There but for the grace of God go I

First, a heads up: Blogging here at the Mother Tongue has been a bit scarce for the last week or so, and it’ll continue to be so for the next few weeks while I work on my bit of a project for the arts department. My most sincere apologies, and believe me when I say I’d far rather spend my time lampooning my own parenting skills on this blog than working up an endless (but highly useful) music calendar. But, eh. C’est la vie.

In the meantime, why don’t you all just talk amongst yourselves about parenting in the news til we’re back up to 100% here?

Today’s discussion topic: What’s a fit punishment for parents who leave their kids to die in a hot car?

My thoughts: I’ve known several people whose children have died in terrible accidents, including one who spaced out and left a child in a hot car. I acknowledge that sometimes these accidents happen because the parent was under the influence of drink or drugs, or was ignorant as to how hot a car can get in the sun. But I’d be willing to bet that most parents who find themselves in this terrible situation are just normal folks who were perhaps tired, stressed, in a hurry, and out of their regular routine—as we all are, from time to time.

Losing your beloved child because you were distracted on a bad morning is punishment enough, isn’t it? Will a prison sentence honestly do anyone any good? I mean, we’re not talking about cold-blooded cop killers with a high recidivism rate. But you wouldn’t know that, judging from some of the comments on CNN’s “Sound Off” section just below the story. I see a lot of people there falling all over themselves to assert their superior parenting skills, saying that parents who find themselves in this horrible situation are negligent monsters who don’t really love their children.

Except, that’s total garbage. Yes, children are sometimes left to die in cars by negligent babysitters or ignorant and/or drug-abusing parents. But in the vast majority of cases, the parent responsible for the death is a normal person having a worse than normal morning. Could have been you or me. Let’s hope we never have to find out, and that if we do that the Internet Tough Guys will show a little more mercy.

Discuss: What do you think is an appropriate punishment, if any, for a parent who left his/her child to die in a hot car? And why do you think mothers get punished for this with jail time far more often than fathers? Isn’t that kind of insulting to men, in a way, like we’re holding mothers to a higher standard of parenting than fathers?

Living large

Still working on those site updates, folks (and taking a little break from the insanity of Pottermania). So keep the comments and e-mails coming with links to great Kentucky blogs!

In the meantime, I’ve also been setting up the baby’s nursery and putting away her little clothes. Which are tiny and adorable, and I want to eat them for breakfast, even though there is a preponderance of unnecessary ruffles. Seriously, I don’t think she owns one pair of pants that doesn’t have a ruffle somewhere. Got an adorable little outfit from a friend of mine, turned over the pants, and BAM. Six rows of butt ruffles. I do not believe there is any escape.

Ah well, all the more likely then that she’ll rebel and start wearing black and listening to the Cure when she turns 13, which is okay, since I’m on familiar turf there.

The Sprog has been “helping” me set up the nursery, mostly by sitting in the rocking chair while I fold clothes and offering moral support. The other day:

Sprog: Mommy? You’re so, so pretty.

Me: Aw, thanks, sweetie! You’re pretty handsome yourself.

Sprog: And Mommy, you’re so…so…funny!

Me: Um…thanks.

Sprog: And Mommy? You’re so…so…big!

Me: …

Way to go there, Rico Suave. But on the other hand, he hugs my belly all the time, covers it in kisses it, and says it’s for his little sister. I think I’ll keep him anyway. :)

Discuss: How have your children reacted to the impending reality of a younger sibling?

Calling all Kentucky bloggers!

Just a quick heads up here:

I’m hoping to do some long-overdue house cleaning on my blogroll and links section in the next week or so. Nesting, I guess? Anyhow, I’m still on the lookout for some cool personal blogs by Kentuckians to add to the list (because hey, why not share a good thing?).

So, if you write a personal blog and you live in Kentucky, drop me a line or leave a comment so I can be sure to include yours.

My only standards for linking to a blog are that a) it should mostly be about your life, and b) the language and content must be reasonably clean (and yes, I’m still going to exercise personal discretion in deciding, yadda yadda yadda). Other than that? Sky’s the limit!

Jesus is not a G.I. Joe

I just read an article on CNN.com about Wal-Mart’s plan to stock Bible-based action figures for children to play with. According to the article, the toys include “a 3-inch figure of Daniel in the lion’s den, a 12-inch talking Jesus doll and 13-inch Samson action figure”.

