Author: littleyellownotepad

One of our greatest Shabbos afternoon pastimes is looking at old photo albums. I am a bit obsessive about printing and album-ing all my pictures – but come Shabbos afternoon, it’s all worth it. True, there’s four albums of my oldest child from ages 0-6 months, and the next four albums span 2 years, but there’s more than enough photos of everyone.

Today we looked at our most recent summer albums. OK, I admit it. We did end up going on a #memoriesthatlastalifetime trip this past summer. The pictures prove it. One of them is my favorite. A real pat-on-the-back picture perfect moment.

We are on a boat. My husband is driving. The kids are sitting with their life jackets on, broad smiles on their faces. The water in the background is sparkling blue. The mountains are pristine. The sky is spectacular. It is truly perfect.

Only I know what is not in the picture.

Here’s what really happened:

We took a three day getaway – up to South Lake Tahoe. Unbeknownst to us, there seems to have been a bee problem there this past summer. For those who are worried about bees becoming extinct, go visit Lake Tahoe. That’s where they are hanging out. I mean ALL the bees of the world. At least that’s what it felt like to me.

I know, I should be more grateful to the bees. From my limited research (and ignorance), I know we owe much of our life and survival to bees. But I still hate them. Apparently my kids inherited that particular gene.

And there they were, ruining our trip. On day number three, we were going to head home in the afternoon and decided to take the kids on a boat ride.

We pull up to the marina and get out of the van. And there they are. A gazillion bees. My kids start screaming and run in all directions, pushing and shoving to get back into the van.

My husband goes off to rent the boat and me the brave one convinces the kids to get out.

“Just keep walking, they won’t touch you if you keep walking!” I keep reminding them.

And I hope my theory is true.

We make our way to the marina. They have these tents made of netting set up along the sand for people to wait in, to keep safe from the bees. Causing quite a commotion, we all push our way through the little zipper opening, me trying to act like an adult and the kids acting like kids, hoping to stay safe from the bees.

We zip that thing shut as if we are escaping from the scariest of monsters. The bees buzz furiously all around the zipper to no avail; we are safe. For now at least.

The kids are freaking out and I want to go home too. Only the almost-two year old is enjoying himself, pouring sand over his head.

My husband heads towards us with the life jackets and it’s time to go. Everyone starts panicking all over again.

I know we are making #memoriesthatlastalifetime, but not the ones I had in mind.

He motions to us to come get the life jackets. The kids refuse to come out. I try to get them out but it’s pretty hard when I myself want to stay in the safety of our cozy little mesh tent.

I open the zipper and direct the kids to get out and just head to the boat.

And then things really get hectic.

Half the kids run down the dock – not very safely at all – simultaneously haphazardly putting on their life jackets.

I’m trying to get the little one strapped into the carriage while the bees buzz all over.

One of the kids start screaming from a bee sting.

And one is rooted to his spot screaming at the top of his lungs because the bees are all around him.

I concentrate very hard on ignoring the stares from all across the marina, as I can only imagine what a spectacle this is. And if it was someone else’s nutty family, I would think it it was hilarious. Maybe even inconspicuously take a video of the scene.

But I don’t have that luxury; it’s my crew and I have to get moving.

I’m shouting from the dock for my rooted-to-the-spot five year old to come, the guy from the rental is dealing with the bee sting, my husband is getting the kids settled on the boat while they scream they want to go home and the toddler in the carriage starts yelling too.

I don’t know how, but miraculously we all safely get onto our little boat and speed off to the middle of the lake, where as promised, the bees are gone.

We relax and take picture perfect photos and each kid has a chance to steer the boat. Bluest of skies, bluest of waters, it is picturesque. The stuff that photos are made of.

I admit, sometimes as I scroll through my Facebook feed,I wish other people’s photos would just whisper and tell us what really went on.

Now looking at the pictures, printed and safely displayed in my albums, I marvel at how perfect it looks. What great memories we made. The kids talk about our trip non stop, and how much fun it was. And I quietly sigh with relief that pictures can’t talk after all.

When my 12th grade teacher concluded her class on CPR & First Aid and spoke briefly about Labor & Delivery, she asked who planned to have an epidural. I raised my hand.
Not that I knew much about it; knowing that it took away pain was enough info for me.

