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- © 2013 - Gregory Keer. All rights reserved.
David Code’s New Book on Socializing to Reduce Stress
Saying that modern parents are stressed out is nothing new. What is new is the emphasis that David Arthur Code has in his book, Kids Pick Up On Everything. Code, who is a marriage and family coach as well as an ordained Episcopal minister, has lived in several countries around the world, which is how he came to see that socializing was a key element to reducing stress in parents. In writing his book, Code studied neuroscience in addition to collecting his own observations.
Here are three of his top points from the book as articulated by Code:
“1) Parental stress is a major factor in the increase of child disorders today. His research shows that kids soak up the stress in a household until their developing nervous systems hit ‘overload.’
2) Being stressed out is The New Normal for parents, and the main cause of our increased stress is NOT our jobs, or technology—it’s social isolation. Humans are social animals, with a primal need to bond. That’s why our increasing isolation has left us more anxious and irritable, eroding our relationships as we escape into our screens. Research shows we are far more isolated than only two decades ago.
3) Parents need to get a life! ‘If I could wave my magic wand and reduce the stress of today’s parents, I would give them a glass of wine, a friend, and a ‘piazza’–an Italian village square to go socialize in every evening.’ Sure, exercise buffers our stress, but socializing is #1.”
Another important idea Code discusses in his book comes from the fact that, while he observed families in South America, he learned that “it’s a myth that ‘the more attention you give your kids, the better they’ll turn out.’ Rather, the more time you socialize with other parents while your kids play together, the better they’ll turn out.”
Post-Disaster Tips for SheKnows.com
In the midst of these very difficult times for people on the East Coast, Tom Riles, the founder of LifeOfDad.com, has written and promoted content to help support those enduring the disaster and the rest of us who need to understand what our fellow parents are going through. He also connected me with the editors at SheKnows.com, who asked for a piece that answers the kinds of questions children are asking after the superstorm.
What Dads Need to Know: Growing Up with a Biter
By Stefanie Wilder-Taylor
Little Sadie is a biter. Yes, it’s true. Adorable Sadie of the itty bitty butt and teeny tiny thighs still manages to assert herself by doling out quick and quite painful bites when you least expect it. Her main victim is Matilda who now has bruises up and down her arms that are simply begging someone to call CPS on me. This had been going on for months and months already but Jon and I kept making excuses for her: she’s frustrated from her lack of ability to communicate, she was bitten by Matilda when she was really little, she hates sharing, Mattie’s arm is delicious…and on and on. But last week things came to a head: Mattie was minding her own business (post tantrum) lying on the floor sucking on a taggy blanket when Sadie hopped up from across the room, sauntered over to Mattie, bent down as if to kiss her and chomped down on her arm — hard. I ran over to comfort Matilda but had a dilemma on my hands: do I punish Sadie first or comfort Mattie first?
I’d already escalated my discipline techniques from “No discipline whatsoever because, hey, she’s just a baby” to a sharp “No!” to a sharper “Stop!” and finally to a time out which involves scooping Sadie up and dumping her unceremoniously in her crib. The problem is, Sadie has no concept that she’s being punished. She doesn’t see her crib as being the crate of torture that Mattie does and is perfectly content to hang out, smoke a candy cigarette and read a little Pet the Baby Animals until I give up on waiting for her to cry and go get her.
Up until that last biting incident, most of the attacks had seemed somewhat provoked. A toy taken away, string cheese pilfered, Mattie just being in the wrong place at the wrong time etc. but this one was different. This was premeditated biting! What kind of a sociopath crosses the room, chomps their sister like she’s a leg of El Pollo Loco and then skips off whistling Twinkle Twinkle Little Star? Sadie, that’s who.
I decided to call in the big guns; my early intervention team. If there’s any bonus to having a delayed child it’s access to services you normal wouldn’t have. Yesterday, a child development specialist came over with Sadie’s case manager to work on Sadie’s play skillz. Cause Sadie’s got mad skillz y’all. This double therapist session was after a long day of PT (physical therapy), speech and OT (occupational therapy)so I wrongly assumed that Sadie would be in frustrated, tired, lashing out form. But nooooooo. Just like a pint-sized Ted Bundy, Sadie charmed the shit out of all our guests by saying hello to everyone in sight, pretending to roll calls with her Diego cell phone, giggling maniacally and repeatedly clapping her hands over her head yelling “hooray!”
Luckily, nobody can keep that up for an entire hour and eventually even Sadie broke down and pinched a few folks. It was decided that although biting, pushing and pinching are typical twin behaviors, Sadie does have the added frustration of lagging language, competition with not only her twin but an older sibling and the added cross to bear of an overly attractive and quite young looking mother. Who wouldn’t want to bite a few people? Still, we were told to continue giving time outs very consistently and to start signing with Sadie. Plus, we are going to be getting regular play therapy which thankfully will include Matilda. Poor Matilda, if we don’t correct this problem soon I fear her childhood will eventually become a Lifetime movie. Scarred for Life: One Twin’s True Tale of Growing Up with a Biter. Of course, if that happens I hope it’s sort of soon because I don’t want Tori Spelling to be aged out of playing the part of Sadie. Lifetime, you know where to find me.
Stefanie Wilder-Taylor is the author of Sippy Cups Are Not for Chardonnay, Naptime Is the New Happy Hour, It’s Not Me, It’s You, and her more recent book, I’m Kind of a Big Deal. She lives in Los Angeles with a husband and three young daughters. Anything else you need to know will probably be on her blog at stefaniewildertaylor.com.
Surviving Shopping with Kids
By Gregory Keer
I am usually a last-minute shopper, which makes things even more intense. But as life gets busier, I’ve found that thinking ahead — if not shopping in advance — can go a long way toward making gift buying much easier. I’ve tried all of the following (though not always in the same year), which can help you manage this crazy season.