You know, I think it’s just fine for parents to want their kids to focus more on spiritual themes instead of The Incredible Hulk or whatever, but I think it’s possible Wal-Mart has not thought their cunning plan through.

To whit, have you seen what little kids do with action figures? My son has a bunch of Spiderman and Superman guys, and though there are bouts of heroism where Spiderman bravely rescues Superman from the evil Land Beyond Couch Cushion, he also likes to make them pee and fart at each other. A lot.

Kids love action figures and dolls because they can employ them as proxies to act out their own interests and fantasies. The problem is, a Jesus action figure is not a blank slate—people expect him and other Biblical characters to fulfill certain roles, to have certain personality traits. But little kids don’t know that, not really. They haven’t had time to internalize it in the same way parents have.

So I’m afraid what you’re going to end up with is one of three scenarios:

1) Little Rod and Todd dutifully playing out Daniel in the lions’ den/Jesus walking on water/Samson bringing down the temple. And no doubt, there’s some juicy stuff in the Bible…but for the kid playing out the scenario, there’s little room for interpretation in there. Doesn’t sound like much fun, honestly.

2) Parents wincing while they nervously watch their kids make the Virgin Mary and Samson do bloody battle with ninjas. VAMPIRE NINJAS WITH BAZOOKAS. omg that is so cool.

3) Parents freaking out their kids by swooping down upon them and saying, “Put that down, kids! Jesus is NOT ALLOWED to get married to the Virgin Mary and live in the Malibu Barbie Dream House! You treat that action figure with some reverence!”

All of which is to say, I think this is not such a great idea. I don’t object to religiously-themed toys in general; just action figures based on specific Bible characters.  But there’s plenty of other great stuff out there. The Sprog is particularly fond of the VeggieTales merchandise, which is cool because I don’t mind so much when Laura the Carrot decides that some smack-talking French peas are going down. Because that’s how little kids play, and I don’t want to mess with that.

The baby name game

You know, this baby naming business is not such an easy thing. Okay, for some people. A friend of mine at work, who is getting married next month, already has six children’s names picked out—and that’s first plus middle, mind you. I can only observe in awe that kind of organization, because choosing a name for the current bun en oven has been rather like achieving a fragile detente among nations.

And the really obnoxious thing was, we had a boy’s name picked out in like ten minutes flat. No problem. The girl’s name? That took lists. Checking baby name books out of the library. Keeping a notebook of possibilities. Cruising websites. And possibly, reading chicken entrails. All of which resulted in A Name. It was a lovely name, too. Classy, easily spelled and pronounced, not too popular, but not unheard of.

I suggested The Name to my husband, and he said, and I quote, “Well, it’s not bad. I guess.” I went to my mother-in-law for back-up. I heard her curling her lip over the phone. I mentioned it to my father. He sighed heavily and said, “Huh. I guess we can always call her by a nickname.”

Okay, so back to the drawing board. We did eventually find a name that we loved and that others in the family could tolerate (yes, this is semi-important). Now all we have to do is hope that nobody famous with the same name does anything really shameful in the next 20 years.

And you know, I think our daughter ought to count her blessings, because we could have really messed her up with a bad name. Think I’m kidding? Behold, the worst baby name ever:

Urhines Kendall Icy Eight Special K

That is, as far as I can tell, a real live hospital birth announcement and a real live kid’s name. Urhines (pronounced “Your Highness”) Kendall (named for Dad, and one hopes, what the kid will go by in school) Icy Eight (apparently some kind of basketball term, but I have no idea what it means) Special K (a.k.a. Ketamine, a horse tranquilizer often abused as a raver drug).

You know, I have this theory: if you sound out a baby name, and it sounds like it goes to a bookie or a bouncer, don’t give your baby that name. Just a thought.

Anyhow, here’s a short list of other fun baby naming sites I’ve come across.

Baby’s Named a Bad, Bad Thing. You really shouldn’t have a beverage in your hand when you look at this site. Contains hilarious snark about “creative” baby names.

Social Security Baby Name site. This one is really invaluable to the serious baby name researcher. Lists baby names in order of popularity; updated yearly just before Mother’s Day.

