This week has been tough already and it's hardly even begun. Cora ended up getting sick again. She woke up Friday morning with a congested nose and gradually developed horrible diarrhea that culminated in her throwing up at the end of the night. Her fever broke Sunday morning around 2 a.m., but she hasn't been very interested in eating anything for about five days. And she's still sick. I feel horrible for her, and incredibly vulnerable myself. I just had a long talk with my friend and basically broke down into a sniffling, crying mess about how difficult it is to not know if something is wrong with your child. I am totally ready to be convinced that this has just been the worst flu season imaginable, and that Cora has just had to get through it with an unusually high level of incidents, but worry is eating away at me that my baby might be too susceptible to stuff.
If there's one thing in the world I love more than life itself, it's my little Cora.
I don't want her to get sick so much. I want her to be healthy and strong and able to experience this beautiful day.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Blue sky and a sleepy baby
As I mentioned in my last post, Cora has been very wakeful these past few nights. Teething, growing, sleeping through increased daylight hours, and just generally being a baby is hard sometimes. So, not only is she tired, cranky, and just generally more fragile, this morning she gave herself a paper cut in her eye. If that sentence doesn't give you the shivers, well then, you're much more hardy than I. We were in the middle of a drawing project (one where she asks me to draw things like dogs, cats, or the images on her puzzles), and she was so excited about the whole thing that she wildly waved a few pieces of paper around. While I was reaching out to take the paper away and warn her about hurting her eye, I saw the corner slice through the air and she collapsed into my chest, screaming.
Oh, it is so much easier to get hurt than to see your kids get hurt. And eyes are a big deal. I sat there holding her and being super calm while thinking about the blinding pain I would be going through if that had happened to me.
So we went to the doctor again. I am like a rotating door, just in and out of that place with one thing or another this season. It turns out she scraped the white of her eye and her cornea, but the good news is that it should heal in 24-48 hours. We have some antibiotic salve to help it heal. Her nose is stained yellow from the super galactic dye they used, and her eye oozed a lovely neon green liquid the color of antifreeze for a few hours afterward.
The thing is, you'd think I'd be at my wit's end--no sleep, frayed at the edges, very little writing, nothing all that grand or spectacular about much of anything, really. Except I just keep looking at this little person we created and thinking how interesting she is. She is opinionated and adamant and funny, she likes to make people laugh and she loves to spin and get really dizzy and fall down, she wants so much to do everything we do, like brush her teeth and her hair and cook and draw and run and sweep and climb stairs and play music and read and write. She wants to be in the middle of everything and if someone starts laughing about something she'll throw her head back and crinkle up her nose, open her mouth up really wide and just laugh and laugh, looking over at them to see if everything is still supposed to be funny. She'll say "yeah" with a great deal of understanding during the pauses in my conversation when I'm saying things she can't possibly comprehend. She is deeply, desperately in love with dogs and mentions them about, oh, every 45 seconds (that, I must admit, is a bit wearing...we're in the middle of say, eating or nursing or talking about something important like why wheels go round and round and she interrupts me to say "Woof, woof. Da."). She knows a fair number of words but the pronunciation is still a challenge; I've become one of those moms of a toddler who hears a single syllabic sound like "da" and says, depending on context, "oh yes, you see a dog!" or, "you would like to draw?" or "ok, you can get down now." Her most clear words are yeah, no, elbow, pasta, turtle, fish, apple sauce or apple juice, and opposites (this can either mean she wants to read Opposites by Eric Carle, or it can mean she is being an octopus when she's writhing on the kitchen floor pretending she has 8 appendages).
She turned 16 months on Tuesday (4/14). Tomorrow will be my 5-month anniversary of being with her full-time. I still need to iron out the wrinkles in a difficult schedule that allows for very little writing. I need to either accept that I'm not much of a late-night writer, or else I need to embrace caffeine and sleeping pills. Since both of those substances would only make me crazy, I need to be diligent about writing even on days when I just don't feel like I have anything interesting to say. I still battle wanderlust every single day but it is not for the kind of life that perhaps one might imagine I am craving...I very rarely wish I were getting ready for a day in the office, although that certainly does hit me--especially when I see women driving in their cars alone, drinking coffee and having long moments of solitude like the ones I used to enjoy when I drove across the 520 bridge to Kirkland. More, what I am craving is space and sun, blue sky and blue water. Big trees and gardens and beaches, golden grain, boulders, open kitchens and exposed wood walls, old-fashioned cook stoves and home cooked hearty vegetable sauces, tangy pine air and springy ground, and garden parties with interesting adults and spirited kids.
