Ten Dollar Thoughts

About a month ago I did something that scared the bejeezus out of me: I started researching preschools.  Yes, I know, IEP is not even two yet.  Mostly I just had no idea at what age kids start going to preschool and didn’t want to miss the boat because I was lost in a state of denial thinking, “But my baby is only nine years old.  Surely he isn’t old enough to start school yet, right?”

The comforting answer to the question spurring my research was that we have two full years before we start taking first-day-of-school photos on the front porch.  The not-so-comforting follow-up information came when I started clicking into tuition pages and discovered that many of the preschools we’re considering cost more than my high school did.  This is one of the few moments when I’m glad I don’t live in Manhattan and haven’t felt pressured to start the application process every day since my second trimester.  But I digress…

As an interesting parallel to our own preschool-filled horizon I happened across this NYT article about “The Littlest Redshirts.”  Apparently it is now de rigueur to hold your child back a year in some sort of Darwinian power play to make sure that he is among the smartest, tallest, and strongest in his class.**  Not surprisingly, I am ambivalent about this.

As a September baby I always enjoyed being among the oldest in my class.  I was one of the first to drive and vote and drink (legally, at least).  Whether or not I actually did, I perceived myself as having a bit of a leg up.  And all of these things factored somewhat into our decision to shoot for an autumn baby before I got pregnant with IEP.  But in spite of our own “strategery” I have an adverse response to the idea of holding a child back to stack the deck in this way. 

Perhaps I have visions of aggressive stage parents jockeying their children for position at the top of the toddler heap.  (I certainly have visions of the scene in Baby Boom where Diane Keaton sits dejected at the playground as other alpha mommies decry her parenting techniques and shun her for not having little Elizabeth on the Dalton waiting list.)  Such visions are off-putting enough.  But I think my real objection here is the effect that this “my child is the exception” mentality has on the kids who follow the rules.

For example, say IEP was born in April.  If I enroll him in preschool the year after he turns three (as is customary, I have learned) he will be among the younger members of his class.  Kids will be up to eight months older or four months younger than my son.  Now, say I don’t like the idea of IEP being on the young end.  Say I am heavily invested in my son’s success and I want him to have every advantage.  So I hold him back a year.  Now he starts preschool as a four-year-old.  He is older, smarter, and stronger than he was a year ago and than most other kids in his class.  IEP wins!

But who loses in this scenario?  What about the child who was born in mid-August and just barely made the September 1^st cutoff?  Now that child (and lots of other summer babies) are not just being stacked up against to kids who are 10 and 11 months older, but to kids who are up to a year and a half older.  By comparison they will be significantly less developed on many levels.  And I’m certainly no expert in early childhood development, but I can’t imagine that this does wonderful things for self-esteem (not to mention standardized test results which are scored in percentiles…). 

As a parent I totally understand the desire for your child to have every advantage you can hand him in this big bad world of ours.  But what does it say to your child about your confidence in him if you choose to cheat the system to give him a leg up?  And what does it teach him about how to succeed in the world if you’re willing to leave others to flounder for your own benefit?  I think the answer is: nothing good.

**Note – I’m not talking about kids who are held back for legitimate developmental reasons.  Many kids are held back because they simply aren’t ready and that is a bird of a different feather.

The Midwest is neither Manhattan nor San Francisco nor Phoenix.  Most of the people I see on a daily basis look an awful lot like me (minus the freckles, usually).  Because of this GAP and I feel that we have a pretty strong imperative to make sure that we raise our family in a way that exposes them to different races, religions, backgrounds, and customs.  Not everyone is a white, Midwestern, Episcopalian, with a graduate degree.  In fact, the sweeping majority are none of those things. 

So we talk a lot about how to accomplish this.  How do you expose your children to a broad range of experiences without treating that exposure like a museum trip?  How do you maintain a variety of relationships without treading down that dangerous path of filling quotas?  And perhaps most importantly in the early years, how do you talk to your kids about diversity in a way that they can understand yet doesn’t make you cringe.