The Baby Name Wizard Name Voyager. I love love love this site. It’s an interactive site updated yearly using Social Security data. Shows you the popularity of names through the last 130 years and shows trends in an easy to digest form. Way too much fun to play around with!

The Utah Baby Namer. A fun catalogue of distinctive Utah baby names. Definitely read the “What’s in a (Utah) Name?” article on the site.

Discuss: What funky baby names have you heard recently? Difficulty: must be a baby you personally know. Everyone knows a friend of a friend whose kid is named Orangello or Lemongello. Or Female. Or some kind of embarrassing bodily function name. These are all confirmed urban legends.

Mourning milk

I almost cried yesterday in the doctor’s office when my OB told me I was not a bad mother.

See, it’s like this: I recently came to a very difficult decision, and I’ve been eaten up with guilt ever since. I have decided not to breastfeed my daughter, at least not after the first month.

But I need to get back on my Adderall as soon as I can; I have long struggled with ADD and chronic depression, and having two small children—which would stress anyone out—does nothing to improve those conditions. However, I’m not allowed to take it while pregnant or breastfeeding, because that’s all a baby needs is to be jacked up on an amphetamine salt.

I took Paxil the whole time I was pregnant with and nursing the Sprog, but I didn’t know then that it could have serious side effects on a baby. And anyway, it wasn’t working very well: I felt sluggish and muddy minded all the time, even before I got pregnant. Adderall’s been the only medication to ever manage all my symptoms (and believe me, I’ve tried a lot of meds), but no breastfeeding allowed.

And it’s killing me, because I loved nursing the Sprog—all the special time we spent together snuggling skin-to-skin, the bond we shared, the joy of knowing I was feeding him the best food in the world.

I guess I could soldier on without medication just so I could breastfeed, but why should I do that? What my kids really want and need is a mother who is joyful, focused, energetic, patient, and confident. I am none of those things right now, and if I am, it is a matter of digging down deep to muster the internal resources to be a good mother to the Sprog. It’s like consciously flexing a muscle all day long, and it’s very tiring.

But it’s so hard to talk about, to admit that I might not be doing the best job on my own. And that is exactly why I’m talking about it: there is such a stigma surrounding maternal depression, and we should be talking to each other openly about it. I have a friend who is a social worker, and she said mothers are often very reluctant to tell her they’re depressed because they’re ashamed of it, like it’s a personal failing, or they’re terrified that she’ll take their children away. Which is sad, because she’s there to help families, and she told me that baby blues are almost never a reason for child removal.

Me, I’m not so worried about CPS, because I know I’m in no danger of abusing the Sprog. But I know I could be a better mother than I am right now, and if Adderall helps me achieve that, then I will gladly pony up the money for formula and bite my tongue if ever I get judgmental comments about not breastfeeding. Because yes, breast is best. But so is a sane mommy.

And oh, it hurts. I wanted to breastfeed so badly.

Heads up: Mother Nurture PAR-TAY

Promise I’ll have a “real” entry tomorrow, but for now I’m just trying to tread water with all this Harry Potter stuff. I should be back to my normal level of insanity on July 23.

In the meantime, just wanted to tell you all about the huge Mother Nurture first anniversary bash that will take place this Saturday. It sounds like a blast, and I’m going to try my level best to head out there.

The highlights:

• Goes from 11 a.m.-6:30 p.m. Saturday

• Big sales, 15-75% off on a bunch of their merchandise

• Doorprizes, including a breast pump

• Henna tattoos

• Face painting

• Prenatal massage

• Vendor booths

• Belly Dancing

• Live music and family dancing time

• A bunch of really cool seminars, on topics like doulas, midwives, post-partum depression, massage, belly casting, and breastfeeding.

For more in-depth information go check out the website.

Remember, it’s in that funky wooden building in front of Lowe’s on Richmond Rd. You can get there easily if you just make like you’re going to the Sunshine Grow Shop next to the Krispy Kreme Doughnuts shop, and just keep going back in the Sunshine Grow parking lot.

Hope to see you all there!

And now I must be off. The Sprog told me yesterday that he wants to write books when he grows up, so we’re going to make a book with his little foamy animal stickers we got at Michael’s yesterday. I hope he wants to tell a story about jungle animals, because that’s all we’ve got. Hee.

