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Nov 24, 2008

So That’s Where I Got My Competitive Spirit

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When I was little, my mom worked full-time and so she had to find a babysitter for me. She found a sweet older lady who only charged $25 a week (!) and was available pretty much anytime mom needed her.

This woman’s only hobbies, from what I could tell, were doing word searches from giant word search books, buying useless stuff from catalogs and watching TV. Since my mom worked all different shifts, I got most of my early 80’s TV knowledge from my time spent at my babysitter’s house.

While she loved Lawrence Welk and Fantasy Island, what my babysitter loved most of all were game shows. I remember her yelling at the screen whenever someone would place a bid $1 higher than another bid on The Price is Right – because we all know that’s just rude.

It didn’t matter how strange the game show was – she was into it. And I learned a lot of game show strategy from all of my time there. I learned the value of nearly every household product from The Price is Right. I learned prioritizing and quick math from Wheel of Fortune when winners had the chance to pick the prizes they wanted from the revolving showroom. I knew more songs than my friends thanks to Name That Tune. I could even figure out clever license plates from some game show that was all about reading license plates. (I can’t remember the name of it.)

My favorite, though, had to be Press Your Luck. There was something about the Whammy that sent me into giggles. I think I knew every little skit the Whammy performed as he took away contestants’ money.

My babysitter always talked about how she could do so much better than the contestants if she ever had the chance to go on one of the many game shows she watched. I somehow doubt she would have done well, unless it was a show about the products in the Lillion Vernon catalog.

And that trait seems to have rubbed off on me – if I ever had the chance to go on Who Wants To Be A Millionaire, I think I’d leave a very wealthy woman.

What was your favorite game show as a kid?

This post is part of a weekend blog blast sponsored by Parent Bloggers and Oliebollen.com. Join in before midnight for a chance to win a shopping spree (a la the old Toys ‘R Us timed shopping sprees) at Oliebollen.com!

Filed Under: memories ·


Sep 21, 2008

Four

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Four years ago on this day, I woke up at 6am after a fitful night of sleep. I quickly got up, showered and took a long look around our house. I was 38 weeks pregnant, and had to be at the hospital by 8am to have my daughter.

I planned to go into labor naturally, but Cordelia had other ideas. After weeks and weeks of feeling something hard in my ribs, making it extremely hard to breathe, my doctor confirmed via ultrasound that indeed it was my baby girl’s large skull pressing on my diaphragm. She remained stubborn and refused to turn head down, bringing up the question of what to do. My doctor gave me several options, including attempting a breech birth, but since she was my first child, I was too afraid of something going wrong and hurting her. I decided on the scheduled c-section.

Sitting in the pre-op area, I listened to Cordy’s heartbeat coming from the monitor, galloping steadily, completely unaware that she was being born that day. Aaron sat beside me, holding my hand and trying to keep my mind off the upcoming surgery. I was excited to finally meet our daughter, and scared of what lie ahead – not just the surgery, but the entire idea of being a mother.

My spinal anesthesia was done by a resident, and amazingly she got it on the first try. As soon as the anesthesia hit my system, I immediately vomited. (I’m sensitive to those drugs.) As they prepped me for surgery, my doctor walked me through the procedure one more time. I asked if the drape could be lowered when they pulled her out so I could see it, but they told me no, due to keeping a sterile field. I asked if I could have a mirror set up – I swore that the gore wouldn’t bother me – but my doctor again refused, saying that seeing someone else cut open and seeing yourself cut open can cause very different reactions. I was disappointed that everyone else in the room would see my daughter before I would.

The surgery seemed to take forever. I kept asking, “Is she out yet?” My doctor was getting close and asked how big this baby was estimated to be. I said around 6 lbs. and she quickly replied, “I’m looking at her butt right now, and I can tell you this isn’t a 6 lb. baby butt!” Finally they told Aaron to stand up and peer over the curtain. I again asked, “Is she out yet?” and Aaron said yes. I then waited to hear that first cry, the confirmation that she was breathing.

That cry finally came, and it was one of a royally pissed off baby. She was truly offended to have been pulled out so roughly, and as a nurse quickly walked past me, holding the baby up to see as she moved her to the warmer, I saw a pale, chubby baby with a face so angry that her eyes nearly disappeared into her scrunched-up, screaming face. Aaron followed her to the warmer to take pictures while I strained my neck around, trying to catch a glimpse of her again.

After she was quickly dried off and weighed (8 lbs, 4 oz!), they swaddled her into a baby burrito and Aaron brought her over to me. Cordy was quiet by this point, stunned by what had just happened to her, and looking around with confused, uneasy eyes. Our family moment was short-lived, and soon they insisted on taking her to the nursery for a full evaluation because of fluid in her lungs. I wouldn’t see her again for over three hours.

During that time, Aaron and his father watched Cordy through the nursery window, laying alone on a warmer. I was still downstairs in the recovery room, waiting to have feeling in my toes before they would move me upstairs. When we were finally reunited, I first vomited again (anesthesia) and then finally got to hold my daughter. I felt so disconnected from this child. She was crying and my first attempts to soothe her didn’t go so well. Could I really do this? Did she already hate me?