In a word, I want summer.
Oh, it is so much easier to get hurt than to see your kids get hurt. And eyes are a big deal. I sat there holding her and being super calm while thinking about the blinding pain I would be going through if that had happened to me.
So we went to the doctor again. I am like a rotating door, just in and out of that place with one thing or another this season. It turns out she scraped the white of her eye and her cornea, but the good news is that it should heal in 24-48 hours. We have some antibiotic salve to help it heal. Her nose is stained yellow from the super galactic dye they used, and her eye oozed a lovely neon green liquid the color of antifreeze for a few hours afterward.
The thing is, you'd think I'd be at my wit's end--no sleep, frayed at the edges, very little writing, nothing all that grand or spectacular about much of anything, really. Except I just keep looking at this little person we created and thinking how interesting she is. She is opinionated and adamant and funny, she likes to make people laugh and she loves to spin and get really dizzy and fall down, she wants so much to do everything we do, like brush her teeth and her hair and cook and draw and run and sweep and climb stairs and play music and read and write. She wants to be in the middle of everything and if someone starts laughing about something she'll throw her head back and crinkle up her nose, open her mouth up really wide and just laugh and laugh, looking over at them to see if everything is still supposed to be funny. She'll say "yeah" with a great deal of understanding during the pauses in my conversation when I'm saying things she can't possibly comprehend. She is deeply, desperately in love with dogs and mentions them about, oh, every 45 seconds (that, I must admit, is a bit wearing...we're in the middle of say, eating or nursing or talking about something important like why wheels go round and round and she interrupts me to say "Woof, woof. Da."). She knows a fair number of words but the pronunciation is still a challenge; I've become one of those moms of a toddler who hears a single syllabic sound like "da" and says, depending on context, "oh yes, you see a dog!" or, "you would like to draw?" or "ok, you can get down now." Her most clear words are yeah, no, elbow, pasta, turtle, fish, apple sauce or apple juice, and opposites (this can either mean she wants to read Opposites by Eric Carle, or it can mean she is being an octopus when she's writhing on the kitchen floor pretending she has 8 appendages).
She turned 16 months on Tuesday (4/14). Tomorrow will be my 5-month anniversary of being with her full-time. I still need to iron out the wrinkles in a difficult schedule that allows for very little writing. I need to either accept that I'm not much of a late-night writer, or else I need to embrace caffeine and sleeping pills. Since both of those substances would only make me crazy, I need to be diligent about writing even on days when I just don't feel like I have anything interesting to say. I still battle wanderlust every single day but it is not for the kind of life that perhaps one might imagine I am craving...I very rarely wish I were getting ready for a day in the office, although that certainly does hit me--especially when I see women driving in their cars alone, drinking coffee and having long moments of solitude like the ones I used to enjoy when I drove across the 520 bridge to Kirkland. More, what I am craving is space and sun, blue sky and blue water. Big trees and gardens and beaches, golden grain, boulders, open kitchens and exposed wood walls, old-fashioned cook stoves and home cooked hearty vegetable sauces, tangy pine air and springy ground, and garden parties with interesting adults and spirited kids.
In a word, I want summer.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
More soon...
I've been working on some other things lately and have fallen behind on these posts. I feel like I've lost touch with a dear friend! I'm hoping to write a few more words tomorrow. But the main thing I wanted to tell you about briefly (in the tiny amount of time I have before Cora wakes up from her late afternoon nap) is this running monologue that's been going through my head of all the things I wish for Cora in her lifetime. There are so many. As we drive from one place to another, I find myself daydreaming about the bullet points, trying to narrow in on the big themes.
It's been an interesting exercise in thinking about the things that are most valuable to me, something that of course it would seem I should know by heart but the points of which are more apparent when I imagine what I most want for my daughter. If that makes any sense. I think there is often a concern about losing ourselves in our children, especially during these early years, but I have been finding many moments when I wouldn't otherwise have considered one point or another unless I was looking through the eyes of a parent. The other stuff gets stripped away and I'm able to be more forgiving, hopeful, dreamy, practical...motherly, I suppose, than I am when I consider the world and my place in it.