The nursery magic

“…Once you are Real you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.”
–The Velveteen Rabbit

I have nothing all that earth-shattering to say today. But I think you all should go read this post over at Finslippy:

RIP, Minty Bear

Alice’s family just came back from vacation, only to discover that they had left her 4-year-old son’s beloved Minty Bear in the hotel room. The way she handled it, and the sweet way she wrote about her little boy’s reaction, is chief among the reasons she’s one of my favorite bloggers. That, and because she’s as much of a spazz as I am, and her son has food issues too. Absolutely worth a read.

But this post, it made me think about all the improbable things children become attached to. My pastor’s daughter used to derive comfort from snuggling a tri-fold cloth diaper, which she called “Didie”. My friend’s son used to love on a plastic light saber.

And my son? He has a beat-up stuffed dog who is, originally enough, called “Special Dog”. Special Dog looks like he was left on the floor and trampled at a heavy metal concert, but the Sprog doesn’t care. After I first read him The Velveteen Rabbit a few weeks ago, he insisted to me that Special Dog was Real too, just like the bunny. And you know what? I believe him—after all, I once had a Special Bear, too.

Does your child have a treasured stuffed animal or security object?

Food fight!

In case you all haven’t been there yet, check out our own Sharon Thompson’s fabulous new foodie blog, Flavors of Kentucky. Like the other Flavors of Kentucky site she’s been running, the blog already features a bunch of yummy-looking recipes, plus some content that I imagine will fit better in blog format than a traditional recipe site. So go check it out!

Heck those recipes look so good, my son might even deign to try one if I fixed it up just right. Maybe if I hid it under some macaroni and cheese? Nah, who am I kidding. He’d rather gnaw his own fingers off like a coyote in a trap than eat a food that’s not on his pre-approved list—a list that is not growing appreciably larger with time, as we had hoped it would.

See, the Sprog is what some might call a “picky eater”. Others might call it being “finicky”. I call it a “humongous pain in the butt.” We’ve tried to get him to eat new foods before, but he absolutely refuses to try them. And just for emphasis: It’s not that he wouldn’t like them; it’s that he won’t try them. We don’t serve him gruel with mystery meat chunks, a la Oliver Twist. I’m talking about baked beans, cantaloupe, blueberry waffles, bananas. He has even refused cake and ice cream on his last two birthday parties. While all the other kids were ratcheting themselves into sugar nirvana on chocolate Spider-Man cake and Neapolitan ice cream, my son was pleading for microwaved chicken nuggets. Seriously.

We’ve continued to suggest new foods to him, to no avail. And in the meantime, we’ve read all the parenting books, surfed the internet for articles, asked the pediatrician. And we have still accomplished precisely squat in terms of getting the Sprog to eat actual food. No, I take that back: I did get him to start taking a chewable vitamin every morning, but that took two weeks of unrelenting, PTSD-inducing battle.

We’ve tried:

• letting him eat what he wants (within certain parameters, i.e., it must be at least a moderately healthful food) and trusting that he’ll grow out of being picky. So far, this has been a resounding failure.

• explaining that he must feed his body good food so he can grow up to be big and strong. He doesn’t believe us.

• outright bribery. Also to no effect, since not having to eat the horror of mashed potatoes is his biggest priority in life. Nothing else has been shown to supersede that. Nothing. And trying to hold something important over his head as a reward for eating only means a big heaping helping of trauma and drama.

• telling him that he will go without that meal if he refuses to eat. No problem for him. He’ll happily skip a meal and wait us out until the next one if it means not having to eat whatever strange food we’ve set in front of him, such as meatloaf slathered in ketchup.

• reheating the unloved leftovers. Once before, we tried telling him that he must eat a particular food (beef stroganoff), and told him that he would receive nothing else to eat until he at least tried it. He went on a two-day hunger strike rather than put one single bite of it in his mouth (he had plenty of soy milk and vitamins). The ultimate scream-inducing irony: he now loves beef stroganoff. I knew he would, if he’d just put a bite into his mouth and try it.

We’ve had some minor success in the last week with trying to get him to eat new things, but it’s all one step forward, two steps back. And I’m really tired of fixing one meal for my husband and I, and a different meal for him; it will only get more complicated after his little sister arrives. Beyond that, I want him to get more fruits and veggies in his diet, and I want to establish that habit early, before he turns into this kid.

