Babies can hear you fighting even when they're asleep

Now I'm going to stress you out by telling you that recent research suggests babies can hear their parents' arguing even when they are asleep, and its probably not great for their emotional development. Yeah, I know, its not a nice thing for me to do on a Monday morning but I listened to this piece on NPR and I figured I'd spread the contagion of stress and anxiety around, in an attempt to alleviate my own.

In the study, researches performed brain scans on sleeping infants who were wearing headphones that played people speaking. All the words were nonsense, but they were spoken in a very angry tone, a moderately angry tone, a neutral tone and a happy tone: and the brain scan machine monitored what was going on in the sleeping infants' brains. So, researchers know that babies can perceive when you're fighting with your spouse over why he never soaks the pot after cooking when IT IS ONLY TAKES TWO SECONDS AND MAKES LIFE SO  MUCH SIMPLER! -- but what they don't know is exactly how it affects the babies later in life, probably because it depends on many variable factors. Duh.

So, I guess the take-away is, don't fight in front of your kids, or when they're asleep either. Don't fight at all, ever, even when they kids are off at a sleepover out of state because chances are, any day there'll be a new study reporting that even 50-100 miles away, after they fall asleep, your children retain the ability to hear you arguing and it will fuck them up irreparably. You can do that, right? Its not like the pressure of having to be totally perfect all the time will make you more likely to argue, is it? You ARE a Stepford wife, after all.

What can I say? This is what happens when I'm not allowed to raise my voice. I get reaalllly sarcastic.

F$@k, that sh*t is interesting!

If you've read this blog even once, you know I like me some curse words. "Shit," is a particularly beloved one. I mean, there's nothing like the f bomb when you're feeling really emphatic but "shit" is just a great, everyday expletive, perfect for almost all occasions. So, clearly, I am dying to read this non-fiction book by Melissa Mohr called Holy Sh*t: a history of swearing

Here's a taste of her work in a piece she wrote for the WSJ  which I found totally shittin' fascinating. (Yes, now I'm trying to be cute).

Maybe I'll wean myself off modern-day expletives by substituting with old-school ones that are no longer taboo, as in "By God Nails! or maybe (my favorite Shakespeare one), "Zounds!" It would be sort of like swearing methadone. But then, instead of offending people, I fear I'd just freak them the hell out.

"You're not leaving the house in that, Missy!": a fight I dread

My oldest daughter is six and thankfully, still too young to want to wear sexy, grown-up, skimpy outfits. She's still very much in the throes of the princess bug and though her outfits get provocative, they only provoke attention because they are wildly colorful, over-the-top and unorthodox, like when she wears her white tulle ballgown over her azure sweatpants with her fur vest to complete the look. But I know the power struggles about what she wears, the "You're not leaving the house in that, Missy" fights are coming, because my daughter is headstrong and cares deeply about what other people think. Regrettably. exactly like me. So I found this piece in the NY TImes incredibly insightful and on a practical level, really useful:

Clothing Straddling the Line Between Sweet and Skimpy 

As someone who did change clothes on her way to high school, stripping off my jeans in the Ferry bathroom to slip on the mini skirt my mother wouldn't let me wear -- I know I won't be able to control what my daughter wears at a certain point. But I feel like these experts give a good overview of how to set guidelines for your kids, and help them to make good choices about what they wear, how they see themselves and how they present themselves out there in the world.

And, most importantly, it gives you slightly more elevated comebacks then, "Because it makes you look like a slut!" which is pretty much the reasoning I got.  Faulting "the pornification of culture" may not be a similar explanation but it sounds smarter, anyway.

Do you suck clean your baby's paci? Well, maybe you should.

Just listened to this NPR piece, describing new research that suggests that parents' saliva on their baby's pacis may protect kids from developing asthma, eczema and allergies. I read a fascinating book on the subject of the hygiene hypothesis, called Why Dirt is Good, a few years ago when I interviewed the author, Mary Ruebush, for an article I was writing in Parents. In the book, Ruebush presents many studies which suggest similar findings. After I interviewed her, I told my mother about the theory that exposure to germs actually strengthens a young child's immune system and I believe her quote was, "What are you, a moron? Don't make me throw up." Licking a paci would be nothing short of a nightmare for her, raging germophobe that she is.