As adults we speak about diversity in the most politically correct terms.  There are times when such phrasing is helpful in navigating what can be a minefield of potential faux pas.  However, there are also times when diluting our language to placate the broadest range of listeners renders it impotent.  We find that we simply cannot say the thing we mean to say.  This pitfall is apparently (and not surprisingly, when you think about it) quite treacherous when talking to children. 

I came across this article earlier in the week and was both surprised and comforted by its message.  Based on some of the key takeaways listed I can tell that we might well be misguided by our best intentions.  Abstract and politically correct language is hard to interpret and understand.  And silence isn’t silent at all.  To quote the author:

• Children’s minds start categorizing the world as early as they can identify pictures on a page and if we avoid discussing racial differences when they become evident, it becomes something they learn should not be spoken about — that it is taboo.

• As parents to young children, we should talk about race the same way that we discuss gender. In other words, comparable to how we say, “Both boys and girls can be doctors,” so should we speak about racial differences.

• We also need to be specific in how we speak with our children about race. For example, to say, “Everyone should be treated equally,” is not clear enough to children about what we are referring to.

I’m confident that I will find some way to fumble this issue; probably many ways.  So I am grateful for tactical guidance like this.  I’m inclined to believe that we complicate many things that needn’t be.  Diversity is complex enough without the added layers of my own baggage and insecurity.  Anything that can assuage those fears will always be a welcome addition to my parenting toolkit.

There are these things that make me happy.

Like these guys, one so much larger and the other so much smaller than I, and yet we all fit together perfectly.

Like this rainbow, which glistened in the sky after buckets of rain fell on us one evening last week.

Like these ever-shedding dogs, whose kisses are sloppy, whose smiles are genuine, and whose love is unconditional.

And like this tiny blond curl, which bends up over the edge of his perky red cap and makes me melt just a little bit.

IEP has had a thing for pacifiers since the very beginning.  As a NICU baby he wasn’t allowed to nurse for the first few days of his life and a pacifier was the only acceptable stand-in.  He attached quickly.  Since then, it has been a wonderful tool.  In the early days it was priceless for long car rides, naps, and general fussiness.  More recently it has been helpful keeping him quiet during church, and for the funny and guilty smile he makes when he finds a stray one that he knows is off limits except for sleep time.

I asked our pediatrician at his 15-month appointment what the drop-dead age is for pacifiers.  She told us we were fine as long as he was weaned from it by two years.  I decided right then that 18 months would be our cutoff.  (That was after deciding, and then rescinding my decision, that nine months and twelve months would be our cutoffs.)  And this weekend we did the deed.  After a grandparent visit including a big zoo trip and lunch out, he was exhausted by the time his nap rolled around on Saturday.  For the first time, we put him down sans pacifier.  He cried for about three minutes and then crashed.  We repeated the routine for Sunday’s nap.  Then last night he went down for the night without it.  Again, he cried for about three minutes and then went right to sleep.

I have been both surprised and not surprised at how easily this transition has gone.  (“Is going” – don’t want to count the proverbial chickens quite yet…)  For a baby who’s never had to fall asleep with an empty mouth, this change hasn’t been altogether a non-event.  But it hasn’t been much of an event either.  He’s an adaptable kid and takes to new situations with relative ease.  But despite his flexibility, I know that at some level this change is hard for him.

Last night as I laid him down crying (after having declined his pacifier request) I started thinking about what pacifies me.  Thankfully, it’s not a silicone nipple tethered to a clip on my shirt.  But I – we all – have things in my life that soothe me.  I have things in my life that are familiar, on which I lean and rely, and which could be considered crutches in moments when I reach for them out of fear. 

A cell phone.  Internet access.  My mother on the other end of the telephone.  Leather handbags in a rainbow of colors.  Sloppy kisses from giant furry dogs.  A squeeze of my husband’s strong hand.  All these things, in various moments of stress or insecurity bolster me against my fears. 

So how would I feel if, over the course of a weekend, someone decided it was high time I was weaned off any of these things?  I wondered about this and tried to distinguish for myself what the difference is between IEP’s pacifier and any of my own soothing vices.  I drew the line in a shade of grey.  I can handle most any situation without my own creature comforts.  Naturally, strife-filled moments are easier with them.  But I can rise to the occasion on my own when called upon.