Also, I would like it if you could please send Cora any healthy sleeping vibes you might have under your hat. She woke at 12:30, 3:30, and 5:30 this morning and I spent several bleary-eyed but nevertheless cuddly visits with her in the rocking chair. We checked with her doctor to make sure things were a-okay (considering that this past weekend followed a similarly difficult path), and discovered that she is cutting yet one more molar. She has teeth coming in everywhere and runs around the house with her hand in her mouth saying Owwww or else being quite whiny. B and I are therefore very tired, and I'm just thankful my view from my chair shows a bit of blue sky and sun. Perhaps we'll have a short reprieve from this silly wintry spring.
It's been an interesting exercise in thinking about the things that are most valuable to me, something that of course it would seem I should know by heart but the points of which are more apparent when I imagine what I most want for my daughter. If that makes any sense. I think there is often a concern about losing ourselves in our children, especially during these early years, but I have been finding many moments when I wouldn't otherwise have considered one point or another unless I was looking through the eyes of a parent. The other stuff gets stripped away and I'm able to be more forgiving, hopeful, dreamy, practical...motherly, I suppose, than I am when I consider the world and my place in it.
Also, I would like it if you could please send Cora any healthy sleeping vibes you might have under your hat. She woke at 12:30, 3:30, and 5:30 this morning and I spent several bleary-eyed but nevertheless cuddly visits with her in the rocking chair. We checked with her doctor to make sure things were a-okay (considering that this past weekend followed a similarly difficult path), and discovered that she is cutting yet one more molar. She has teeth coming in everywhere and runs around the house with her hand in her mouth saying Owwww or else being quite whiny. B and I are therefore very tired, and I'm just thankful my view from my chair shows a bit of blue sky and sun. Perhaps we'll have a short reprieve from this silly wintry spring.
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Intermission
We interrupt our normally scheduled programming to bring you this message: It appears, afterall, that sun does indeed exist in the Northwest. Please enjoy it while you can. Popcorn with extra butter will be provided when it starts raining and you return to reality.
Seriously, people, it is beautiful outside. A blissful, gorgeous reminder of why we live here in the first place.
Things to do in the sun:
*Jump in leftover puddles and watch the spray form mini rainbows.
*Climb on every play structure in the city.
*Throw rocks in clear ocean water.
*Go hiking.
*Build sand castles.
*Wave at the birds.
*Have a picnic (or two).
*Run.
*Take a day trip (try the 4,000-acre waterfront park at Deception Pass).
*Breathe.
*Collect handfuls of miniature daisies and put them in your pockets.
*Wave at everyone.
*Stay outside all day.
*Plan a camping trip.
*Peel away each day looking for summer.
Seriously, people, it is beautiful outside. A blissful, gorgeous reminder of why we live here in the first place.
Things to do in the sun:
*Jump in leftover puddles and watch the spray form mini rainbows.
*Climb on every play structure in the city.
*Throw rocks in clear ocean water.
*Go hiking.
*Build sand castles.
*Wave at the birds.
*Have a picnic (or two).
*Run.
*Take a day trip (try the 4,000-acre waterfront park at Deception Pass).
*Breathe.
*Collect handfuls of miniature daisies and put them in your pockets.
*Wave at everyone.
*Stay outside all day.
*Plan a camping trip.
*Peel away each day looking for summer.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Mushy rain, mushy brain
The weather here, frankly, is rather dreadful. I can't find many redeeming qualities about it, except that it forced me to enjoy a mom-and-baby lunch with Cora this afternoon at the Sunlight Cafe.
First of all, in my past life (as in last month, that was so last year), I would have high-tailed us to the Zoomazium or the Children's Museum or the Aquarium or a fun bookstore or any number of fun and interesting indoor Seattle havens. But I have to admit to feeling a bit burned. B and I have been talking about germophobia, the definition of which, for me, has always been hey there, would you mind letting me know if your child is sick before we get together for a play date? (I am still a bit mystified by people who don't think they need to mention to me that their child has a cold and is running around with drippy green boogers the size of Godzilla.)