1. Have Fun
First, if you really think about, shopping for kids is one of life’s true pleasures. Buying something you worked hard to pay for and that you chose just for your child is wonderful. It’s also a way to live vicariously through your kids, buying things you would’ve liked to play with and certainly items you want to use in interacting with your kids. That being said, this is all a stressful proposition that you should plan for, so…
2. Lower Stress
Start early and shop at odd hours to lower the stress level. And don’t shop hungry — low blood sugar or high blood sugar can be dangerous (for you and the kids)!
3. Money Isn’t Everything
Set a budget and perhaps a number of toys you plan to get. Remember that grandparents and friends may give gifts, so do not feel pressured to ply your child with too much. They will ignore most of their toys within days if not minutes. You might even consider giving your little one a box to play with. No joke, but kids can hide, make puppet shows, forts, and more with just a big old box.
4. Age Appropriateness
Especially for younger kids, opt for items that require children to manipulate them. Too many electronic games do stuff automatically. Children develop motor skills and cognitive skills with toys they can build, stack, and color. Toys that multitask and can be combined with other things. Imagination is key – cars, character sets, i.e., Rescue Heroes and Barbies.
For the older kids, video and computer games are hard to avoid. Decide how much violence you want them to see in these games. Some research says these games are actually healthy, though never in large doses. Older kids tend to also like clothes, music, DVDs, and even cash to spend how they wish. With younger kids, you will shop with them, but older ones might like to get a budget and shop for themselves. Giving them money helps them focus on the task at hand and may get them in the spirit of giving. They may even do some additional chores to earn extra money.
5. Balance What They Want with What They Should Have
If you want guaranteed smiles, be sure to buy kids at least something that they asked for. On the other hand, you can select one or two things you think they should have, something education or challenging. If you’re really clever, you can lobby onto your child’s wish list if you make subtle suggestions like, “Your friend Jacob has a chemistry set. Isn’t that cool?”
6. Gender Gap
The gap is thinner than it used to be now that young boys will play with dolls and young girls covet baseball mitts. Even older boys are more into clothes than they used to be. Still, young boys favor trucks, superheroes, and trains while girls love dress-up clothes — princesses are bigger than ever — dolls, and fashion accessories. That being said, a creative purchase for boys or girls is costumes for imaginative play.
7. Types of Stores
Toy stores, video game stores, book stores, shoe stores, clothing stores, sporting goods shops. Bookstores are especially fine places to shop and not feel guilty. Think about balancing your list with items from the above kinds of stores.
Fun Ways to Make Lists
1. Stay Focused
Go in with a list to limit the tantrums and negotiations. You will probably have a fair amount of repartee with your child, simply because toy stores are meant to overwhelm parents and kids with all that can be had. So don’t expect a pain-free experience. On the other hand, do expect to have a good time. Pay attention at birthday parties; see what kids get and like. Pay attention at playdates and other social visits. What does your child love? If they can write (or need the practice), have them write their own list.
2. Prioritize
Kids ask for things all the time. On the list, prioritize those items that they ask for more than once or twice.
3. Written Promises
Whatever your child doesn’t get, write the item down on a new list for their birthday or next year. This will lessen the crying and whining
A Nifty Trick & A Warning
1. Try hiding some still-packaged toys and pulling them out of the closet for well-timed opportunities throughout the year.
2. Regarding toy safety, it’s best to stick with box recommendations and use your good sense about potentially dangerous toys.
While anxiety is an organic element of holiday shopping, these suggestions can truly help you minimize some of the big issues. The more you plan in advance, the more this experience will be about spending time with and teaching your kids a few things about the world of commerce.
We Build: On the 10th Anniversary of the Events of 9/11
By Gregory Keer
This month, we mark the 10th year since the terrorist attacks of September 11, 2001, when innocent Americans died in New York, Virginia, and Pennsylvania. Since that time, my oldest son has become a teenager while two of my children have been born into this world in which fear and hatred too often diminish the beauty human beings can and often do show.
As a way to commemorate 9/11, I wanted to look back on what was going through my own mind as a parent the day after the terrible events, to gain perspective. I hope this piece will encourage you to think as well and perhaps to discuss with your children ways to feel more secure in a too often uncertain society.
***
My son was born on the same day, in the same hospital, as his friend Ethan.
Our families had become friends during our mutual first pregnancies. After the birth of the boys, we saw each other at least once a week, went to parent-and-me classes together, and talked all the time. If it were possible to marry another family, we would have married the Ansorges. But not long ago, our friends moved to Manhattan when Mark’s job was transferred.
On September 11, the distance became greater. That morning, little Ethan walked with his mommy to preschool and watched a plane slice into the World Trade Center. Ethan and Deborah struggled to get home in the ensuing pandemonium that convulsed New York City.
All the while Ethan asked, “Mommy, why did the plane crash into that building?”
No physical harm came to Ethan and, soon after witnessing the horrific tragedy, he was home, cuddling with his parents who cherished their very existence.
Ethan and his parents’ experience clarifies one simple thing amidst the human devastation and unending confusion brought on by that day’s events: We are still better at loving than we are at destroying.
Don’t get me wrong. I am angry, perplexed, and cynical about much of the way our world works. I am scraped raw, emotionally, when I think of that father on the flight that crashed in a Pennsylvania field. This is the man who called his wife and told her he would fight the terrorists before they did greater harm. This is the man who urged his wife and child to have a good life.
As much as this story weakens me, it also fortifies my belief that love prevails in the face of any disaster. We build on love, for love of each other. We are better at building than destroying.
And, as simplistic as it sounds, the concept of family is perhaps the greatest structure on which to build on love’s foundation. I know I might sound flower-childish or naïve. But I am struggling to be positive and state the obvious: We are a family of human beings. Like family members, we often treat each other brutally — but not as much as we treat each other lovingly.
The metaphorical, if not literal, powers of family reach everywhere. I feel that most of the sentiments expressed by world leaders and residents of other lands were heartfelt. They recognize the pain of wives who have lost husbands, of children who have lost parents. They have lost, too.