Our rough start was hard on all of us. Cordy was angry with the world, unwilling to breastfeed, shrill in her cries, and unable to eat without spitting part of it back up. I spent many nights during those first few weeks bouncing gently on an exercise ball while I held her, begging her to go to sleep while I softly cried and wondered if it would always be like this.


It did get better, of course. As we slowly got to know each other, and she accepted that she would never be able to go back to that warm, dark, wet place she liked so much before September 21, she began to enjoy the world around her, and I found myself completely in love with her. I can’t pinpoint when it happened – I know that when I left the hospital I worried about what kind of a mother I would be because I didn’t feel that instant bond with my daughter. But at some point we found that connection, and I ached to be away from her for even a moment.

Our rocky start was a learning curve for both of us – she is my first child, my trailblazer, and my only experience as a mother back then were my trials and errors with her. We’ve grown together, and my experience with her has been only a benefit for her sister, Mira.

Cordelia is no longer the angry baby. She purged years of anger from her in those early weeks, replacing it with a child who is full of love and happiness. On this day, her fourth birthday, she’s a beautiful girl who is smart, curious, and funny. She spins in circles until she falls down in giggles and will chase bubbles for as long as I can blow them. She insists on going to bed before 8pm, and always goes to her room with little complaint. (Although it guarantees she’ll be awake before 7am.)

She still challenges us every single day, but I now feel more comfortable handling those challenges.

Happy birthday, Cordelia. You’re still my Amazon warrior princess.


Filed Under: Cordy, growing up, memories ·


Sep 20, 2008

Memories of Dark, Sleepy Nights

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As we approach Cordelia’s fourth birthday, my mind often drifts back to when she was a baby. I can’t say she was the easiest baby, because she wasn’t. But slowly a lot of those hard times are being erased from my memory due to the effects of time. However, many of those good memories are slipping away, too, and I’m trying to hold tight to the ones I do still remember.

This weekend there is a virtual baby shower being held for Kristen and Rebecca to celebrate the upcoming births of their third and second child, respectively. (Amalah is also getting a virtual shower, too, with details here.) The hostesses asked for all those participating to share some of the good memories we have from those hazy infant days, and while they may be getting fuzzy, I do have one strong memory in mind.

Cordy co-slept until four months, at which point I was back to work and all attempts at breastfeeding had been completely abandoned. She woke generally one or two times a night, which wasn’t bad for a four month old. Being a first time mom, each night I jumped up at the first grumbles heard on the monitor and prepared her bottle.

I’d go into her room, dimly lit by her Beatrix Potter nightlight, and lift her out of her crib. We’d settle in together in my glider, and I’d give her a bottle while rocking her gently. Half of the time, she fell into a half-asleep state immediately (me too), only awake enough to eat and then fall into a deep slumber as soon as the bottle was finished.

But the other half of the time, she was still awake at the end of the bottle, looking up at me with wide eyes in the darkness. And it was on these occasions that I lifted her up to my shoulder, with her head nuzzled in the crook of my neck, and rock her to sleep.

Cordy was never a cuddly baby. She tolerated being held, but most attempts to snuggle her were met with protests. The only time I got to really cuddle my baby girl was when she needed a little help falling asleep after the bottle. This was our time together – in the stillness of the night, just the two of us rocking together to the sounds of the nighttime CD playing and her noisy breathing with the occasional contented sigh.

Sure, I wanted to get back to bed. I was still working full-time at that point, and knew I was facing a long day when the sun came up. That special moment of me holding her against me as we rocked, however, was worth more to me than the extra sleep. Even when I knew she was fully asleep, I’d often stay an extra ten minutes or more, just to enjoy the moment.

I specifically remember telling myself, “You must remember this. Of all the memories of her growing up, you must remember this moment when she is this small, asleep on your shoulder.” And I did. I burned the memory into my mind, making sure that time and age would not take it from me.

If you want to join in on the virtual baby shower, visit the shower post for the details. (Hint: there are prizes, too!) Good luck to Kristen, Rebecca and Amy – I wish you all easy births and babies who don’t have explosive poop or colic.

A rare moment (and yes, that’s Cordy!)
Filed Under: being a mom, Cordy, love, memories ·


Jul 28, 2008

Toy Cah-ray-zee!

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I’m so grateful that in the past two years there hasn’t been a single must-have toy that the under 5 set desires at any cost to their parents. We all remember the Tickle Me Elmo craze – thankfully I had no children at that point. I can’t imagine the anguish of parents actually going out of their way to obtain one of those red muppets so it could torture them with his maniacal laugh.

Remember the Cabbage Patch Kid craze of the early 80’s? Yeah, I was one of those kids. And I remember my grandmother went out in the pre-Christmas crowds to fight for one of those moon-faced dolls. I’m amazed she didn’t get trampled by the more aggressive parents – who knew grandma was so tough? At Christmas I unwrapped that yellow box, and got to hold my first (of many) Cabbage Patch dolls – her name was Madeline Eva. I still have that doll, and she still holds a place in my heart, even more so now because I know my grandmother put so much effort into making sure I got that special toy.

