to wear mini combat trousers (what would he put in all those pockets?) and harder textured fabrics (he obviously needs toughening up). I knew a 5th grade lad in Sebastopol who used to come to school in a Chinese brocade jacket and feather boa. Why should this be so unusual, and why should boys' clothes be so dull? Even their fancy dress clothes options are restricted to fireman/monster. I don't want the world to think my boy's a freak, but I want him to have fun with clothes and feel as free to wear stuff that feels good, just as I don't want my daughter to feel prissy and inhibited by pretty clothes.

.

Now, I know I'm being extremist about this, and that there are exceptions (Zutano stripes, Babystyle softest cotton), but it's making me cross that I will have to go out of my way for this, or make his clothes myself.

Equal opportunity diapering

We went to Sam's Chowder House, a new restaurant in Half Moon Bay, a few weeks ago, and found that the owners were doing a good job of catering to families with young children. Crayons, coloring sheets, a good kid's menu, friendly servers, etc. They had thought about almost everything. Almost being the key word here.

Jacob had already visited the bathroom when we got a whiff of a stinker coming from Esme. I looked at Jacob. He looked at me, and said, "There's no changing table in the men's room."

What is going on when even newly constructed or remodeled restaurants don't put changing tables in the men's rooms? Why is it a pervasive thought that only women should change diapers? My only thought is that men must have designed most of these restaurants.

I came across this Google map mashup some time ago that tracks all of the restaurants in Manhattan (and a few in Brooklyn) that have changing tables in the men's room. I can't believe there are this many. If I were more technically savvy, I would try to do the same for the Bay Area. Alas, I'm not.

Happy Mother's Day!

It's Mother's Day, and by all rights, it should be the perfect day. It was planned that way. Jacob woke me up with coffee in bed. As I stirred and roused myself from the bedroom, Esme eagerly gave the present that has been sitting wrapped on the mantel. "I made that for you," she said as I unwrapped the hand-painted box and accompanying beaded bracelet. Jacob had made steamed artichokes with hollandaise sauce, cranberry mimosas, and cantelope wrapped in prosciutto. We had plans to go to the museum for the day, having a picnic lunch in the park and ending with dinner in San Francisco.

What could be wrong with such a perfect picture? Let me fill in the blanks.

It was the middle of the night. We heard Esme crying from her room. Jacob ran to see what was wrong, and I heard footsteps running to the bathroom, followed by the unmistakable sound of vomiting.

Morning light brought my coffee in bed, followed by Esme throwing up in the bowl by our bed. Esme's bath was likewise interrupted by vomiting. I ate the prosciutto-wrapped melon balls with my mimosa to have Esme vomit into the bowl next to me. We sat at the table and ate artichokes dipped in hollandaise, to have Esme vomit into the bowl on the floor next to us.

We looked at each other, and that's when Jacob told me about the planned picnic in the park and the early dinner reservations at Millennium. I had already said I would like to go the museum for the day. "I guess we're not going." Esme was curled up in a ball on the floor.

We have taken turns playing with her in the spells that she feels okay and comforting her when her stomach cramps this morning. It's just proof of how a mother (and a father) don't really get a break, even for a designated holiday. Happy Mother's Day to all of you mommies out there, and may your day be vomit free.

To nap or not to nap . . .

As I sneak away to write and munch a salad, with both children snoozing happily, I wonder how long I can hope for it to last. Not just today, you understand, but future weeks or months. At 3 1/4 Imogen still naps for up to two hours a day, right after lunch. If we are out and about, she sleeps in the push-chair or car seat, but she almost always sleeps. In fact she asks to, or tells me when it's time if I'm busilly scurrying around. On those few times when she skips it, then the afternoon is a near right-off with her griselling and clumsy, then in bed around 6pm.

She tried to give it up a couple of times, and we battled it out. I told her that she needed to have some quiet time after lunch on her bed. If she didn't need to sleep then that was fine, but she had to play or look at books by herself for half an hour. Only a handful of times did she actually stay awake.

None of her friends nap still, or her classmates and both teachers and friends' parents are surprised when I mention it. But she sleeps well at night (solidly from 7pm-7am usually) and obviously needs the daytime rest. I need it, too- even if baby Atticus is up then I can tuck him in the sling and get busy. If both are asleep, like now, I can have some selfishly indulgent time (like taking a shower, doing the dishes, making a cappucino, catching up on email or prepping dinner, oh how things have changed!)

I do feel a slave to the nap, though, and it is well that I am a morning person. We often pop into the city on the bus for the morning, then get home by lunch/nap. In some ways it would be easier if she didn't nap- we could have a long, slow morning, then head off somewhere with our lunch in a backpack. Instead we are out and about right after breakfast- either walking the fields and footpaths or down into the village. I am a cruel mother and make her walk everywhere- no monstrous double-buggy for me! It does mean that we move more slowly, but I get to notice all the details that she sees (oh- that leaf, stone, puppy, squashed bird etc). So maybe I am wearing her out in the mornings, I don't know. And I don't know how long it can last, but I do know that my days will be very different when she is up from 7-7!

Oh horrid morning, hung over from stranger anxiety and sleepnessnes

Maybe I shouldn't even be blogging this morning. I'm exhausted. Jacob is exhausted. The children are exhausted. Esme cried all night. Jacob let her into bed sometime around midnight, and she did her new thing of staying up in bed sighing repeatedly, tossing and turning, then talking to herself. Finally, what seemed like hours later, Jacob took her back to her bed.

The results were predictable. She screamed. Blood-curdling cries. Emil woke up, threatened to cry, but was quickly pacified at mommy's breast. He ate all night as Esme cried all night. Eventually, we let her back in our bed, and sometime way too close to dawn, we all fell asleep.

This followed on the heals of a frustrating dinner experience last night. Every once in a while, we try to take the kids to a decent restaurant. Maybe we're masochists, but we keep thinking it might work out. When Esme was little we were able to do this no problem. But it's more difficult with two kids.

We were doing all right until the waiter spoke directly to Esme. The result was tears, building to what I could tell would become hysterical tears, so I swooped her up into my arms and exited the building. We have a firm rule of no crying in restaurants, and she usually waits until we get outside to wail. We went back inside, and the waiter spoke to her again. Yes, again she started crying. The third time he spoke to her, I had actually just told him he probably shouldn't. It's like seeing a wet paint sign, though, and happens impulsively. For the third time, I swept her from the dining room. We left with a full glass of wine I was rather enjoying on the table, but we did manage to finish our food.

Last night wasn't an isolated incidence. An adult just has to come near her in public (or a child, for that matter), and she threatens to dissolve into tears. I have to confess that those little children who are deathly afraid of everyone who talk to them annoy me. I can't believe that my daughter is in that category.

I have been contemplating ways to train it out of her this morning, but with my background in dog-rearing, all I can come up with is having strangers give her jelly bellies. Uhm, yeah, I realize I shouldn't teach her to take candy from strangers, so that won't work. Jacob reminds me, "She's two." Yes, I know she's two. But I can't help but think that MY two-year-old shouldn't have those issues.

X Chromosome is one flexible mama

There was a great article (subscription required) in the NY Times today about the X Chromosome and how it has come to be more flexible and hard to understand than most other chromosomes (and especially from the male Y chromosome, which apparently just has to sprout a little penis). I couldn't help but giggle my way through the article, which concluded with this paragraph:

Every daughter, then, is a walking mosaic of clamorous and quiet chromosomes, of fatherly sermons and maternal advice, while every son has but his mother’s voice to guide him. Remember this, fellows: you are all mama’s boys.

Ah, how often I have told Emil that already!