What I didn’t want for IEP was for his pacifier habit to become so ingrained that it was a prerequisite for sleep – or any other brand of satiety.  It’s not so much that I don’t want him to have it, it’s that I don’t want him to need it.  With toddlers such nuances are difficult to convey, which is why it plays out in shades of black and white.  But ultimately it’s the coping skill that I want to develop, more than the crutch that I want to eliminate. 

But yet we all have such needs.  We can never truly eliminate our need for the objects and attachments that aid us in trying times.  And just as surely as his attachment to his pacifier fades, his attachment to something else (something more toddler-esque, something more socially acceptable for a boy his age?) will develop.  So why such a big deal about the pacifer?  (Aside from the fear of massive orthodontia?)  I’m not sure.  But I know that the experience he’s having in giving up something now will be repeated many times throughout his life.  Giving up our nanny someday.  Giving up his preschool.  Giving up his favorite pajamas.  Giving up a girlfriend (in the dim and distant future!).  So perhaps it is the experience of sacrifice and change that we’re fostering, as much as a shift to new objects of comfort.   

These little moments of parenting sneak up on me from time to time.  I watch my son traverse a poignant moment in life and extrapolate its significance out to an adult level.  There is much to be gained in considering our challenges from a child’s perspective.  It takes the muddied waters of adulthood and clarifies them with concision.  As I’ve watched him relinquish his pacifier so easily, I am prone to wonder what it is that I hang onto but could just as easily dismiss.

Who is the best person to raise your children?  You, right?  And what if something happens to you?  Your spouse, right?  Most people can answer these questions without hesitation.  Our involvement in the lives of our children is instinctual and our inalienable right, right?  But those questions have become murky ones for Abbie Dorn, her ex-husband, and her parents/caretakers.

In a tragic and Terri Schiavo-esque case, legal teams for both sides are trying to answer that very question.  It is one of those cases that have no right decision and no happy ending. 

In 2002 Abbie Cohen and Daniel Dorn whipped their way through a whirlwind romance and were married after six months.  After becoming pregnant with triplets via IVF in the fall of 2005 Abbie delivered their babies via C-section in the summer of 2006.  The first two babies were delivered without incident.  But while delivering the third the OB nicked Abbie’s uterine wall with a scalpel causing Abbie to bleed severely and go into cardiac arrest.  She was revived after 20 minutes, but the duration of time that her brain went without oxygen left her severely brain damaged. 

On the triplets’ first birthday Daniel Dorn submitted divorce papers to his wife (now in her parents’ care, funded by the proceeds of a malpractice lawsuit).  The divorce was granted, but now the question on the table is whether or not Abbie should be granted visitation rights with her children. 

There are conflicting reports regarding Abbie’s mental capacity and progress.  Neurologists have described her condition as permanent.  Yet her parents and nurses tell of great strides in her brain function and communication. 

But I am not here to tell the story.  I am here to ask the questions.  (The story is available here and here in much greater detail.)  I’ll tell you right now that I don’t have the answers, that is above my pay grade.  But it is not above my pay grade to weigh them out with thoughtful consideration.  And so…

What, in the name of all that is holy, is the right way out of this mess?  The damage is done.  Abbie Dorn will never parent her children in the way that she dreamed.  That is a given.  But is there a way to make this right?  Or at least more right?  Will exposure to their mother bring anything good into the lives of her children?  Will exposure to her children help the health and well-being of the mother?  And whose best interest matters more? 

For Visitation.  Abbie Dorn is not asking for any portion of physical or legal custody, only visitation.  She carried and bore these children, and lost her life as she knew it in the process.  It is her right to see her children periodically; to watch them grow, hear their voices, and see their smiles; and to understand – at whatever level she is capable – that her loss was not in vain.  There is little, if any, risk of harm to the children through time with Abbie.  And the children themselves have a right to know their mother, even if she is but a shell of her former self.  Arguably, with proper coaching and understanding, their lives could be greatly enriched by the addition of their mother’s presence.  Additionally, Abbie herself could improve significantly if inspired by the presence of her children.

