Where's My Cape?

contributing to healthy mind growth, everyday

Me: Okay, I need to put you down before all that's left of my arm is a bloody stump.

*sets down Boy on sidewalk*

Girl: What's a bloody stum??? Bloody stum?

Medical Advice Monday: Grandma's Alternative Guidance for Mothering Everday (GAG-ME)

The GAG-ME Syndrome

Introduction: The GAG-ME Syndrome has been described since the dawn of time, in all time periods. Even ancient hieroglyphics depict elder woman figures waving a finger at younger women carrying infants. In these illustrations, the younger woman often has her face turned away with the eye looking upward towards the heavens. In present-day times, contemporary women are almost universally afflicted with GAG-ME, to greater or lesser degrees.

Pathophysiology: It is unknown why Grandmothers will develop such differing and conflicting opinions from their children for child-rearing, no matter what the topic. Due to the ubiquitous nature of this syndrome, it is hypothesized to be transmitted via the X chromosome. Certain baseline grandmother characteristics (tendency towards being more controlling, dramatic, and stubborn, for instance) predispose to greater phenotypic expression of GAG-ME. Certain baseline maternal characteristics (tendency towards being more controlling, dramatic, and stubborn, for instance) also contribute.

The Syndrome: From the moment of a child's birth, there is vocal opposition from the maternal or paternal grandmother to the mother's approach to the child's care. This is not limited to infancy, but, sadly, lasts indefinitely. Alternative guidance can predate a child's birth and involve such things as (but not limited to): birth plan, childcare arrangements, method of feeding, time interval between feedings, sleep duration and quality, sleep methods, mother's sleep, mother's hygiene, length of breastfeeding, handling of night wakings, feeding quantity, pumping, color of child's room, discipline, choice of child's clothing, monitoring, diapering, bathing, timing of subsequent children, maternal diet, maternal weight loss (or lack thereof), maternal haircut, seasonal concerns, illness management, travel considerations, teething, oral hygiene, elimination frequency, potty training specifics, choice of detergents, choice of soaps, choice of anything used in the house, choice of anything used outside the house, etiquette/manners, children's literacy, and any other thing, place, or action not listed.

Prognosis: Prognosis for the mother solely hinges on maternal sense of humor and impulse control. Mothers must know they are not alone in dealing with GAG-ME and must stay united in the face of perpetual usurpation. Also, it may be helpful to understand that the cause is most likely linked to the X chromosome and, indeed, lies dormant in each mother until the birth of their first grandchild. Grandmothers who have full-blown versions of the syndrome may also find that accepting this as a bonafide condition may help them tone it down a notch and understand why such conflict is inherent to the relational bond. When in a stalemate, the mothering opinions of the actual mother of the child should always reign.

This brief was funded by the Council on GAG-ME's Spoon subcommittee.

And so began my catatonic phase

Once a week, I give Joles and JL a dual-bath to kill two birds with one wet stone. Usually, it is a Sunday, following the heels of missed naps galore meaning increased efficiency later at bedtime. The kids love it. Joles, especially, loves getting to play in the tub with her baby brother and requests the dual-bath often. JL is less enthusiastic as he seems to suffer frequent, sudden coordinate-altering events from his big sister's enthusiastic play.

In the process, Joles has discovered that her baby brother has a perma-"boo boo" in the form of male genitalia (I did correct her that, no, he did not have some mutant tumor sprouting from his pelvis - those are boy privates). JL has discovered how much fun it can be to play with all of those bath toys (we unleash the flood of them when they are in together.)

Sunday night, I was tub-side, watching them play, JL standing up as he does 95% of the time, when I noticed a piece of brown paper on his bum. You know, like those old school brown paper towel fragments, hanging on for dear life in his butt crevice. I wiped it off with my finger to find it not an old school brown paper towel fragment. It was mushy. It was, in fact, speckled with other colors. And so changed the fate of the night: it was Dookie. On my finger. My finger. In dookie.

My eyes darted around, hoping not to find what I expected to find, but there it was: A parent dookie. Formed, but disintegrating by the second. I screamed, "POOP DOOKIE! POOP DOOKIE! JOLIE! GET OUT OF THERE NOW! POOP DOOKIE!" She scrambled out, watching with concern at her brother and mother losing their shet. A second later I was catching another dookie as it dropped out of his butt with my BARE HAND. "AHHHHHHH! POOP DOOKIE!"

I threw the dookie into toilet and madly tore off a length of TP, grabbing one of the two fraying turds floating in the water and threw it into the toilet. They were multiplying. I did the same with the second, then scooped up JL to rinse him off before he became more contaminated. There were innumerable floating poop remnants drifting in the bath water, in and on and all around the 2,439 bath toys. I set JL down for a minute to pass poor Joles a towel and in that time, he managed to reach into the tub to grab a plastic toy ring and stick it in his mouth. NOOOOOOO!!!!! I got him dry and slathered up in his high-maintenance skin cream regimen, setting him down to lather my nastified hands with 1,000 hand pumps of soap. Scrub. Scrub. Scrub. Which gave JL the perfect opportunity to run his naked, chubby self down the hall and into his bedroom.