While I'm a big fan of hand washing, I've never owned Purell or those wipey sanitizing cloths some people drag around with them and pull out at germ-filled moments, brandishing them like a flag as they wipe down snot-encrusted grocery carts or freshen up a swing. In fact, I think I've been pretty good about letting Cora explore her world without telling her to stop because she might get sick.
But there have been some moments when I've quivered with distrust and frustration, when I've hated the process of watching her exploratory steps encounter germs in our urban environment, a few of them quite memorable. Here is just a sampling of some of the more salient moments that have compelled me to gag:
*While I hurriedly searched for a pile of entertaining picture books, Cora proudly approached me and handed up a pile of grass-encrusted dog poop from off the carpet of our local library, tracked in by an innocent young shoe.
*She picked up an immunization band-aid from the playground, and studied the stain on the white pad.
*We were walking around Green Lake and I took Cora out of the stroller so she could explore. She proceeded to do her usual daisy-picking/grass-plucking/rock-rolling thing until I turned away for ONE SECOND and she bent down and ran her hand through a loogie. This was by far the most horrifying moment, seeing my child test the consistency of a stranger's mucus. I have nearly erased this sentence 10 times because I am so embarrassed that I didn't catch it in time, and I still feel guilty.
So there. We got through these moments and lived to tell the tale. I'm not a germophobe (although by now you might be thinking I should be). Yet, all of those moments never resulted in Cora getting sick. Those events have all followed classes and play dates in indoor play areas. With our new found freedom after I quit my job, I took it upon myself to explore everything, enjoying my immense luck of having a newly-minted toddler. Until I began to experience one of the worst flu seasons I can remember. Now I am just annoyed that we couldn't have launched our new life during the summer months, lallygagging by the wading pool, skipping rocks at the beach, running through the zoo OUTSIDE instead of happily sucking down flu season at indoor locales.
Don't get me wrong. I'm glad Cora is developing a strong immune system. I firmly believe it's more important for her to make friends than to be sequestered in our house while we avoid germs. And I'm grateful beyond measure that she's relatively healthy and hasn't battled anything more complicated than the flu. I'm just ready for warm weather, a break from the snot, and some more freedom.
So, today's mushy rain-snow confusion has not been welcome. Cora is grumpy and trying to bring in five teeth, including molars, all at once, while I grit my teeth and look out the window trying to bring myself to go someplace where I know a flu virus is sucking happily on the surface of a toy, waiting to pounce on my daughter.
Which is why I am constantly battling wanderlust. I keep imagining a sunny climate would make things better. I'm not in love enough with this region, I guess, to make it through winter without some serious grumbling.
All this being said, I had a few moments this week when I felt like I could possibly renew our contract with the Northwest:
*Walking around Green Lake while crocus and daffodils fluttered in the breeze.
*Starting "studio night" with B on Tuesday and Thursday evenings. He draws, I write, and the house feels cozy and tight while Cora slumbers.
*Playing in the backyard after B mowed the lawn, and examining our apple tree for buds.
*Feeling a warm Saturday sun on our faces and making a tasty meal with the windows open.
The funny thing is, I sat down to tell you about a lovely mom-and-daughter lunch I just had with Cora at the Sunlight Cafe, the gist of which was--hey, rain can be cool, it makes you bond with the people you love--and I got seriously derailed. So, lunch was great. We go out of the house, we were fortified by healthy food, and we stopped whining. We sat across from each other and she waved at everyone and gave them these over the top smiles she's into these days where she scrunches her face as much as she can, crinkling her eyes and shrugging up her shoulders and smiling smiling smiling. She was on her best behavior, sitting up straight in her highchair and carefully eating her vegetables and buttered bread. She kept her hat on, a spot of pink in an otherwise subdued atmosphere. She threw nothing on the ground. She drank from her glass and didn't spill. She made eyes at our server and blew kisses to the neighboring tables. She chewed thoughtfully on her teething biscuit and ate the whole thing.
She was, in a word, delightful. She was everything I have ever wanted in a small companion, and she's mine.
First of all, in my past life (as in last month, that was so last year), I would have high-tailed us to the Zoomazium or the Children's Museum or the Aquarium or a fun bookstore or any number of fun and interesting indoor Seattle havens. But I have to admit to feeling a bit burned. B and I have been talking about germophobia, the definition of which, for me, has always been hey there, would you mind letting me know if your child is sick before we get together for a play date? (I am still a bit mystified by people who don't think they need to mention to me that their child has a cold and is running around with drippy green boogers the size of Godzilla.)