Against Visitation.  Daniel Dorn is a single father doing the best that he can in an impossible situation.  The conditions his wife now suffers are tragic, but they should not interrupt his ability to parent his children in as normal a way as he can, given the circumstances.  Cross-country travel to visit a woman who cannot sit, stand, speak, or eat will be disruptive to their upbringing and will never result in a meaningful relationship.  Furthermore, it is not the responsibility of these young children to inspire progress in their mother.

Again, I do not have the answers.  I feel sympathy for Daniel Dorn who lost his spirited wife and is left to parent his children alone.  And yet I feel anger toward him for approaching this decision with so little compassion for his wife and the woman who nearly lost her life to give him his kids.  I feel incredible sympathy for Abbie Dorn, and for her parents who have become full-time caretakers in their retirement years.  And yet I wonder if they have put themselves in Daniel’s shoes and considered the difficulty of single parenting on its own, much less after introducing the complicated topic of a severely disabled parent.

There is no right answer.  There is no happy ending.  And despite the recognition that there are no good answers, I cannot stop myself from asking the questions.

Home can be a slippery concept. 

The city that I now call home is not the city where I grew up.  My hometown, however, hasn’t been “home” since I graduated college ten years ago. 

This comes up because I spent last weekend visiting my parents.  My sister was also in town, but neither of our husbands joined us.  So, with the exception of one IEP (whose abilities to change the dynamics of a weekend should not be underestimated), for a couple of days we were the same family of four of my childhood.

Visiting my parents is an odd mish-mash of emotions as it relates to the concept of “home.”  They still live in the house where I spent my adolescent years.  And for several years after I moved out, going back there still felt like going home.  It felt familiar, comfortable, and still in some way mine.  It still feels comfortable and familiar, but no longer mine.  Throughout the course of the past ten years I have moved to a different place along the continuum of “home.”  It’s a strange experience to realize that home no longer feels like home.  And I’ve puzzled quite a bit over when and why this happened. 

There is the physical.  One by one, every room in my parents’ house (except the kitchen) has been redecorated since I lived there.  The coffee table in the living room that I once stabbed with a letter opener as a toddler is now in my sister’s house out West.  The lilies-of-the-valley wallpaper that I picked out for my bathroom (and which was installed upside down…) has been removed and replaced with textured green paint.  The leather couch where I did my best napping was donated to charity.  The dark mahogany pool table in the den that occupied me and my friends on many weekend evenings throughout high school has been taken down and replaced with an exquisitely arranged seating area.  The dining room, whose walls used to be covered in bold stripes, now displays a more muted floral pattern.  And so on, and so on, and so on. 

There is the temporal.  The city itself has changed since I left.  Like any city, my hometown is not a snapshot of itself.  Naturally some things are the same, but many things are different.  Restaurants open and close.  People move to new homes.  Land is developed and re-developed.  Family members move back.  Friends move away.  And so on, and so on, and so on.  A city is an organism with a pulse that beats according to the people in it.  As those people grow and change, so does the city around them.  So even if I were to move back tomorrow, I could never return to precisely the city I left, because it doesn’t exist anymore. 

There is the emotional.  I have never lived in my hometown as an adult.  When I finished school I had a strike-out-on-my-own mentality.  “I can move back there any time” I thought.  “This is the time to go explore new places.”  And so I did.  But once GAP and I had settled into our current city and built our networks of friends and colleagues, it became clear to me that my logic had been backwards.  For numerous reasons, I have understood for several years now that I will never move back to my hometown.  This was a strange realization to face.  Even stranger?  I’m okay with it. 

And most importantly, there is the issue of family.  There are many maxims about home.  (It’s where the heart is.  It’s where you hang your hat.  It’s where your dirty laundry is.)  For me, home is where my family lives.  Of course my parents and sister are my family and I love them dearly.  But they are no longer the sun around which I orbit.  My hometown no longer feels like home for a few important reasons:  GAP has never lived there.  IEP has never lived there.  My giant, ever-shedding dogs have never lived there.  For me, home is where IEP’s toys clutter the floor of our sunroom.  It is the place with the telephone table in the kitchen whose corners were once chewed by Bernese Mountain Dog puppies.  It is the place where GAP’s and my bookshelves stand opposite each other because even now we refuse to co-mingle our books.  And it is the place where nearly ten years of academic, professional, and social roots have descended into the ground.