And when she described how long the needle of the epidural shot is, she again asked who planned to have one anyway. I raised my hand again.

She described some pros and cons and then asked the same question once again, it was me and only one other girl who still raised our hands.

And although it wasn’t a decision I had to make just then, it was already a firm decision for me. I knew there was nothing that could talk me out of it. But it did kind of bother me that the teacher was pushing a pain-filled birthing experience.

Fast forward 5 years, and there I was sitting in my childbirth classes and the instructor went through all the tips and methods of breathing, and she once again described that long needle…and asked who would take it. My hand shot up. I didn’t care the size of the needle; I knew what I needed to know. I’d heard freak stories on all types of births, with and without the Epidural.  I knew my strengths, I knew my weaknesses; and opting for the hard way was not my thing.I was determined to go with the Epidural.

When the time finally came, I tried the breathing first. For about 5 seconds. And I sat on the great birthing ball for a grand total of 38 seconds. It was not for me. I went back to plan A – Epidural. And I thankfully had the most wonderful, exhilarating experience, truly enjoying every moment of the miracle called childbirth.

Fast forward to birth number three. By the time I get to the hospital, even I know I’m further along than I want to be. And although I know I want an epidural, I also know that it may be too late. I’m 9 centimeters.

And so for those who want to go without pain meds, it’s a dream birth. But for me, it’s terrible. Barely 30 minutes later, baby boy is welcomed to the world. Only I don’t feel all that excited. I feel like a wounded animal, lying alone in the forest, moaning and groaning for help. Sure, there’s plenty of people in the room. And everything went without a hitch, Boruch Hashem. I am grateful for that. But it doesn’t replace the feeling of alone-ness and beaten that fills my entire being.

I didn’t get my Epidural. 

The nurse offers me the baby. Unlike my two previous births, I do not want to hold the baby. I can’t deal with that yet. I need to deal with myself. And I feel emotionally defeated.

They wheel me to my room, as I’m paraded down the halls I can’t help wondering, where’s the confetti? The trumpets? The whistles and marching bands? Do you guys KNOW what I just went through?? But I am not a hero. I’m just another mom doing what moms do.

I settle in my room, feed the baby and start to calm down.

My labor coach pokes her head in the room a little later, glowing with pride at how well I did.

“It was amazing! How do you feel?”

And I’ll never forget the response that I blurted out, or the look on her face after I said it.

“I feel like an idiot.”

That was the absolute truth.

“I feel like an idiot because I know there’s an easier way to do this.”

I know I could’ve gotten to the hospital earlier. I wanted to. I should have. It was circumstances out of my control that made me walk in so far into labor.

And I promise myself that I will never ever wait that long again.

With pregnancy number 4, my greatest anxiety was that I would not miss my Epidural

And as soon as contractions began, I was in the car, en route to the hospital. Before I even said my name, I informed them to call the anesthesiologist. I made it sound urgent; that I have quick labors and need it now. And 20 minutes later, on the dot, the guy was there. Only after that incredible sensation of the pain dissipating filled my being did I finally relax and let go of all my resentment from the previous birth.

Fast forward to just two months ago. It’s five days before my due date. And I feel that feeling. The feeling you wonder if you’ll remember what it feels like when you feel it again.

It’s a contraction.

But I’m too tired, not today. I know I was dreaming of being early…but I’m too tired right then.

I go to sleep hoping it’ll go away. Not just because I’m tired, but also because I’m determined to get all my kids well visits done before the new baby arrives. And there’s one appointment left for the following day.

The next day goes as planned, and I watch the clock; I need to get this appointment in! It’s the most obsessive form of nesting and I know it.  

And that feeling comes back. And of course I decide I’m not sure it’s a contraction.

And so I do what we all do these days when we turn off our own brain and rely on an outside source; I whip out my phone and type in: what do contractions feel like.

It took  about 10 seconds to get back to my senses; hello, you know what they feel like!! You’ve gone through this 7 times before, you know it’s contractions!

But I can make it to the appointment…and even a quick detour to Nordstrom Rack because I must get my daughter shoes before I have a baby. I’m not sure why, but I must.