While I'm a big fan of hand washing, I've never owned Purell or those wipey sanitizing cloths some people drag around with them and pull out at germ-filled moments, brandishing them like a flag as they wipe down snot-encrusted grocery carts or freshen up a swing. In fact, I think I've been pretty good about letting Cora explore her world without telling her to stop because she might get sick.
But there have been some moments when I've quivered with distrust and frustration, when I've hated the process of watching her exploratory steps encounter germs in our urban environment, a few of them quite memorable. Here is just a sampling of some of the more salient moments that have compelled me to gag:
*While I hurriedly searched for a pile of entertaining picture books, Cora proudly approached me and handed up a pile of grass-encrusted dog poop from off the carpet of our local library, tracked in by an innocent young shoe.
*She picked up an immunization band-aid from the playground, and studied the stain on the white pad.
*We were walking around Green Lake and I took Cora out of the stroller so she could explore. She proceeded to do her usual daisy-picking/grass-plucking/rock-rolling thing until I turned away for ONE SECOND and she bent down and ran her hand through a loogie. This was by far the most horrifying moment, seeing my child test the consistency of a stranger's mucus. I have nearly erased this sentence 10 times because I am so embarrassed that I didn't catch it in time, and I still feel guilty.
So there. We got through these moments and lived to tell the tale. I'm not a germophobe (although by now you might be thinking I should be). Yet, all of those moments never resulted in Cora getting sick. Those events have all followed classes and play dates in indoor play areas. With our new found freedom after I quit my job, I took it upon myself to explore everything, enjoying my immense luck of having a newly-minted toddler. Until I began to experience one of the worst flu seasons I can remember. Now I am just annoyed that we couldn't have launched our new life during the summer months, lallygagging by the wading pool, skipping rocks at the beach, running through the zoo OUTSIDE instead of happily sucking down flu season at indoor locales.
Don't get me wrong. I'm glad Cora is developing a strong immune system. I firmly believe it's more important for her to make friends than to be sequestered in our house while we avoid germs. And I'm grateful beyond measure that she's relatively healthy and hasn't battled anything more complicated than the flu. I'm just ready for warm weather, a break from the snot, and some more freedom.
So, today's mushy rain-snow confusion has not been welcome. Cora is grumpy and trying to bring in five teeth, including molars, all at once, while I grit my teeth and look out the window trying to bring myself to go someplace where I know a flu virus is sucking happily on the surface of a toy, waiting to pounce on my daughter.
Which is why I am constantly battling wanderlust. I keep imagining a sunny climate would make things better. I'm not in love enough with this region, I guess, to make it through winter without some serious grumbling.
All this being said, I had a few moments this week when I felt like I could possibly renew our contract with the Northwest:
*Walking around Green Lake while crocus and daffodils fluttered in the breeze.
*Starting "studio night" with B on Tuesday and Thursday evenings. He draws, I write, and the house feels cozy and tight while Cora slumbers.
*Playing in the backyard after B mowed the lawn, and examining our apple tree for buds.
*Feeling a warm Saturday sun on our faces and making a tasty meal with the windows open.
The funny thing is, I sat down to tell you about a lovely mom-and-daughter lunch I just had with Cora at the Sunlight Cafe, the gist of which was--hey, rain can be cool, it makes you bond with the people you love--and I got seriously derailed. So, lunch was great. We go out of the house, we were fortified by healthy food, and we stopped whining. We sat across from each other and she waved at everyone and gave them these over the top smiles she's into these days where she scrunches her face as much as she can, crinkling her eyes and shrugging up her shoulders and smiling smiling smiling. She was on her best behavior, sitting up straight in her highchair and carefully eating her vegetables and buttered bread. She kept her hat on, a spot of pink in an otherwise subdued atmosphere. She threw nothing on the ground. She drank from her glass and didn't spill. She made eyes at our server and blew kisses to the neighboring tables. She chewed thoughtfully on her teething biscuit and ate the whole thing.
She was, in a word, delightful. She was everything I have ever wanted in a small companion, and she's mine.
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