Within our own community, parents are talking with their children to ease their worries. One parent was dealing with a four-year-old son who was inquiring about the “evil tourists” (meaning terrorists) while trying to help another son who was shell shocked by the tragedy.
Another parent has a daughter who asked, “Were there any mommies or daddies in the buildings” of the World Trade Center. At the same time, these parents are giving blood and talking with each other to soothe fears.
Repeatedly, we prove ourselves to be better at bonding than at disintegrating. We may be more motivated at this time, but most of us act on our desires to respect and understand. We are also teaching our children these values.
My wife and I put our son in a multicultural day care. He has befriended kids with of an amazing array of cultural backgrounds, from West Indian to Palestinian. He sometimes blatantly states differences he has with others: “Why is Nicholas brown?” or “Why is that girl talking Spanish?” We are embarrassed at first, then we watch him hugging and giggling with these young people.
At our foundation, we are a family. No terrorists can crack the foundation because it is made of stronger stuff than metal, concrete, or even flesh and blood. It is made of love. And so we continue to build.
Book Preview: ‘Go the F*** to Sleep’
There’s a new picture book that has parents around the world buzzing. It’s so hot that, in advance of it going on the market in October of this year, it has already cracked Amazon’s top 300 list because of presales. No, it’s not a previously undiscovered Dr. Seuss. It’s a story that’s actually meant for grown ups called Go the F*** to Sleep.
My friend Geoff Silverman brought this little tome to my attention and I got a sneak peek into something that should hit the funny bone of many parents because of its crass but true sentiments. Written by acclaimed novelist Adam Mansbach (recently of Angry Black White Boy) with illustrations by Ricardo Cortes, the book imitates Goodnight Moon (the classic bedtime story from Margaret Wise Brown and illustrator Clement Hurd) as it uses calming poetry full of nature-oriented symbolism before it whacks you over the head with what the parent reciting the poetry realizes: his child will not go to sleep! With each page, the narrator tries to regroup to help his child slumber, but the kid won’t go down. As such, the parent curses up a blue streak in ever-deepening frustration. Frankly, it says what many of us feel bubbling beneath the surface when a son or daughter continues to eat away at our precious down time.
This is very obviously not meant to be read to kids, and the back cover has a warning stating this. However, if you can handle a bit of off-color humor, this is a book parents will laugh heartily over. See the Amazon page at http://www.amazon.com/Go-F-Sleep-Adam-Mansbach/dp/1617750255.
What Dads Need to Know: Overabundant Gushing
By Laura Diamond
It was a Sunday, filled with the promise of flaky warm croissants and bursting red strawberries. We walked toward the Farmer’s market in town, my younger son Emmett concentrating mightily on bouncing a ball. New and delicate stuff, this dribbling. The ball got away quickly; two or three bounces then he’s chasing it into the bushes. But he had decided that he liked basketball, and he was determined to figure this out.
I watched him retrieve the ball from the neighbors’ newly-planted pansies, and my every cell vibrated with the effort not to scoop him up, squeeze him and tell him he’s scrumptious. But I controlled myself.
I wish I had controlled the next impulse, which was to innocently bestow encouragement and praise: “You’ve really improved in basketball!”
At once his face darkened and his spirit shriveled. He stopped walking, dropped the ball, crossed his arms, stared daggers at me and said through red teary eyes: “You hurt my feelings.” He resumed walking, but without the bounce and joy from before. “I wish you weren’t my mom. I wish you weren’t alive.” His words didn’t cut me nearly as much as knowing the depth of the hurt I’d caused him.
Parenthood is too powerful; it’s so easy to screw up. With one well-intentioned sentence, you can shift a morning, change the hue of a day, sear an indelible memory. When I was a teenager, my dad used to joke whenever he’d do something odd or possibly irritating, “This isn’t going to send you to the psychiatrist’s couch years from now, is it?” I can still see his impish smile and hear his voice as he asked the question. Only now, through the lens of parenthood, I think I hear a pleading behind the laughter: “Please say I haven’t messed up too badly; please say you’ll weather my mistakes.”
When I was a new mother, with one fragile infant in my charge, I attended a weekly parenting class with religious devotion. Between sessions I’d collect my questions and concerns, desperate to have wise Tandy Parks weigh in. I still carry her advice with me, most of it embedded deeply in the whirls of my brain. But one piece of wisdom resides in the accessible upper reaches of gray matter. It is this: Children don’t need perfect parents; they need “good enough.” She was letting us off the hook for the mistakes we’d all make.
As for Emmett, there was nothing I could do or say to take back my unintentional wound. Only the sight of his older brother Aaron waving croissants from across the street lured him from his melancholy. Sampling the strawberries and oranges on the farmers’ tables took his mind off our sorrowful walk. By the time we headed home, arms laden with fresh goodies, I hoped he had forgotten.
His face was calm as we neared our house. And then we got to the fateful square of sidewalk, next to the pansies, and he was reminded of what was said there an hour earlier. He stopped walking, his face fell, crushed anew by the memory of my words. Then he spoke, his voice a quiet mix of understanding and regret. “It’s okay that you said that, Mom.”
I don’t know in what sense he meant it was okay. Okay, he forgave me? Okay, he’d still let me play with him, read him books, kiss and hug him as much as possible? Okay, he’s willing to overlook my flaws? Willing to accept his own? I knew better than to push for an explanation. I was just glad that he was talking to me again.
A week later, walking home from school, he heard me tell the mother of two little girls racing past us in matching sparkly sneakers that they were “so cool.” His steady voice down by my hip said, so quietly that I had to ask him to repeat it, “How come you never say that me and Aaron are cool?”
This can’t be. I am an effusive mom! I am, aren’t I?
“I don’t?” I leaned down and asked him.
“No.”
He needed me to lay it on thick. “Well, I think you’re the coolest ever. Amazing and awesome and cool and wonderful. And I love you so much.”