Somewhere between the shoe section and the bathroom, I realize this is real. I need to get home.

And my need-to-get-an-Epidural anxiety kicks in.

That’s when I know I’m really in labor.

It’s barely an hour later that I walk into the hospital and march straight to the nurse’s station.

“I’m in labor and I need an epidural.”

They kind of half smirk at each other, and ask for my name. I hand over my ID and again announce that they should call the anesthesiologist. Images of the birth almost 9 years earlier flash before me and I become more persistent. So I casually tell them that this is birth #8 and things move quite quickly..

Ok, I exaggerated a bit on the quickly part… But for good reason – I needed my Epidural!

It did the trick – they started working in fast forward mode. They say they can’t call him till they get me signed in. I remind them how quickly things move.

When he comes, I give the anesthesiologist the warmest welcome, like he’s a long lost friend.

When he jokingly says you can always name a kid after me, I agree it’s a great idea.

And within in a few minutes, I’m relaxed. Time for my labor nap.

Turns out things weren’t so quick…I gave birth 5 hours later. But that was fine by me. I got my Epidural.

Whenever anyone starts telling me about the beauty of a pain-filled Epidural free birth, I have to interrupt. I did it both ways. You can not tell me how beautiful the pain feels. It didn’t feel that way for me.

So my fellow moms, let’s stop convincing people to feel what we felt. The world is filled with good-intentioned people trying to tell moms what their experiences will be.
But there’s a problem with that – you can’t sell someone an experience. We can’t tell people what to experience; we can provide facts and suggestions and pros and cons; but we must never offer our experience. 

This is all my own personal experience. Now you create your own one.

“You had your chance and you blew it. All the other moms managed to get their act together over the summer and only you didn’t. You’ve got to get yourself together, everyone else did it, why couldn’t you?”

OK, that’s not really what she said. After all, the preschool director is my good friend, she’d never say that to me, even if she was thinking that.

After many failed attempts at toilet training my 3 year old over the summer, I had finally resigned myself to the fact that trying to toilet train my son during my third trimester of pregnancy was not going to happen. For starters, I just wasn’t quick enough on my feet to bolt to the bathroom every time he said he had to go. My brain wasn’t quick enough to watch his face for the tell tale signs that come seconds before the accident happens. Using my knowledgeable experience in the field, I decided it would be an easier feat to accomplish postpartum, baby in hand and all.

But now I wasn’t feeling so confident in my decision anymore. I was notified a week before preschool started that all three-year-olds needed to be toilet trained or they would have to go to the two year old class. 2.5 weeks to due date, I gave it a try for a total of 3 hours and then threw in the towel; relying on my previous wise decision.

So he joined the two year old class.

And it didn’t work out. Because he’s 3 ½, and they were 2. He didn’t belong there.

And that’s where the phone call came in. He couldn’t come back to school until he was toilet trained. And I was only 6 days away from my due date, of which I hadn’t been early in years and suddenly hoped I wouldn’t be; I had to deal with this.

“Failure, failure, failure!” is all I heard on the phone.

“Stop that!” yelled that tiny rational voice in me, the voice that seemed to be shrinking by the day. “You’ve toilet trained 5 kids already, you’re not a failure! Stop blaming yourself!”

“OK, the who IS to blame?” I had enough sensibility not to blame my three year old; after all, he’s super cute, and he’s only three!!

She reassured me again that she’s not saying it’s abnormal not to be toilet trained by 3 ½ years old (she really IS my friend!) but she has to make this policy due to lack of enough hands in the classroom for diaper changing (grr..yes failure).

I hung up the phone and with whatever determination I could find, I decided we’d give it our all. 6 days till due date-6 days to get this done. And I’m never early anyway. I looked at my crew of helpers, ranging in age from 5-11…this was a task we’d all do together. We’d be a team; the Toilet Training Brigade.

Three hours and 5 accidents later, I was losing it.

He HAS to get toilet trained! He HAS to go to preschool!

I upped the bribes, I mean, rewards. Quite honestly, he could have bargained with me for anything at that point.

And then it happened. On day #2, amidst much bathroom-toilet-training havoc, I felt a contraction.

I started panicking. “No way, I’m not due yet! I need to get this little guy toilet trained!”