Over time I have grown to love this city and the life we have built here.  It may not always be home, but right now it is.  I doubt I will ever feel as bonded to it as I once did to my hometown.  But ten years ago I also would have doubted that never again living there would become a perfectly comfortable path for me. 

Like cities we too, quite literally, are organisms.  We change over time; not only in our looks, tastes, and interests, but also in the way we interface with the world around us.  In many ways I am vastly different from what I was at 22.  In other ways I am exactly the same.  And I suppose that the same is true of home.  Home is now “here” instead of “there.”  But it is still the place where I live my life on good days and bad.  And it is the place where my husband and son are at my side.

To my male readers (both of you):  This one may be a bit outside of your wheelhouse.  Please feel free to keep reading.  If you’ve been through this experience I would be keenly interested in your perspective from the other side of the fence.  But this post is more estrogen-packed than usual.  Consider yourselves warned.

One of my best friends is pregnant with her second child.  She’s due any day and we’re all eagerly awaiting her little girl’s arrival.  Her son was born just shy of two years ago via a C-section after attempts at a vaginal delivery proved unsuccessful.  This time around my friend is hoping for a vaginal delivery, and has taken a series of very targeted steps toward that end.  When her previous OB was unsupportive of her interest in a VBAC she jumped ship and found a new OB who is.  She has hired a doula to guide her throughout labor and serve as her advocate with other medical staff.  She has researched VBACs extensively, and discussed the matter at length with her husband to cultivate his endorsement and support.  She is prepared.

The other night during dinner (at the dining room table, like the good little Lenten observers that we are) GAP and I were discussing our friend’s upcoming delivery, and, in spite of all her planning, we can’t help but feel a little bit nervous about it.  Once a woman has had a C-section vaginal births pose certain risks.  And, given those risks GAP posed the question: Why is it that women want a vaginal birth in the first place?

He didn’t limit his questioning to VBACs, either.  It is my casual understanding that many obstetricians prefer to deliver via C-section because less is left up to chance and fewer things can go wrong.  And I suspect that at some level GAP believes (particularly given our experiences with IEP’s delivery) that all babies would more prudently be delivered surgically.  He doesn’t really understand many women’s strong desire for vaginal deliveries.

His belief is that society has trumped up vaginal birth into some sort of a spiritual experience and that we women feel, either consciously or unconsciously, that it is something we are supposed to want.

I swiftly responded by asserting that this belief cheapens a woman’s emotions surrounding a vaginal birth.  I took it to mean that if our feelings weren’t original and uninfluenced by society, then they didn’t have as much value.  He countered (quite eloquently, I might add – he drives me nuts this way…) with the following analogy:

If I were to read A Tale of Two Cities in a vacuum, knowing the plot only, and not being able to relate anything outside of the book back to it, I would think it was a good book, but that’s it.  But when I come back to that book with knowledge of Christian allegory, Greek mythology, and all of the other layers that human society has added to it over the years, its meaning and significance grows exponentially.  Just because the more meaningful reading was influenced by society doesn’t diminish the value I took from it.

I couldn’t argue with that.  (Dammit!)  So we moved on in our discussion.

He asked me why I had wanted a vaginal birth when IEP was born, and why I would want another one the next time around.  I talked primarly about recovery times and other practical matters.  But what I couldn’t adequately articulate is the strong sense (instinct?) of wanting to push; of, after carrying this baby inside of me for nearly 40 weeks, needing to exert myself to the brink of exhaustion to bring his new life into the world.  And I wanted to feel that sense of completion, of (quite literally) deliverance.  It felt right.  And I believe that a C-section would have robbed me of the right and climactic ending to this process. 

(Note: If we had known at the time what was happening to IEP during delivery we would have gone straight to the OR.  And if either the baby or I are in any amount of distress during my next delivery I will sign on the dotted line for surgery immediately.  I would never pursue a vaginal birth in the face of legitimate medical risk.)