Would I do the same should that must-have, hard-to-find toy come along that captures Cordy’s attention? Of course! After all, Aaron and I have plenty of experience, after hunting down the rare PS2, Wii, and the Furby. (What? Can’t a woman in her mid-20’s want a Furby? They were cute!) Aaron has also been through his fair-share of doorbuster deal crowds the day after Thanksgiving. We can deal with the crushing crowds, the line jumpers, and the store-to-store searching. It’s the thrill of the hunt, right?

Sure, that toy might soon become some trinket tossed aside for the next obsession, but it also just might be the doll that still brings back warm memories every time she looks at it, 25 years later.

This post is part of the blog blast for the Parent Bloggers Network and sponsored by Hasbro and their Hot Summer Toy Event. Join in by writing a post before midnight tonight for your chance to win Hasbro toys and games!

Filed Under: being a mom, clearly insane, memories, pop culture ·


Jul 1, 2008

Sunscreen is the New Black

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It’s obvious to anyone who sees me that I burn easily in the sun. Being fair-skinned, I’ve never been able to achieve those deep tans that others sport.

I’ve always known about sunscreen. As a kid, my mom would put a bottle of it in my backpack every time she dropped me off at the community pool, nagging me to use it. I, being the cocky, indestructible eight year old that I was, would tell her OK as she drove away, then ditch my backpack with my towel under a picnic table as I ran to join up with friends in the deep end of the pool. The sunscreen remained in my bag the entire day.

As you can imagine, I’d come home bright red nearly every day. Sometimes with blisters. As soon as the burn healed and the dead skin peeled away, I was right back out in the sun to burn anew. Burns hurt, yeah, but I was a kid and didn’t want anything to get in the way of play, and that included the time it took to put on sunscreen. Besides, I didn’t like how greasy it felt.

When I was a teenager, I didn’t want to burn but I sure wanted that tan. Tanned bodies filled the high school, and being ghost white made me stand out. (Well, stand out more than I already did.) I always had bad luck with tanning, though, resulting in either a burn or a pathetic light tan. When I had a part-time job at 16, I used some of the money to tan in a tanning booth. I still burned though. Let me put it this way: I burned so much as a kid that my nose is permanently red.

I look back on all of this skin damage, and wish I could go back to my old self and do some kind of scared straight intervention. It would probably involve vivid descriptions of what it’s like to have spots and moles removed (I was terrified of needles as a kid) and the phone conversation I had with my dermatologist’s office yesterday:

“Hi, I’m calling with the results on the skin biopsies we did. OK, the one on the right middle back was benign.”

In the one and a half seconds between that sentence and the next, I pondered her words. Why did she start individually? Is she required to go through each one, instead of telling me they’re all OK? Or maybe one of them came back with something wrong. OK, I guess I should be prepared for one to come back abnormal.

And then she continued, “The other five all came back abnormal. We call it neoplastic…” At this point my focus drifted off of her actual words as I remained on the words abnormal and neoplastic. We studied this in nursing school. It means pre-cancer cells. Five of six removed were abnormal. Five out of six. I wasn’t prepared to hear that. Sure, pre-cancer cells aren’t cancer, but they could be if I’m not cautious.

She continued on, unable to hear my chaotic inner monologue, “They’re pre-cancer cells, which means if they had been left alone they were more likely to turn into skin cancer. There are three levels of abnormal cells: mild, moderate, severe. So far, all of those came back mild, but the doctor now wants to see you every four months for rechecks and to remove any more that show any signs of change.”

I finally stumbled out, “Should I do anything?”

“Well, you’re at a much higher risk for skin cancer now, so if you’re not already doing it, protect your skin. Preventing further skin damage will help, although the past damage still keeps you at risk.”

At least those five abnormal spots were removed. But at the same time, I remember at my appointment that the doctor had mapped out several more to keep an eye on. He probably could have removed another six, but I’m guessing he didn’t feel like making me look like swiss cheese or want me to care for that many wounds at once. Now I look at all of these moles on my arms, legs, back, chest, and face, wondering when one of them might turn against me. Which one is harboring pre-cancer cells, just waiting for their chance to attack me?

I’ve embraced pale white as a lifestyle and fashion choice since my college years, and this recent news is reinforcing my resolve. I will wear protective clothing or sunscreen when out in the sun. I often forget to apply sunscreen when I’m out for short periods, which is something I need to be more consistent with, since that can cause damage, too.

And I’m going to make sure both girls put on sunscreen when they’re outdoors, especially Cordy, who inherited my pale skin. Mira has her dad’s olive-tan skin tone, but that doesn’t fully protect her, either. If they won’t wear it, maybe when they’re older I’ll take them with me for a mole removal, or just show them all of my small scars. They already complain like I did as a kid, but someday I hope they’ll understand that I’m only trying to keep them from going through the fear and worries I’ve gone through, and will likely go through again.

So if you ever need sunscreen, let me know. I’ll always have some with me!

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Filed Under: big issues, me me me, memories ·