And in answer to the questions that will inevitably arise:

Am I a bad cook? It’s a fair question, but the answer, in all modesty, is no. I am a darn good cook, and the only complaint I ever got from my husband was the Indian peanut sauce on chicken and rice that I invented shortly after our marriage. Seven years later, even I can admit it was kind of nasty.

Are we indulgent parents? Also, no. We ask the Sprog to follow a few simple rules, and he’s a sweet-natured kid who loves to please adults by obeying. Except for when food is involved.

Is this a power issue? Most likely. He knows it drives us crazy if he doesn’t eat, but that ship has sailed. No taking it back and making him think I’m unconcerned.

So anyway… I am all out of ideas. Any tips from parents who have been there, done that, would be highly appreciated. And in the meantime, I have a great coupon for macaroni and cheese that I’d better use before it expires. *sigh*

Edited to add: Haha! We got the Sprog to eat a blueberry waffle for breakfast. Granted, it took a little wheedling, since he was all, “I don’t want to try it! I don’t like waffles!” Also, we had to put peanut butter and jelly on it. BUT HE ATE IT. And he admitted that blueberry waffles were very good. Let us hope this is a gateway to bigger and better things. It is perhaps a commentary on the sad state of my life that this is likely to be my biggest accomplishment of the day.

Verdict on the 4th of July parade

Ah, back to the grindstone. Tell you all what, my brain is fried like an egg after yesterday’s surprisingly-sunny festivities downtown, so let’s just have a bit of discussion: what did you all think of the “new and improved” 4th of July parade?

Things the Sprog and I liked:

–the Bahaii float. So colorful!

–the calliope float (in conjunction with the Mighty Wurlitzer project at the Kentucky Theatre).

–the drag queen Lady Liberty. Too much fun!

–the dancers (Native American?) in the red dresses with bells on their ankles. I think they were behind the La Pantera radio station van.

–the kilt-wearing bagpipe band

–the little cheerleaders doing hand-springs. Very cool.

–the teeny, tiny little ponies pulling the one-person carts.

–the belly dancers. I know they’re a staple, but they’re always entertaining.

–the Shriners whizzing about in their little cars.

–the Quest float with the movie theme. Very imaginative!

–that one guy riding with the Sierra Club who was jacked up on that 10-foot-tall yellow bike. I salute you, sir. Wish you’d been wearing a helmet, though.

–the float with all the young drummers on it. Those kids were great!

–the giant Chik-Fil-A cows. Don’t ask me, the Sprog went nuts over them.

–all instances of horseback riders. Ditto the Sprog going nuts over them.

Things we didn’t like:

–the length. It was about an hour, right? My heinie was numb on the curb by the time it was all over with, and the Sprog was fading fast, too. I bet a lot of little kids were getting hot and tired and needed to use the bathroom by the time it was over. And aren’t kids a major target of the parade?

–the endless lines of people waving from cars. I understand that many of these people are important in our community. But come on–dress it up, people!

Anyhow, what say you about the parade? Comments? Critiques? Suggestions?

Oh, and by the way: if you’re a Harry Potter fan, I have a spandy-new, limited-release blog up now called The Muggle Tongue. Give it a look!

And the rockets’ red glare…

“So, you want to take the Sprog downtown for the festivities?”

“Sure, he’ll love the parade and stuff.”

“What about the fireworks?”

“What about the fireworks?”

“Where’s a good place for us to park so he can enjoy them?”

“Preferably 50 feet below ground in a sound-proof bunker.”

* * * * *

Saturday night was interesting for the Sprog. Some neighbors started setting off fireworks just before dusk, so I made sure to talk to the Sprog about how they were very pretty to look at, even if they were loud like Daddy’s drums. But fireworks are nice! We like them a lot! If fireworks pulled up in a strange car and tried to lure you with candy, that’s okay! Because fireworks are that nice.

After he was all pajama-ed up and ready for bed, he begged me to take him out on the back deck to watch for some pyrotechnics. But all of his bravery dropped directly into his shorts when he heard the first actual fireworks go off. Good thing he was already wearing his overnight diaper.

Got any plans for the 4th of July? How do you like to involve your children in the festivities?