The son of a friend of mine was full breach in the womb, and she delivered via a planned C-section a week before her due date.  In the weeks leading up to the delivery she lamented the loss of that moment when the baby is born after hours of labor; the moment I described above.  In the interest of full disclosure I feel that I should note here that when he was several weeks old she confessed that her concerns were rendered moot once her son was born.  On the back end she didn’t feel that her birth experience suffered for lack of the “moment” at all.

So what is it, then, that makes us want to push?  And for the women who have no interest (scheduled C-sections have been on the rise for years), what is it that makes you want to avoid it?  Has society inflated our emotions about vaginal deliveries?  Or is there really something there – powerful, yet intangible; poignant, yet inexpressible; instinctual, yet untenable – that pressures us to push?

Young Ted Kennedy and his father.

For the past several weeks I have been (slowly) making my way through Ted Kennedy’s autobiography, True Compass.  He was a man about whom I knew precious little as a child; only by his family name as a young adult; and increasingly by his own reputation into my adulthood.  When his brain tumor was diagnosed in the spring of 2008 I started paying more attention to his history and influence.  My attention span increased further when he endorsed and, throughout his illness, actively campaigned for then-Senator Obama.  When he passed away last August I had significantly made up for my prior ignorance.  But it wasn’t until I read his book that I realized how woefully uninformed I still was. 

As a Kennedy there is clearly a big story to tell.  The wealth and privilege.  The fabled family.  The tragic loss of three brothers and a sister at ages far too young.  The life of public service.  The scandals.  The legacy.  But despite all these things, it was a passage on the 40^th page of this 500+ page book that made the deepest imprint on my mind. 

My father’s voice was paramount.  He was never abusive, never wounding toward any of his children, but he had a way of letting us know exactly what he expected of us.  Once, when I was thirteen or fourteen years old Dad called me into his room for a chat.  I must have done something that prompted the conversation, but I don’t remember what it was.  But he used phrases so concise and vivid that I can remember them word for word nearly sixty-five years later: “You can have a serious life or a nonserious life, Teddy.  I’ll still love you whichever choice you make.  But if you decide to have a nonserious life, I won’t have much time for you.  You make up your mind.  There are too many children here who are doing things that are interesting for me to do much with you.”

I returned to that passage multiple times as I made my way through the rest of the book.  I noted the page number on my bookmark so I could easily find it.  I became mildly obsessed with it.  I cannot fathom what it must have been like to hear words like those as a teenaged kid just trying to find some sunlight in the shadow of your overwhelmingly impressive family.  And now, as a parent, I cannot fathom saying those words to any child of mine; particularly at such a tender and impressionable age. 

However, whether or not you agree with their politics, it is difficult to deny that the Kennedys set an unparalleled example of public service in this country.  Given that there have been many wealthier families who did not enter the public sector in droves, I believe it is fair to surmise that it was more than the financial edge afforded by family money that buoyed the Kennedys into these positions.  Clearly there was something about the way they were raised that spurred them to lives of service.  And statements such as the one above made by the senator’s father solidify that suspicion.

Throughout the book Senator Kennedy writes with sincere affection for his father.  But beyond that he writes with admiration that borders on reverence.  His father, along with his brothers, was a pillar in his life whose approval he worked ceaselessly to earn.  And despite the fondness that his words convey, I can’t help but wonder what frailties his relationship with his father suffered due to such profound expectations.     

Ted Kennedy is not the only man to achieve “greatness” whose relationship with his father was strained, distant, or altogether absent.  Abraham Lincoln, Winston Churchill, both George Bushes, and Barack Obama all fit this bill.  And so I am prone to wonder what it was about the way that these relationships affected this collection of men that served as a catalyst for achievement rather than dereliction.  Federal penitentiaries are filled with men whose paternal relationships were equally strained and didn’t take the high road in response.  Where does the fine line reside that separates the damaged from the destined?

I believe in many of the principles that the Kennedy family has stood for, service being foremost among them.  As GAP and I raise our family I would be proud to see any of our children choose such a path.  But at what cost?  Could I bring myself to tell my son that my interest in his life survives only to the extent that I find his choices sufficiently “serious”?  And even if I could bring myself to speak such words (which I proudly doubt), would I want to?  Twenty years from now, as he enters adulthood and the parent-child power dynamic begins to soften, do I want IEP to see me as a dominant figure whose approval he covets?  Or would I rather our adult relationship be closer to friendship; something comfortable we can share and enjoy?