And so he reminded me, again and again, that the little moments that constitute our days—the ones we don’t think twice about—are rich with meaning. Tonight at bedtime, after stories and kisses and hugs, I wished them sweet dreams and asked, “Did I tell you enough times today that I love you?” They sighed and rolled their eyes, but I saw the glimmer of contentedness on their faces as they relaxed into their pillows. I give thanks for the child who told me he needed more than I was giving. I give thanks for the teacher who said it is okay to make mistakes. I give thanks for parents who worried about the effects of their own mistakes. And I am a convert to the religion of overabundant gushing; I’m praying that too much will be enough.
Laura Diamond is the editor of Deliver Me: True Confessions of Motherhood, a collection of true stories about motherhood “that enlightens and inspires, evoking tears, laughter and, most of all, the YES of recognition.” More of Laura’s essays can be read at Laura Diamond Writes On…
Saving Face
By Gregory Keer
On a break from jury duty, I pay for a tuna wrap that I’m beginning to regret when I get a text message from my wife. It reads: “In ER. J OK but needs stitches on face. Have an appt with plastic surgeon at 1:00.”
The stomach that sandwich was intended for drops to the floor. I speed-dial Wendy.
“Jacob got attacked by a dog at the animal shelter,” Wendy says, trying to keep her voice steady.
“The dog bit through his cheek and slashed his arm.”
“Oh, God,”"I mumble as horrific images twist madly through my mind.
“We’ve been trying to reach you for two hours,” Wendy says wearily.
My head rings as guilt hastens my exit from the café.
“The jury room is in a basement and there’s no cell reception,” I stammer as I head toward the parking lot.
“I’m fine,” Wendy assures me. “Take care of your jury duty. Your dad is with us.”
“No, I’m coming,” I say, shoving aside anxiousness about the legal ramifications of shirking civic responsibility. I don’t care. I have to see my boy.
“I’ll put Jacob on the phone,” she says.
I try to breathe, bracing myself.
“Hi, Daddy,” my 6-year-old speaks into the cell. “I’m OK. Don’t worry.”
I squeeze my watering eyes tight, relieved to hear strength in his voice.
“I wanted to pet the dog and he jumped at me,” he explains.
I draw back, as if the animal had leaped at me.
“Who helped you get the dog away?” I ask.
“Benjamin yelled for Angie,” Jacob responds proudly about his older brother. “If it wasn’t for him, I would be more hurt.”
“Were you scared?” I say, poorly focused on driving out of the parking lot.
“Yeah,” Jacob says, “but I think the dog was more scared. That’s probably why he attacked me.”
In the midst of his own crisis, my son has greater concern for the canine than himself. This is why he had gone with Angie, our babysitter who works with dogs, to the shelter so he could pet and feed the lonely creatures.
As I race to meet my family, I am torn up by jagged thoughts. Why did I let him be in harm’s way, even though I want him to care for other beings, even though I do not want him to live in fear? Why didn’t I go with him? Could I have been the hero and prevented the attack?
In the plastic surgeon’s waiting room, I gather Jacob into my arms. His left cheek is heavily bandaged, blood smeared beneath the gauze. His left arm is similarly wrapped around the forearm.
In the exam room, the surgeon gingerly undoes the bandaging. On Jacob’s cheek are puncture wounds from the canine teeth that clamped down on his face. One gash reveals muscle tearing. I wince, but Jacob needs me to look fearless.
After an initial anesthetic shot proves too painful for him to bear, it’s determined that Jacob will be operated on in the hospital later that evening.
A few hours later, we take Jacob in for his surgery. He worries it will hurt. I tell him the Bill Cosby story of “Tonsils,” in which young Bill gets the gas to make him sleep, then awakens to buckets of ice cream. Jacob likes that prospect.
Wendy and I send our little guy into the capable hands of the surgeon. We wait with Benjamin, who has insisted on joining us for every step of Jacob’s ordeal. Our youngest is with my mom, being kept happy on an impromptu sleepover. My dad and step-mom sit with us, providing comfort and food.
More than an hour passes before the surgeon emerges to announce that Jacob did well. He explains that we were lucky the dog opened its mouth before releasing from our son’s face or else the cheek might have come off. I can’t get this fact out of my mind, despite the doctor’s prediction that, as long as infection is prevented, Jacob will heal without complications.
More than a week passes. Jacob has had to take it easy, avoiding his usual running and jumping. His recovery has been enhanced by an endless outpouring of calls, visits and gifts from our family, friends, pediatrician and people we know only a little.
Generally, Jacob is in great spirits, unconcerned about the marks that will require he wear a bandage on them for another eight months then take years and further surgeries to fade. He loves his dog and remains unafraid of other animals, though he won’t volunteer in a shelter anytime soon.
Wendy and I are the ones floating in a strange, achy place, wishing we could have controlled fate. Wendy has cried a lot, unable to sleep for the first days following the incident. I feel a bit dazed at times and hug Jacob so often it annoys the heck out of him.
And yet, we are so thankful. Deeply grateful that our son’s face still reflects the energetic, creative and compassionate person that he’s always been.
Breathing Lessons
By Gregory Keer
Early one week in January, I commented to my wife that little Ari — then only eight weeks old — was faring well during the cold and flu season. On the very next Saturday, he got a stuffed-up nose. The next day, he slept a lot and his breathing seemed slightly ragged. Still, being experienced parents, we thought he’d be fine with basic care.
On Monday, Ari became increasingly upset, so Wendy took him to our pediatrician. Dr. Esmond said Ari might have RSV and that hospitalization was an option. RSV is respiratory syncytial virus, which usually causes cold-like symptoms. Most children get it by age two, but it can affect a baby’s lungs more seriously.
With the first two boys, Benjamin (6) and Jacob (3), we had avoided hospital visits entirely. Although Benjamin contracted RSV when he was one-year-old, he was cured by a few home treatments. We knew we were lucky but we were also deluded to believe we’d done everything well enough to keep our sons from grave illness.
So we took the option to treat Ari at home. We had to administer albuterol to clear his airways, but he stayed calm and it went well. He slept peacefully that night.
