My Other Children

Such a rough life

When you have a child, an unintentional hierarchy gets created and it goes: baby, you and your spouse, and then dogs. Macie, our cocker spaniel, decided recently that she needed to be more creative in getting my attention. I was washing the dishes with Charlotte in tow and Macie comes through the doggie door with a mouthful of animal and proceeded to proudly plop it on her bed. I like to think that I am a pretty rough and tumble girl; I have never worn makeup while camping and I would bait my own hook, if I ever went fishing. That being said I don’t do blood and guts in my kitchen. In one gagging motion, I picked up Charlotte and shooed Lola, our beagle, and Macie in the front room. I quickly went over to our neighbor’s house, because in my book, borrowing a cup of sugar and asking for help removing a dead animal carcass from your house is roughly the same thing. They didn’t answer. Back at home, hiding behind the couch made it unclear whether or not the animal had moved. I started panicking that it was injured, justifiably pissed and loose in the house. I opened the door to let Macie back in the kitchen. She ran in and picked it up. I told her to go outside, a command that I didn’t realize she even knew, since she is the pretty but dumb blonde in our family. She dropped the animal on the tile and ran directly outside. Good dog.

I called my pregnant sister in-law to ask for some advice. She said she would be right over with a shovel. I should mention that at one of our family functions we all took turns bench pressing her. Since I was already feeling like a helpless weenie, I called my vet because I wondering if there was some sort of home remedy I could spray in Macie’s mouth in case she licked Charlotte later that day or anytime in the next 18 years. My vet seemed confused that I was concerned for my daughter’s health and well-being and told me that for $1200 we could bring Macie in for a full sedated dental exam. I laughed into Charlotte’s belly, which made her laugh. I’m sorry did you say $1200? But what about Macie’s college fund? My sister in-law arrived and managed to dispose of the dead bird, while I wrangled the dogs and the baby, or rather, I pretended to look busy.

The next best thing to hosing Macie down and having her lap up Listerine was taking her to the groomers. While walking back to the car, we were at a stoplight and gentlemen leaned out of his car window and proceeded to leer in our direction. Oh brother, here we go.

“You have a beautiful cocker spaniel!”

I didn't really know what to say when of the three of us, he complemented my dog. If he’d hollered at me, I would have made a secret documentary while walking down a crowded city street just to see how many people I could outrage by the objectification of women (too soon?). If it were directed at my baby, I would have blushed and said thank you because after all, I created that life form and when someone calls her adorable what they are really saying is, you have great genetics and are a fantastic mom! Thank you for choosing to reproduce! But it was said to Macie. I guess I feel proud because as her owner I have succeeded in not allowing my dogs to look homeless and so I decided to put that in the win column. Thanks for the cat-call. 

Macie after the groomers

The Birth Story

Every single person I know is now pregnant and I can only assume it’s because I have really sold the whole parenting gig. Many first time moms will ask a mother about her birth story and are curious about the various options that are available. TLC has even opted to make an entire TV series about it, because what teenage boy doesn’t want to have their mom whip out that DVD the first time their friends come over the play video games? 

Do these sound familiar?

All natural, baby

These days you are only limited by your imagination when it comes to where you give birth. Labor may take place at home, in a tub, or holding onto a tree in the woods. These superhuman hippies believe if they tell enough people, eventually, someone is bound to give them a much deserved medal, or perhaps a (vegan) cookie. When I walk with my mother’s group in Davis and this topic comes up, it’s amazing how quickly our strollers get divided. Oh I’m sorry this path is only wide enough for moms that didn’t selfishly drug their babies at birth. 

Epidural me, Doc 

I’m not a fan of pain and I was told I get my baby either way.

The theatrical hero

Even at birth he was a stubborn child. Their labor was like 3 days long and they seem to remind their child every time they are just about to blow out their birthday candles. And 49 hours, a blood transfusion and one C-section later there you were… happy birthday to you!

The war veteran

Women in their third trimester should actively avoid the moms that describe birth as a battle scene. The words placenta and tearing should really be limited to Lamaze classes. Dads are generally not invited to share what it was like for them, sort of a no vagina no voice philosophy, but I overheard a dad tell another dad through hushed whispers, “There was a lot of blood, man. Like a lot of blood.” The only place where these accounts are appropriate is the Sex Education classroom with an audience of hormonal teenagers, ideally before prom. 

The ultimate goal of every birth story is always a healthy baby. I have found it is best to be proud of the decisions you've made in the delivery room and share them with the type of blind confidence that is our only currency in parenting. This is the first time you will feel completely ill-equip to be making such important decisions and trust me it won't be the last. Consider it your initiation.

I'm going to have to do what now?

The Anal-Retentive Scale of Worry

My husband told me casually one day that he got electrocuted several times as a kid.

Like how many times is several?

Well there was the time with the Christmas lights. Then once while setting up the wiring for the horse stable and a few other times I can’t remember.

Yeah, I bet!

My mommy mind was actually exploding. On a scale of 1 to 10 on the anal-retentive scale of worry, I consider myself to be an even 5 with 1 being I’m sure my toddler is around here somewhere and 10 being it’s mandatory that my child wear a helmet on the park swing. As a 5, I can say without a shadow of a doubt that I won’t allow my daughter to dabble in activities that may result in her electrocution. This must simply be a boy thing and we need not worry because we will only be having girls. But here is the kicker! My husband has wonderful, protective parents as do I, and I too was electrocuted as a child. I remember going into the garage when I was around 10 and trying to plug in the light with my finger in the way of the socket.

The feeling of knowing that your child will inevitably feel pain, as a parent, is truly terrifying. Now that Charlotte’s standing and crawling everywhere, I’ve entertained the idea of swaddling her in bubble wrap and just rolling her around the house until she gets tired from giggling too much. Knowing her, she’d be amused for a day and then she’d be looking to go for a swim in the dog’s water bowl, again.

What I have come to accept is that worrying about the worry is no way to live. Sure I cringe when Charlotte finds a way to lick every ball in the ball pit where we do baby gymnastics and my heart skips a beat when she scales the couch only to fall backwards on her perfectly padded lil’ tushie. All of these experiences make our children stronger and ultimately us stronger as parents. So if you’re wondering where you fall on the scale, I suggest covering your outlets but put your hands up and step away from the bubble wrap. 

M'mmmmmmm germs!