I find Ted Kennedy’s relationship with his father troubling.  I certainly would not be comfortable in it, and I don’t intend to parent in that way.  But I admire Joe Kennedy’s ability to impart the value of service on his children to such a profound extent.  (As an aside, I do not mean to shortchange the Kennedy daughters by omission.  Eunice Kennedy Shriver founded the Special Olympics.  And Jean Kennedy Smith founded an arts foundation for mentally and physically challenged children and also served as the US Ambassador to Ireland.)  However, I aim to find a kinder, gentler mechanism for fostering such values than the blunt instrument of ultimatum. 

As for these men who’ve risen to political peaks (I’m sure comparable examples are plentiful in the business, sports, and entertainment industries as well) I will continue to wonder what aspects of their relationships with their parents drove them to achievement versus failure versus something in between.  And I will wonder if it is possible to find a hybrid version of the same; an emphasis on service and philanthropy, but absent the cost of a dysfunctional relationship.  Is this too much to ask?  Surely these qualities are not mutually exclusive.  Perhaps my naïveté betrays me?  Check in with me in twenty years and I’ll tell you how things panned out.

This is the part of the blog where I tell you that IEP was a NICU baby.
 
Because it was painful and because it is private, I will not provide many details except to offer this:  After 39 weeks of the world’s most routine pregnancy, IEP suffered head trauma during the final stages of his delivery.  That head trauma resulted in a follow-up CT scan, which resulted in a frightening diagnosis, which resulted in his transfer (by helicopter) from the hospital where he was delivered to a local children’s hospital when he was just hours old, so that he could be treated by teams of neuro specialists. 
 
Our experience was not nearly as dire or dramatic as many other NICU families’.  But it is ours.  And for that reason it has affected GAP and me every day since our son was born.  Some its effects are obvious and tangible, like the months of follow up appointments IEP has had since he came home.  Other effects are subtler and more discrete, like the way in which moments from that day creep into our minds unannounced and remind us of how terrifying it all was. 
 
I tell you all of this now because this experience is rolling back into our lives in a concrete way and on a regular basis. 
 
Last fall I spent many weeks grappling with the orbit of my life.  More specifically, I felt that the orbit was too local; local to me, my family, and my friends.  Not to discount their place in my life – they are my biggest priorities.  But I am fortunate.  I have a happy and healthy family (both nuclear and extended).  I have a lovely home and good job.  I want for nothing.  And in living a life that is so blessed, I felt remiss that its benefits so rarely reached beyond the circle of my own people.  I felt that everything I did had a very short radius back to me. 
 
I spent a great deal of time soul searching over this topic.  I shared my frustrations and concerns with my husband, sister, parents, and a couple of bloggy friends.  I didn’t want to just “pick a cause” so that I could go through the motions of filling a void.  I wanted to add something to my life that was both valuable to others and meaningful to me.  After several weeks it finally occurred to me.  Children’s Hospital is a place very dear to me.  It is the place that healed my son.  It is the place that gave us comfort and confidence when his new and fragile life was in its capable hands.  And it is a place where I can offer a unique perspective as a woman who has walked its hallways as a mother.

This is how it came to be that in November, after a relatively rigorous application process, I was accepted as a volunteer at Children’s Hospital.  On Wednesday night I spent three hours there participating in Volunteer Orientation.  And sometime in early March I will work my first volunteer shift.

During the orientation session we went through important but dry topics like HIPAA compliance.  We learned about the scope of our responsibilities.  We learned how to properly put on a gown, mask, and gloves if we are called to visit a patient in isolation.  We walked past patient rooms where some kids were being rocked by their parents, but others were alone in their beds. 

One boy in particular is burned in my mind.  He is probably slightly older than IEP.  He was sitting in his crib in hospital pajamas, playing with a rattle, and his cheeks were flushed bright pink.  His family wasn’t there.  He watched intently as our tour group passed by and I felt an ache deep in my gut as I was forced to keep walking, rather than turn on my heels back to his bedside.         