The next morning, Ari was worse. He labored to breath and his wails were muffled. I was at work when Wendy called to tell me that his temperature had risen too high. I felt guilty for not having taken him to the medical center more readily.
When I met Wendy at the hospital, she looked ashen and Ari appeared exhausted. A nurse, who seemed a bit nervous (she’d only been on the job a few months), had me hold Ari down as she ran a tube into his nostrils to deep-suction out the phlegm. Wendy could barely watch from a few feet away as Ari screamed.
More poking and prodding ensued as nurses attempted to draw blood for testing. Ari howled as I helped comfort him, but my stomach sank while witnessing the nurses dig needles in his veins before concluding that he was too dehydrated to give blood. They managed to insert an IV port into his hand, though he fought mightily before they got it in.
I finally went home to grab clothes for my boys who were to sleep over at Nana and Papa’s house. I ate dinner with them, trying to soothe their concerns but swallowed hard when Benjamin asked, “Is Ari going to die?”
“No,” I said. “But he’s going to need time to get better.”
“I miss Mommy,” Jacob moaned.
I kissed them goodnight and went back to see Wendy and Ari at the new hospital room, which we shared with a frazzled single mom whose baby also had RSV. Wendy cried, worn down by concerns for an infant she could no longer protect in her womb. I’d never seen her so worked over and I hope I never see it again. I, on the other hand, felt numb and tried to figure out how to help her, our big boys, my students who were to have a final exam the next day, and little Ari.
I left late and slept for two hours alone in my house. It was eerie with my wife and three children away. I felt like a shell without them.
The next day, I gave my final exam and went to relieve Wendy, who had had a night of worry and beeping medical monitors. For the hours I then spent holding and feeding Ari, I felt strangely at peace. I was so connected to my son as I gave him the only things he needed from me – time and love.
Wendy returned to take the night watch. My mom brought the boys home and I went through the bedtime rituals as normally as possible, then let the kids sleep in the big bed with me.
In the morning, I took the boys to school and went home to tie up loose ends. Then, Wendy called to say Ari’s lungs had cleared enough for him to leave the hospital.
Wendy and Ari got back late that morning, but it wasn’t until the afternoon, when I brought home the older kids, that I felt I could really breathe again. Ari did need medicine at home for several days, though his smiles returned, bigger than ever.
Looking back, I realize that what we went through cannot compare to what other parents endure with children who have more serious illnesses. Those parents have courage I can hardly fathom.
Indeed, parenthood has plenty of twists and turns to make us all feel out of control. It’s enough to force us to hold our breath for fear of what might happen next. Yet, we manage to settle down, however cautiously, breathing in the fullness our children bring to our lives.
Fear and Parenting
By Gregory Keer
In my pre-fatherhood days, Saturday night meant excitement. There were the pre-marriage nights of cluelessly searching for women, followed by the post-wedding evenings of double features and an apartment all to ourselves.
But now, Saturday thrills have a new description: rushed family meals, bone-rattling screams, and calls to the paramedics.
Let’s rewind that last part and explain. It’s a recent Saturday night at the house of our friends Julie and David. Everyone gets along famously. The moms complain about the dads. The dads watch football. The kids tear the house apart, pitting the girls against the boys with the littlest ones on the sidelines, crying to be included. The parents try to pretend that this is fun, smiling through clenched teeth and yearning to go to bed by 8:30—three hours before the once requisite Saturday Night Live.
Around 8:30, we attempt to wind down. I get Benjamin through a “flash” bath, then work on my overtired toddler. At 14 months, Jacob likes to stand in a slippery tub and fling toys with reckless abandon. He wriggles from my reach five times, laughing mockingly like a swashbuckler in an Erroll Flynn film. But I finally grapple-hook him, braving waves of bawling, and wash his pudgy physique in the available watermelon-scented body wash.
His crying escalates as I lay him in a bedroom to dress him. With the instincts of a mother pterodactyl sensing her fledgling’s imminent demise at the claws of a velociraptor, my wife rushes into the room to ask, “What are you doing to him?”
“He’s tired!” I retort, my voice rising above the now powerful wailing. In Alias fashion, she bends down to help me defuse the timebomb by taking one side of the diaper while I tape the other. Jacob kicks and flails his arms, shrieking in what sounds like pain mixed with too much snot.
Our host, David, comes over to ask Jacob, “What’s the matter, little man?” My son changes octaves and shades of purple. I try to distract Jacob by kissing his chubby legs to make him laugh. The screaming gets hoarse. His complexion goes vermilion—Jacob passes out.
Surreality sets in. I stare dumbly at my small child, not fathoming what just happened. My wife shouts, “Is he breathing?” In a daze, I pull Jacob’s limp body to me. He slumps unconscious in my arms. I am numb.
But Wendy springs to action, running from the room, shouting, “I’m calling 911.” I stand up with Jacob, gently shaking and patting him. I want him awake. My heart thumps and my head feels like it will pop from the strain of not freaking out. “Jacob. Jacob. Jacob-Jacob-Jacob,” I sternly say as if scolding him for the lapse in his “good behavior.” His eyes flutter and roll back in his head. This is some kind of fit, right? What do people do in these situations?
I bounce him in my arms and…he…awakens. Jacob cries, a little more softly now, as I walk jelly-legged from the room, relieved, saved.
In our friends’ living room, Wendy is finishing the report to 911. Her reddened eyes brighten at the sight of her groggy but alert child. “Oh, my baby,” she says as she kisses him. I won’t let him go, fearing something else might happen if I do. Benjamin comes over and rubs his little brother’s back saying, “You’re OK, now, Jacob.” And we all hug each other.
Jacob thinks this group embrace is funny and starts giggling. Actually, he laughs through most of the next hour, during which two sets of paramedics and phone calls to two different pediatricians (including my calming father). The final diagnosis is that Jacob passed out as the result of a massive tantrum. Given his temperament, we’re told it may even happen again!