"JP! JP! NEED HELLLLLLLLLLLLLP!"

JP was debriefed and was appropriately grossed out and what my hands and my eyes had been through. He took over decon procedures in the bathtub while I got JL and Joles dressed. Afterwards, I sat, shell-shocked on the floor of JL's bedroom. The magnitude of grossness was horrid. For crying out loud, I held human excrement in my bare hands. Again. Again.

Please tell me that was the very last time I'll hold my child's poop in my bare hands. For the love of God.

After the tantrum

I go to lie down after dinner, not feeling so well. So, Husband goes about the business of putting Girl to bed alone.

I hear them in the bathroom right next to our room. The step stool dragging. Doors loudly shutting. (The baby!) Whining overtones drifting to my ears. Sounds of impending mutiny.

Crying. Her loud crying.

The sound of Husband walking out into the hall and shutting the door, the momentary magnified cries suddenly muted several notches. I hear his voice, strained. His limit, reached.

I drag myself out of bed and into the harsh bathroom light where Jolie stands half-undressed and suddenly more pliant. I get her dressed, brushed and into bed. She is tired, I decide. Maybe it was that popsicle after dinner. Maybe it was Husband and I, mostly talking to each other during dinner, hungrily catching up on each other's work day. Multifactorial, I conclude.

Our fault, probably.

So, I decide that tonight, for the "5 minutes" that I'll linger in her room with the lights out, I will curl up beside her. I rest my head on her pillow, 6 inches from her face. I drape my arm around her and she does the same. I observe my daughter, 6 inches away, taking in the half of her face not sunk into the pillow. It is a beautiful, less in focus half-face. She loves this closeness, I can tell. Repositioning her arm around me, touching my face. She is wildly in love with this closeness. At one point, she lifts up her head to touch me with her nose, then back down.

I am taken aback. I am taking it all in.

"Is it two minutes yet?"
"Yes."

"Mommy?"

I wait for the question.

"I love you."

"I love you too."

"I love you too."

She takes her ring finger and rubs it gently into her pillow. Then uses her finger to touch her lips gently tracing them with a familiar pattern. Back and forth. Top and bottom. Dabs pillow. Trace. She does this without words, as if by habit, and I see it. It's me. Putting on my lip balm from my tin. It's me.

I laugh.

"Are you putting on lip balm?"

She giggles.
We're both laughing now, one turn after another. She keeps tracing her lips. Back and forth. Top and bottom.

It is five minutes or six or seven and she hugs me with all of her might.

And, I think: I need to do this more. Yes, she needs it too.

Cross-posted at Mothers in Medicine.

Zero ABC

One of the few episodes of Nanny 911 (or was it Supernanny?) I watched involved an issue with a child who CONTINUALLY got out of bed at night. Each time, she would have to be walked back into her room, tucked in, only to have this repeat in a never-ending cycle of parental pain. All night. I can't even remember if we had Girl yet, but I do distinctly remember thinking: PLEASELORDNO.

From that point on, I dreaded the day that this would come. It gave me mental dry heaves.

So, imagine my delight to discover that somehow, Girl came to believe ALL ON HER OWN, that she was not supposed to leave her bed once tucked in at night until we came to get her in the morning. I mean, hello! Awesomeness! Occasionally, she would resist going to bed and not want us to leave, but once we pried ourselves away, she was in. For the night. If she woke up earlier than when we came to get her around 7 am, she would read her books in bed and otherwise ENTERTAIN HERSELF. And, thus, the Golden Age of Bed Confinement (GABC) continued. The King and Queen of the Land were mighty satisfied.

The only real problem that came out of the GABC was that if there was some issue, even minor, say, her needing the fan to be turned on, turned off, socks on, socks off, wax on, wax off...she would need to summon us to her. Usually this would begin with inaudible articulations - mamamamamamama - moving to louder MamaMamaMamaMamaMama - until finally crescendoing to a MAMA!WAIL!MAMA! WAIL! cacophony of discontent. The speed at which this occurred was slightly chilling.

Yet for a long time, we tolerated this because DUDE let the GABC continue. It's better than the alternative!

The only other problem with the GABC was the dependency on The Night-time Diaper. To our defense, we figured she couldn't be possibly ready to ditch it (despite otherwise being potty-trained for 1 1/2 years) since every morning, it weighed approximately 10 pounds. Seriously. You could do bicep curls with it. However, we did not consider that it was 10 pounds because of almost 12 hours of bed confinement. Yes, well.

Meanwhile, the crying episodes were increasing. Being scared started accounting for a large percentage of cries and I was getting up sometimes several times at night to soothe her. (The Queen of the Land was far less satisfied with this turn of events, and the fact that the King always wore his royal earplugs to sleep.)

I realized, though, that we were essentially reinforcing her to cry in order to get her needs met. Which was not our original intention (that was purely selfish). So, we took a deep collective breath this week and declared the end of GABC.

We told her that she was able to get up and get us if she needed something. She could get up and go to the bathroom is she had to.  Empowering her.