For my part -- and I don't mind a bit of dirt and germs now and again -- the new study will not change the way I handle Terza's pacis. Because  you know what those researchers didn't study? The incident of illnesses in the parents that sucked on those nasty-ass pacis. It may sound selfish, but I go down, this whole ship goes down, so what about protecting my immune system from all the germs the baby has?  Study that, then get back to me.

Tenth Anniversary

Ten years ago today I was in Hawaii, on my honeymoon i. David and I used our frequent flyer miles to get there and wedding gift money to pay for the hotel - no youth hostel, to be sure, but nothing lavish. To earn free dinners, we attended a few of those "time-share informational sessions." It was an idyllic honeymoon and as we lounged in bed and hiked the volcanos and swam in the ocean, we vowed that when our ten year anniversary rolled around, we'd return to Kauaii to renew our vows. Only next time, we'd pay for our friends and family to come. And we'd stay at the fancy hotel by the ocean. And we'd skip the time-share sessions because next time, we could pay for our own mahi mahi.

Oh, youth.

Ten years later and we can't afford an overnight getaway to Long Island. Hell, we can't even spring for the Union Street Holiday Inn. Chances are good we may never see Hawaii again. Not unless I make banks by grooming one of these blondie kids to be the next Macauley Culkin, which I'd do frankly if they weren't so damn intractable. Sure, our ship may come in yet, and sure, I still have years to accumulate the frequent flyers miles necessary for such a voyage, but there's college to pay for now, three times over, and braces. There's day care and skateboards and summer camp. We'll never be so footloose and fancy free again, and nether, certainly, will our bank accounts.

So, no Hawaii anniversary vacation. And much as I would like to be soaking in the sun against a Bali Hai backdrop, thats fine by me.  If I cared about stuff like that, really at all, I wouldn't be where I am today, wouldn't have had three kids in a one-bedroom apartment, wouldn't have married a novelist in the tradition of William Faulkner and chosen a career as a writer myself.

What I got for my anniversary was to spend all day and sleep all night next to the love of my life, a man I love more than I did ten years ago when I was hot and he was young and all we did was talk about James Joyce and have sex and make indie movies together. I still thrill to hear his voice when he picks up the phone or walks through the door. And its not just love I have now, but feelings that take time to develop -- respect and admiration and gratitude.

The idea that we would be renewing our vows now, after ten years, re-commiting ourselves to each other like we did on our wedding day seems so, well, redundant. We renew our vows every day - some days louder and more readily than others. Its just like the priest said in his homily on our wedding day, after hearing the Shakespeare sonnet my best friend read aloud: "Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediment/ Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds."

"Love alters all the time," Father Greg said, "It is is constantly changing, and it will be shaken. What does not alter - what can not alter -- is the commitment to love. That's what marriage is."

Ten years later and I'm beginning to understand. All I can do is hope that I'll be lucky enough to have another ten years -- and another ten, and another, and another -- to really get it. Today and every day, I'm re-upping, for better or worse, richer or poorer. Hawaii or no Hawaii.

Learning the Times Tables; an inspiring tale with an obvious morale you already know but you should read this anyway because it is kind of funny.

At parent-teacher conferences, Primo's third grade teacher suggested he nail down his times tables. She had been sending home notes every week reminding parents to remind kids to practice their times tables for five to ten minutes a day and she even included a few ideas of ways to do this. I read these notes, and then I ignored them. Primo's a super smart kid, and I was sure he'd memorize his times tables just by, you know, doing math, like in class and stuff.

Shockingly, this laissez-faire, lazy-bones, nebulous plan was not wildly successful.

All I needed, though, was a direct instruction. We got home that night after PTC and I announced to Primo that we were officially nailing down our times tables. We, because I was quizzing him. Daily. For five minutes. With the flash cards that we would be making together, right then. I have been hoarding an unreasonable amount of index cards for a decade - don't know where I got them and haven't known what I'd eventually use them for, until that very moment. We sat down and did the 8s and the 7s tables, then a few days later did the 6s and the 5s, eventually the 9s and the 4s. I do not know why we did them in this order -- there is no method to my madness apart from the fact that I always had a hard time with the 7s and the 8s so I figured that was a good place to start.  We never did the 3s and the 2s because dude, those just come naturally (if you've ever wondered why I am not an educator, here is why. I would be a really shitty one.)