The evening concluded with a placement assessment wherein I met with the volunteer coordinator to discuss my interests within the hospital.  She asked why I wanted to volunteer and I told her about our experiences there and my desire to help others whose paths I’d once walked myself. 

I left the hospital with a strong sense of conviction.  I feel good about this.  Not eager.  Not excited.  Not happy.  But good.  In fact, I don’t know that I’ve ever started something new in my life with so few doubts or questions.  I know this will be hard.  I know it will break my heart.  But I know that I can help and that this is the right thing for me to do.    

When I got home Wednesday night GAP and I ate dinner together and I told him all the details from my evening.  Then I made a new batch of baby food for my sweet boy.  Then I walked up to his room and leaned over the side of his crib, watching his curled-up body sigh with sleep.  I laid a blanket over him, ran my hand along the back of his head, and walked out. 

When I got in bed I started my prayer and gratitude journal for Lent.  There are many things I am thankful for.  The first two things on the list were:

Children’s Hospital
The fact that IEP isn’t there

Earlier this week I posted a video on my private family blog.  It is a video of IEP sitting in his highchair and crying miserably in the face of… cauliflower.  Usually he is amenable to dietary negotiations.  (“Eat this bite of cauliflower and then you can have another bite of ravioli.”)  But the other night he was not in the mood to barter.  We ended up taking a break to collect ourselves and then returned to the table for a fresh start wherein he did eat his cauliflower. 

I am adamant about picky eating.  I’m sure there are bigger things to worry about in this adventure of parenting.  But this is a battle I choose.  I was raised not to be a picky eater.  “You don’t have to like it, but you have to try it,” were some of my mother’s most famous words.  Those words got me to eat certain things that I loved (bread pudding!) and certain things that I didn’t (stewed zucchini?).   So today there are very few foods that I simply won’t eat.  And I’m very thankful that culinary breadth was foisted upon me without the opportunity to appeal. 

As a rule I think that attitudes about food can be (somewhat) reasonably extrapolated out into the larger picture of life.  And so recently I’ve been thinking about this philosophy as it applies to life in general.  The older we get the easier it is to define ourselves as a defined set of interests and activities.  Childhood finds us constantly trying new things – piano lessons, Girl Scouts, softball, tennis, gymnastics, basketball, horseback riding, ice skating, and ballet.  (Sorry guys, I don’t have any brothers, so I don’t really know what you did as kids… besides torment your sisters.)  But as adults we are no longer signing up for summer camp activities, electives, and various kinds of lessons.  We know what we like and what we don’t like, and we stick with it. 

But what if we were a bit more adventuresome?  What if we tried new things every now and then?  Sure, we might not like them.  Sure, we might regret time or money wasted on a dud.  But we might find something we love.  Or, we might at least get a good story out of it.

Better yet, why do we limit ourselves as adults?  What is about adulthood that makes us cling to our safety nets so dearly.  Elizabeth from Life in Pencil explored the relationship aspect of this question in her guest post over at Motherese the other day.  She insightfully pointed out that with age we are more inclined to dig our heels in than to tap dance our way into a paradigm shift, which, to me, is just plain sad.

We may not be ten years old anymore.  We may no longer thirst for the next new experience the way we once did.  We may find that the familiar suits us just fine.  But how did we find our way to the familiar?  At some point, it was new!  At some point it was strange and maybe uncomfortable.  As I think about some of the things that I cherish most in my life – going to college, living on my own, traveling alone, speaking another language, mothering – my first experiences with each were exhilarating.  But they were also frightening and overwhelming.   

I am as guilty of this rut as the next person.  It’s so easy to stick to your routine.  And there is real value in routine.  It allows us to let our guard down.  We can focus on the little things that bring us pleasure and joy when we aren’t spending our days fielding new and unwieldy circumstances.  But over time our routines can come to own us, rather than the other way around.  We come to rely on them so fiercely that we never venture beyond their bounds.

Like many of us, IEP would gladly eat nothing but his favorite foods day after day.  But I will continue to push him out of his comfort zone.  Some days there will be cauliflower in my hands.  But some day there will be bread pudding.  And when the bread pudding day comes, I hope he will be happy that he learned to try new things. 

In the meantime, I will try to live by my mother’s words more broadly.