Today was the 3rd day in a row she woke up with a 0 lb diaper, having gotten up 1-2 times at night to go on her own. She has not cried because of being scared. She has even turned off her own nightlight because it was "too bright." And she has been beaming with pride every morning with her night-time successes, so proud to be a big girl.

Empowering the girl. Amazing how the rest just follows. Embarassing to not have done this sooner.

Bracing for impact

Girl and I are walking home from school when she sees, way in the distance, a small shape that can only be her friend, Jill*. Her words, which had been traveling out of her mouth up until this point, cut off abruptly and flutter to the ground like paper snowflakes.

JILLLLLL!

There is a lurch. There is running. The sidewalk squares speed by. Ahead, coming closer, is Jill, running towards her, pigtails soaring behind.  Jill is wearing a grin of bubbling excitement. I can no longer see Girl's face but can only imagine the determination. The glee. The desperate love.

Be careful, I yell.

Primarily, I mean: don't fall on the concrete at such high speeds. But, those two words wear heavier than that.

Like the answer to a physics equation with vectors and speed, the two small bodies make contact with a dispersion of energy into space. Invisible rays of girl love shoot out from their nexus. It is sweet, I think. I admit, yes, sweet.

Yet, behind them, unnoticed, I'm sinking a bit deeper into the ground. Watching the scene with a measured detachment. Wariness.

Kyra* is walking towards them purposefully. For Kyra is Jill's friend. And Jill is Girl's friend. And Kyra is Girl's friend. But the logic is not so straight-forward or permanent in the minds of 3 and 4 year-olds. Because sometimes Jill is not Girl's friend, Kyra is Girl's friend. And sometimes Girl is not Kyra's friend but Jill's friend.

When I hear these social declarations, I start a slow inward coil. Gathering up her heart, her love, her joy, and tucking it in safely under my arms. Gently. Quietly. Preemptively.

I can see what's coming up ahead. Maybe not now, maybe not next month, but at some point, there will be heartbreak. Where the invisible rays of girl love shoot out and wound.

So, I brace. And watch their exchange with muted happiness.

*names changed

Blindsided

Just minutes ago, Girl was out in our backyard, transferring dirt from one bowl to another. Besides the dirt covering her hands and arms, her face was also marred, akin to "Pigpen" minus the accompanying flies. I had looked at her and thought how different she was than the little girl I imagined I would have. How different she was than the little girl I was. Or at least how I imagine I was.

By sheer coincidence, I had flipped through an old photo album with her yesterday, pointing to the little girl in the pictures and asking her who it was. "Jolie," she said. No, it's mommy. When mommy was a little girl. There I was, in one dress or the other, looking very girly. And clean. I never had a picture taken after making mud "cakes with meatballs", never played with a dump truck full of earth.

From the time she was little, she was fiercely independent and strong. When hurt, she would cry but refuse to be comforted by my arms. It was she who gave up nursing, not me (much to my heaving heart). At school, she is a natural leader, often trailed by several children following suit. When yelled at during moments of adult lapses of composure, she does not cry. Instead, she will put her head down and ride out the storm, only to pop back up as if nothing happened. Maybe smile. For this reason, I came to think that she was rather impervious to the usual insults that wound children. That wounded me.

My aunt, who has been staying with us helping to watch Boy temporarily, was getting ready for a night out with a friend. She doesn't speak much English and ordinarily, must deal with my remedial Mandarin for communication in her own native tongue. (This may be the topic of a future post, how my mother feels the need to translate my Chinese to Chinese for her, as if I speak accompanied by a perma-echo). So, getting out for an evening minus her ball and chain (us) and with a native Chinese speaker was to be a real treat.

My aunt's friend arrives and Girl commando-crawls her way across the kitchen floor in her usual strange-behavior-for-strangers way. The friend is nonplussed by the extreme dirtiness of Girl, at that moment resembling a feral child who has never bathed or been in the presence of humans. Jolie kicks off her shoes while still on the floor.  We apologize for Girl's six layers of dirt and the friend smiles, "Are you coming with us, Girl?"

It is a rhetorical question, and we make small talk before they make their way out. They are headed to get some good Japanese food in Virginia. Husband and I continue getting ready for our dinner guest, about to arrive momentarily. Husband's going to get busy with the grill. He is all about the grill.

Then, a small voice with the see-saw of impending tears says, "But, I put on my shoes."

I can't see her but I know instantly that she was waiting by the door. Suddenly, I know she had put on her shoes while we were all making small talk, with the glee of knowing she was going out to dinner. And as the door closed behind them, she was the only one who remained. Still facing the door.

Husband and I make eye contact. Oh. No.

We say in our cheeriest voices that she wouldn't like it, that restaurant, that we were going to have such good food and such a good time here.

The look on her face. She is crushed.

I know she will be crushed many times in life. Crushed over things far more heartbreaking and monumental than this. But to feel it now, like this, feels like the first time. Maybe because I did not see it coming. And I wonder how often will I stand, with the wind knocked out of me, for not seeing it coming and not doing anything to cushion the blow.