Our son finally drifts off into a peaceful slumber (still in my arms) and we thank our amazingly supportive friends for hosting this “very special episode” of ER.
At home, we decide to let our boys bunk with us. We want to watch over them, feel them breathing. We’d been rattled, unprepared for the fright we had. Though this was only a blip on the parenting nightmare scale, we’ve come away with a respect for what Saturday night excitement now means. It means that the mysteries of childcare never cease. It symbolizes that parenthood is full of surprises, both joyous and terrifying. It signifies that we no longer can take a weekend break from responsibility. And, as we lie there with our two kids, we are quietly excited to have them here with us, safe and sound.
David Code’s New Book on Socializing to Reduce Stress
Saying that modern parents are stressed out is nothing new. What is new is the emphasis that David Arthur Code has in his book, Kids Pick Up On Everything. Code, who is a marriage and family coach as well as an ordained Episcopal minister, has lived in several countries around the world, which is how he came to see that socializing was a key element to reducing stress in parents. In writing his book, Code studied neuroscience in addition to collecting his own observations.
Here are three of his top points from the book as articulated by Code:
“1) Parental stress is a major factor in the increase of child disorders today. His research shows that kids soak up the stress in a household until their developing nervous systems hit ‘overload.’
2) Being stressed out is The New Normal for parents, and the main cause of our increased stress is NOT our jobs, or technology—it’s social isolation. Humans are social animals, with a primal need to bond. That’s why our increasing isolation has left us more anxious and irritable, eroding our relationships as we escape into our screens. Research shows we are far more isolated than only two decades ago.
3) Parents need to get a life! ‘If I could wave my magic wand and reduce the stress of today’s parents, I would give them a glass of wine, a friend, and a ‘piazza’–an Italian village square to go socialize in every evening.’ Sure, exercise buffers our stress, but socializing is #1.”
Another important idea Code discusses in his book comes from the fact that, while he observed families in South America, he learned that “it’s a myth that ‘the more attention you give your kids, the better they’ll turn out.’ Rather, the more time you socialize with other parents while your kids play together, the better they’ll turn out.”
Post-Disaster Tips for SheKnows.com
In the midst of these very difficult times for people on the East Coast, Tom Riles, the founder of LifeOfDad.com, has written and promoted content to help support those enduring the disaster and the rest of us who need to understand what our fellow parents are going through. He also connected me with the editors at SheKnows.com, who asked for a piece that answers the kinds of questions children are asking after the superstorm.
What Dads Need to Know: Growing Up with a Biter
By Stefanie Wilder-Taylor
Little Sadie is a biter. Yes, it’s true. Adorable Sadie of the itty bitty butt and teeny tiny thighs still manages to assert herself by doling out quick and quite painful bites when you least expect it. Her main victim is Matilda who now has bruises up and down her arms that are simply begging someone to call CPS on me. This had been going on for months and months already but Jon and I kept making excuses for her: she’s frustrated from her lack of ability to communicate, she was bitten by Matilda when she was really little, she hates sharing, Mattie’s arm is delicious…and on and on. But last week things came to a head: Mattie was minding her own business (post tantrum) lying on the floor sucking on a taggy blanket when Sadie hopped up from across the room, sauntered over to Mattie, bent down as if to kiss her and chomped down on her arm — hard. I ran over to comfort Matilda but had a dilemma on my hands: do I punish Sadie first or comfort Mattie first?
I’d already escalated my discipline techniques from “No discipline whatsoever because, hey, she’s just a baby” to a sharp “No!” to a sharper “Stop!” and finally to a time out which involves scooping Sadie up and dumping her unceremoniously in her crib. The problem is, Sadie has no concept that she’s being punished. She doesn’t see her crib as being the crate of torture that Mattie does and is perfectly content to hang out, smoke a candy cigarette and read a little Pet the Baby Animals until I give up on waiting for her to cry and go get her.
Up until that last biting incident, most of the attacks had seemed somewhat provoked. A toy taken away, string cheese pilfered, Mattie just being in the wrong place at the wrong time etc. but this one was different. This was premeditated biting! What kind of a sociopath crosses the room, chomps their sister like she’s a leg of El Pollo Loco and then skips off whistling Twinkle Twinkle Little Star? Sadie, that’s who.
I decided to call in the big guns; my early intervention team. If there’s any bonus to having a delayed child it’s access to services you normal wouldn’t have. Yesterday, a child development specialist came over with Sadie’s case manager to work on Sadie’s play skillz. Cause Sadie’s got mad skillz y’all. This double therapist session was after a long day of PT (physical therapy), speech and OT (occupational therapy)so I wrongly assumed that Sadie would be in frustrated, tired, lashing out form. But nooooooo. Just like a pint-sized Ted Bundy, Sadie charmed the shit out of all our guests by saying hello to everyone in sight, pretending to roll calls with her Diego cell phone, giggling maniacally and repeatedly clapping her hands over her head yelling “hooray!”
Luckily, nobody can keep that up for an entire hour and eventually even Sadie broke down and pinched a few folks. It was decided that although biting, pushing and pinching are typical twin behaviors, Sadie does have the added frustration of lagging language, competition with not only her twin but an older sibling and the added cross to bear of an overly attractive and quite young looking mother. Who wouldn’t want to bite a few people? Still, we were told to continue giving time outs very consistently and to start signing with Sadie. Plus, we are going to be getting regular play therapy which thankfully will include Matilda. Poor Matilda, if we don’t correct this problem soon I fear her childhood will eventually become a Lifetime movie. Scarred for Life: One Twin’s True Tale of Growing Up with a Biter. Of course, if that happens I hope it’s sort of soon because I don’t want Tori Spelling to be aged out of playing the part of Sadie. Lifetime, you know where to find me.
Stefanie Wilder-Taylor is the author of Sippy Cups Are Not for Chardonnay, Naptime Is the New Happy Hour, It’s Not Me, It’s You, and her more recent book, I’m Kind of a Big Deal. She lives in Los Angeles with a husband and three young daughters. Anything else you need to know will probably be on her blog at stefaniewildertaylor.com.