After we made those first few flash cards, I quizzed the kid on them and he knew . . . little to nothing.

"Primo!" I exclaimed  -- then I reminded myself not to make a big deal and to remain encouraging, which would rule out saying what I wanted to, namely "You don't know this for shit, kid!"

"Primo," I corrected my tone to upbeat and calm, "It looks like you could use some work in this area."

"Ugh, no," he groaned, "I know this stuff already."

"But its taking you" --  (here I was forced to pause again to stop myself from using words like "freaking forever") -- "its taking you longer than is efficient."

I'd show him the card, and then two minutes would pass as he computed four times eight by adding four to four to four to four to four to four to four to four. It was excruciating. I imagined him taking the SATs and asking if he could have ten more hours to finish.

I had the distinct feeling that he would never learn his times tables.

Then something amazing happened.

For two weeks, I quizzed him every day for five minutes.

Now he knows his times tables. All of them. Super fast, without thinking. He knows them backwards and forwards, inside and out. He OWNS that shit.

So, incidentally, do I. I am thinking about putting it in the Special Skills section of my resume.

I'm on an extreme high about it. Primo, he doesn't really care. I mean, he's cool with it, but he's not bugging out and getting all life-coachy, like I am. Its just, once you grow up and get used to life being complex and nuanced and ambiguous and skills being hard-to-impossible to master (like parenting, for instance) it is so refreshing, so wildly, satisfying to set out to do something and then FUCKING DO IT. Like, fully, masterfully. In two weeks.

I wish everything in life were as simple and easy as that.

Baby will accept no substitutes, and certainly not a lousy bottle full of cow's milk

I've been waiting to pare down on the breastfeeding until Terza turned a year old, because then, I knew, she could start drinking cow's milk. I don't precisely know why this made a difference to me -- I could just have supplemented with formula, like I did with my other two. I think it was a combination of laziness (didn't want to deal with picking out a formula) and frugality (even the fancy organic milk is cheaper than formula). Either way, I had in stuck in my mind that when she turned a year, that'd be a good time to get around to giving her the bottle.

Terza, however, has different plans. Her plans are more along the lines of. "Obtain all my calories directly from my mother until her dugs dry up from old age." Kind of inconvenient for me.

We introduced the bottle to Terza when she was about 3 weeks old, just so she'd get into the habit of drinking from it, so I could have -- pause here while I chortle - freedom. It might have even worked, too, had we kept up with the bottle. Every few weeks, I'd remember that we should offer her a bottle soon so she'd be accustomed to the idea and I would do it, eventually, maybe once a month or every six weeks. I'd pump and hand over the milk to Nonnie and the baby would take the milk, usually, and the whole system seemed to be working decently. It was just such a pain to pump though, so much more time-consuming than just tossing her on the teat, seeing as she was always nearby and all. So I had someone feed her the bottle when absolutely necessary and besides that, I let her nurse, which was easier for everyone.

Except now, she won't take the bottle. Which is not easier for everyone. Namely, for me.

Seconda did the same exact thing when she turned a year, and we tried soy milk and rice milk and almost milk and every kind of bottle out there but the answer was always the same, some version of "Fuck, no." It would be useful if I retained any memory of those years because then I might recall how it all worked out but having the kids two years apart wiped out all my recall so its anybody's guess how we got from her never imbibing a sip of milk to gorging on it now, as a big kid. The one thing I know is she never took the bottle, yet she survived.

Which is why I know it will be fine. Except it means I can't really leave the baby for long periods of time, at least without feeling guilt-ridden and worried that she'll starve.

So, I'm back to pumping, in the hopes that if its Mommy's hard-won breastmilk she tastes coming through the bottle, she'll agree to drink it, and then maybe I can sneak in little bits of cow's milk at a time, gradually increasing the quantity until she's drinking regular milk like all the other babies around me do.

At which point, I will have to wean her off the bottle.