But the contractions didn’t listen to me…and 5 days before my due date, only 24 hours into toilet training, our newest member of the crew was born (more on that in the next post 🙂 ).

And all I could think about was toilet training.

I couldn’t back out now. We had to get it done. My husband and I had an emergency meeting right there in the delivery room; we came up with a plan. Not only would the three year old get a whooping 9 chocolate chips (up from 3, which was the amount when we started) from each success, but whichever of his siblings would get him to the bathroom would get 9 chips too.

And that’s why, over the next few days, at any given point during the day all the kids were squished into the bathroom. I was also running out of chocolate chips.

And I had a newborn in my arms.

Somewhere in the midst of all of this, I realized I had broken one of the most basic rules of child rearing. A rule that every mom knows from day one.

All the articles I’d read over the past years starting flooding my sleep deprived mind…Toilet training should never be done around the time of the birth of a new sibling. Emotional trauma for the child. Too much change. Breeds resentful behavior. Can be destructive to mother-child bond or child-baby bond. And on and on.

Oh no. I’d broken the law. They’d come after me. The mommy police. They’d expose my wrongdoings. Everyone would know the truth. I’d have to go to mommy prison. They’d take away my mommy license. Where can I hide??

Thankfully, my thoughts were interrupted by the entire Toilet Training Brigade stampeding into the kitchen to demand their 9 chocolate chips, and a very smiling toilet trained 3 year old trailing behind, looking pretty pleased. I scanned his face carefully, to see if the scars of my mistake were noticeable. He looked happy.

Who knows, maybe the resentment doesn’t come out until the teenage years…

My mother was visiting for the week, to help out postpartum. She was nominated as the new director of the Toilet Training Brigade and the official Chocolate Chips Distributor. Things were moving ahead.

Then came the set back day. This smart little boy knew that the only time for a pamper was when he went to sleep. And he claimed he was tired for most of the day and indeed stayed in his bed.

I tried to block out the tormenting thoughts of “You see, you ruined him! You forced him into this! You’re going to pay for this!”

But the next day dawned bright and cheerful and off he went to school, letting everyone know he was officially toilet trained.

Two weeks later, he’s still smiling. And proud.

Maybe the mommy books were wrong? Perhaps I didn’t break the law after all. Maybe it’s not the end of the world if we make decisions based on our own common sense, instead of book based generalizations? Maybe each kids is different and we should tune in to what our own child needs?

Maybe.

 

If I see one more hashtag of #makingmemories, #summerofalifetime, #memoriesthatlastforever or anything of the sort I feel like I’m going to scream. Is it possible to make memories just by chance, or only if their hashtagged?

While it seems like everyone I know and don’t know is #creatingmemories at pristine beaches and remote destinations, I’m merely #livinglife.

I wake up at 7 and hear much noise going on in the kitchen below. I remember it’s Monday, the day my husband leaves at 6:30am…that means I’m on duty. I listen for the familiar sounds…chair scratching across the kitchen floor – that’s the toddler heading over to get something…some musical toy playing, that must be my 3 year old. An UNO game going on somewhere…sounds ok for now. I know I’ll pay for this, but I decide to sleep a bit more.

Sure enough, when I head down at 8:30, I see what my extra hour of sleep cost me. Half a container of milk and a box of cheerios, both spread across the kitchen floor. And the full carton of strawberries, that the toddler and 3 year old divided and took a bite from each one (while sitting on the counter, where I found them). I do a quick calculation…Yes, the $8 or so is worth my hour of sleep. I make it through my breakfast and coffee and although I’m too tired to shlep out to the park, I gather everyone together and usher them out to the van. I know the kids need to get out. It’s not exotic, it’s not pristine, it’s just #gettingthroughanothersummerday.

We get to the park in time for everyone to want snack. And anyways, they all hate this park, why did we choose this one. I tell them what time snack will be and they sit on the benches near me. #boringestouttingindeed. Eventually they drift away and my 11 year old makes up some sort of chasing-hiding-finding game that works for awhile. They almost miss snack time, but thankfully my daughter set her watch so they all show up on time. And it’s barbecue chips. #notsuchaboringouttingafterall.