Surviving Shopping with Kids
By Gregory Keer
I am usually a last-minute shopper, which makes things even more intense. But as life gets busier, I’ve found that thinking ahead — if not shopping in advance — can go a long way toward making gift buying much easier. I’ve tried all of the following (though not always in the same year), which can help you manage this crazy season.
1. Have Fun
First, if you really think about, shopping for kids is one of life’s true pleasures. Buying something you worked hard to pay for and that you chose just for your child is wonderful. It’s also a way to live vicariously through your kids, buying things you would’ve liked to play with and certainly items you want to use in interacting with your kids. That being said, this is all a stressful proposition that you should plan for, so…
2. Lower Stress
Start early and shop at odd hours to lower the stress level. And don’t shop hungry — low blood sugar or high blood sugar can be dangerous (for you and the kids)!
3. Money Isn’t Everything
Set a budget and perhaps a number of toys you plan to get. Remember that grandparents and friends may give gifts, so do not feel pressured to ply your child with too much. They will ignore most of their toys within days if not minutes. You might even consider giving your little one a box to play with. No joke, but kids can hide, make puppet shows, forts, and more with just a big old box.
4. Age Appropriateness
Especially for younger kids, opt for items that require children to manipulate them. Too many electronic games do stuff automatically. Children develop motor skills and cognitive skills with toys they can build, stack, and color. Toys that multitask and can be combined with other things. Imagination is key – cars, character sets, i.e., Rescue Heroes and Barbies.
For the older kids, video and computer games are hard to avoid. Decide how much violence you want them to see in these games. Some research says these games are actually healthy, though never in large doses. Older kids tend to also like clothes, music, DVDs, and even cash to spend how they wish. With younger kids, you will shop with them, but older ones might like to get a budget and shop for themselves. Giving them money helps them focus on the task at hand and may get them in the spirit of giving. They may even do some additional chores to earn extra money.
5. Balance What They Want with What They Should Have
If you want guaranteed smiles, be sure to buy kids at least something that they asked for. On the other hand, you can select one or two things you think they should have, something education or challenging. If you’re really clever, you can lobby onto your child’s wish list if you make subtle suggestions like, “Your friend Jacob has a chemistry set. Isn’t that cool?”
6. Gender Gap
The gap is thinner than it used to be now that young boys will play with dolls and young girls covet baseball mitts. Even older boys are more into clothes than they used to be. Still, young boys favor trucks, superheroes, and trains while girls love dress-up clothes — princesses are bigger than ever — dolls, and fashion accessories. That being said, a creative purchase for boys or girls is costumes for imaginative play.
7. Types of Stores
Toy stores, video game stores, book stores, shoe stores, clothing stores, sporting goods shops. Bookstores are especially fine places to shop and not feel guilty. Think about balancing your list with items from the above kinds of stores.
Fun Ways to Make Lists
1. Stay Focused
Go in with a list to limit the tantrums and negotiations. You will probably have a fair amount of repartee with your child, simply because toy stores are meant to overwhelm parents and kids with all that can be had. So don’t expect a pain-free experience. On the other hand, do expect to have a good time. Pay attention at birthday parties; see what kids get and like. Pay attention at playdates and other social visits. What does your child love? If they can write (or need the practice), have them write their own list.
2. Prioritize
Kids ask for things all the time. On the list, prioritize those items that they ask for more than once or twice.
3. Written Promises
Whatever your child doesn’t get, write the item down on a new list for their birthday or next year. This will lessen the crying and whining
A Nifty Trick & A Warning
1. Try hiding some still-packaged toys and pulling them out of the closet for well-timed opportunities throughout the year.
2. Regarding toy safety, it’s best to stick with box recommendations and use your good sense about potentially dangerous toys.
While anxiety is an organic element of holiday shopping, these suggestions can truly help you minimize some of the big issues. The more you plan in advance, the more this experience will be about spending time with and teaching your kids a few things about the world of commerce.
We Build: On the 10th Anniversary of the Events of 9/11
By Gregory Keer
This month, we mark the 10th year since the terrorist attacks of September 11, 2001, when innocent Americans died in New York, Virginia, and Pennsylvania. Since that time, my oldest son has become a teenager while two of my children have been born into this world in which fear and hatred too often diminish the beauty human beings can and often do show.
As a way to commemorate 9/11, I wanted to look back on what was going through my own mind as a parent the day after the terrible events, to gain perspective. I hope this piece will encourage you to think as well and perhaps to discuss with your children ways to feel more secure in a too often uncertain society.
***
My son was born on the same day, in the same hospital, as his friend Ethan.
Our families had become friends during our mutual first pregnancies. After the birth of the boys, we saw each other at least once a week, went to parent-and-me classes together, and talked all the time. If it were possible to marry another family, we would have married the Ansorges. But not long ago, our friends moved to Manhattan when Mark’s job was transferred.
On September 11, the distance became greater. That morning, little Ethan walked with his mommy to preschool and watched a plane slice into the World Trade Center. Ethan and Deborah struggled to get home in the ensuing pandemonium that convulsed New York City.
All the while Ethan asked, “Mommy, why did the plane crash into that building?”
No physical harm came to Ethan and, soon after witnessing the horrific tragedy, he was home, cuddling with his parents who cherished their very existence.
Ethan and his parents’ experience clarifies one simple thing amidst the human devastation and unending confusion brought on by that day’s events: We are still better at loving than we are at destroying.
Don’t get me wrong. I am angry, perplexed, and cynical about much of the way our world works. I am scraped raw, emotionally, when I think of that father on the flight that crashed in a Pennsylvania field. This is the man who called his wife and told her he would fight the terrorists before they did greater harm. This is the man who urged his wife and child to have a good life.
As much as this story weakens me, it also fortifies my belief that love prevails in the face of any disaster. We build on love, for love of each other. We are better at building than destroying.