We head home in time for lunch, and they all get to work. I feel a mixture of pride and exhaustion as I watch the 5 big kids make their lunches…at the cost of the pop up toaster, the oven, the panini maker, the frying pan, crumbs, eggs shells, cucumbers, tomatoes, cutting boards, tuna cans and a few other stuff strewn across the counter. Oh the good old days where I just made the same sandwich for everyone…at least I can still do that with the two little ones. Lunch time takes more than an hour and after a touch of cleanup, the troops head out to play with the hose in the backyard. #hesprayedmeintheface, #hesbotheringme and #tellhimtostop would describe the next hour, as I attempt to put together supper.

Smoothies for everyone, a great quick and even slightly healthy (berries and milk, that’s good stuff, right?) snack that they all like, except for the ones who haaaaate it. #worstsnackever. Computer time fills the last part of our day, twenty minutes each. And so while it seems everyone is smiling in picture perfect summer fun, #creatingmemoriesthatlastalifetime and #bestfamilyever pictures haunt me (why am I on Facebook again?!) we – well, #boringestdayever, #justanotherday.

I sit on the couch after everyone is tucked in and hear the happy chatter coming from the bedrooms upstairs as the kids discuss the various things they did and plan to do. And I can’t help but wonder; is it possible for my kids to be making #memoriesthatlastalifetime and spending time with #bestfamilyever even if that wasn’t our intention?

Perhaps #livinglife as is, is a good enough way to make memories after all.

It was exactly 3:15 when I remembered. The problem was that the appointment was 45 minutes earlier, at 2:30 pm.

And I had forgotten all about it.

It was a double well visit.

I had been determined to get well visits for all the kids done before school started, and I had missed the first two.

I was mortified. Embarrased. Annoyed.

And with no other choice, I called the Doctor’s office to admit my shortcomings; I was not supermom after all. I forgot the appointments.

“Hi, I had a 2:30 double appointment and I have a feeling I missed it…”

Before she could reprimand me, I tried to save myself some grace.

“I’m mortified. I’m so embarrassed this happened to me. I can’t believe I forgot. I have it in big letters on my calendar, I remembered this morning. I don’t know what happened…”

But the truth is, I do know what happened.

I’m running mommy camp! I want to say

All the kids are home ALL day.

And it’s 106 degrees outside.

And I’m in my ninth month.

And I had 7 appointments this month that I DID remember.

Doesn’t that count??

And I’m nesting.

And I have lists and lists of closets and drawers to organize and I haven’t gotten to a single one!

And…my house cleaner is away for the week. THE WHOLE WEEK!!

And I’m still making 3 meals and 17 snacks EVERY SINGLE DAY!!

Doesn’t that count? Shouldn’t I be excused?

But of course, I don’t think she’s interested in hearing my life story and I don’t think it’ll help.

“You missed two appointments. Barbara will call you on Monday,” she says sternly.

And I tell her the truth about how I feel. “I feel like I’m being sent to the principal. I’m so sorry about this. Please tell me what I should do.”

The more profusely I apologize, the softer her tone is slowly getting.

What’s the worse that can happen? I think to myself.

They’ll pin a picture of me on the bulletin board under “Worst Mom of the Year”?

They’ll kick me out of the practice? I don’t think the doctor wants to lose 7 patients at once.

“I’m just so sorry, I don’t know how it happened…well maybe I do,” I can’t resist adding. I do want some sympathy, after all. ” I’m in my ninth month, perhaps I’ve finally lost the last bit of non-scatterbrainedness that I had left…”

There’s a fine I have to pay for missing the appointment.

It’s not fair! I want to shout, similar to how my kids say it when they lose computer time.

You don’t understand, I was never late to school in my life! Not in elementary school, not in high school! It’s only since I became a mother that I’ve started being late or missing appointments!

Don’t judge me! It’s because I have kids! It’s not my fault!

But then I remember that I’m the mother and I must act like an adult.

We reschedule the appointments and I set up a dozen or so reminders to make sure I don’t miss it. It’s tomorrow. Perhaps I’ll bring a plate of cookies just to soothe my broken ego, But I can’t fight reality.

It doesn’t matter how punctual I was in high school, having kids changes it all. I’m ok with it, really, I just wish everyone else was too.