And, as simplistic as it sounds, the concept of family is perhaps the greatest structure on which to build on love’s foundation. I know I might sound flower-childish or naïve. But I am struggling to be positive and state the obvious: We are a family of human beings. Like family members, we often treat each other brutally — but not as much as we treat each other lovingly.
The metaphorical, if not literal, powers of family reach everywhere. I feel that most of the sentiments expressed by world leaders and residents of other lands were heartfelt. They recognize the pain of wives who have lost husbands, of children who have lost parents. They have lost, too.
Within our own community, parents are talking with their children to ease their worries. One parent was dealing with a four-year-old son who was inquiring about the “evil tourists” (meaning terrorists) while trying to help another son who was shell shocked by the tragedy.
Another parent has a daughter who asked, “Were there any mommies or daddies in the buildings” of the World Trade Center. At the same time, these parents are giving blood and talking with each other to soothe fears.
Repeatedly, we prove ourselves to be better at bonding than at disintegrating. We may be more motivated at this time, but most of us act on our desires to respect and understand. We are also teaching our children these values.
My wife and I put our son in a multicultural day care. He has befriended kids with of an amazing array of cultural backgrounds, from West Indian to Palestinian. He sometimes blatantly states differences he has with others: “Why is Nicholas brown?” or “Why is that girl talking Spanish?” We are embarrassed at first, then we watch him hugging and giggling with these young people.
At our foundation, we are a family. No terrorists can crack the foundation because it is made of stronger stuff than metal, concrete, or even flesh and blood. It is made of love. And so we continue to build.
Book Preview: ‘Go the F*** to Sleep’
There’s a new picture book that has parents around the world buzzing. It’s so hot that, in advance of it going on the market in October of this year, it has already cracked Amazon’s top 300 list because of presales. No, it’s not a previously undiscovered Dr. Seuss. It’s a story that’s actually meant for grown ups called Go the F*** to Sleep.
My friend Geoff Silverman brought this little tome to my attention and I got a sneak peek into something that should hit the funny bone of many parents because of its crass but true sentiments. Written by acclaimed novelist Adam Mansbach (recently of Angry Black White Boy) with illustrations by Ricardo Cortes, the book imitates Goodnight Moon (the classic bedtime story from Margaret Wise Brown and illustrator Clement Hurd) as it uses calming poetry full of nature-oriented symbolism before it whacks you over the head with what the parent reciting the poetry realizes: his child will not go to sleep! With each page, the narrator tries to regroup to help his child slumber, but the kid won’t go down. As such, the parent curses up a blue streak in ever-deepening frustration. Frankly, it says what many of us feel bubbling beneath the surface when a son or daughter continues to eat away at our precious down time.
This is very obviously not meant to be read to kids, and the back cover has a warning stating this. However, if you can handle a bit of off-color humor, this is a book parents will laugh heartily over. See the Amazon page at http://www.amazon.com/Go-F-Sleep-Adam-Mansbach/dp/1617750255.
What Dads Need to Know: Overabundant Gushing
By Laura Diamond
It was a Sunday, filled with the promise of flaky warm croissants and bursting red strawberries. We walked toward the Farmer’s market in town, my younger son Emmett concentrating mightily on bouncing a ball. New and delicate stuff, this dribbling. The ball got away quickly; two or three bounces then he’s chasing it into the bushes. But he had decided that he liked basketball, and he was determined to figure this out.
I watched him retrieve the ball from the neighbors’ newly-planted pansies, and my every cell vibrated with the effort not to scoop him up, squeeze him and tell him he’s scrumptious. But I controlled myself.
I wish I had controlled the next impulse, which was to innocently bestow encouragement and praise: “You’ve really improved in basketball!”
At once his face darkened and his spirit shriveled. He stopped walking, dropped the ball, crossed his arms, stared daggers at me and said through red teary eyes: “You hurt my feelings.” He resumed walking, but without the bounce and joy from before. “I wish you weren’t my mom. I wish you weren’t alive.” His words didn’t cut me nearly as much as knowing the depth of the hurt I’d caused him.
Parenthood is too powerful; it’s so easy to screw up. With one well-intentioned sentence, you can shift a morning, change the hue of a day, sear an indelible memory. When I was a teenager, my dad used to joke whenever he’d do something odd or possibly irritating, “This isn’t going to send you to the psychiatrist’s couch years from now, is it?” I can still see his impish smile and hear his voice as he asked the question. Only now, through the lens of parenthood, I think I hear a pleading behind the laughter: “Please say I haven’t messed up too badly; please say you’ll weather my mistakes.”
When I was a new mother, with one fragile infant in my charge, I attended a weekly parenting class with religious devotion. Between sessions I’d collect my questions and concerns, desperate to have wise Tandy Parks weigh in. I still carry her advice with me, most of it embedded deeply in the whirls of my brain. But one piece of wisdom resides in the accessible upper reaches of gray matter. It is this: Children don’t need perfect parents; they need “good enough.” She was letting us off the hook for the mistakes we’d all make.
As for Emmett, there was nothing I could do or say to take back my unintentional wound. Only the sight of his older brother Aaron waving croissants from across the street lured him from his melancholy. Sampling the strawberries and oranges on the farmers’ tables took his mind off our sorrowful walk. By the time we headed home, arms laden with fresh goodies, I hoped he had forgotten.
His face was calm as we neared our house. And then we got to the fateful square of sidewalk, next to the pansies, and he was reminded of what was said there an hour earlier. He stopped walking, his face fell, crushed anew by the memory of my words. Then he spoke, his voice a quiet mix of understanding and regret. “It’s okay that you said that, Mom.”
I don’t know in what sense he meant it was okay. Okay, he forgave me? Okay, he’d still let me play with him, read him books, kiss and hug him as much as possible? Okay, he’s willing to overlook my flaws? Willing to accept his own? I knew better than to push for an explanation. I was just glad that he was talking to me again.
A week later, walking home from school, he heard me tell the mother of two little girls racing past us in matching sparkly sneakers that they were “so cool.” His steady voice down by my hip said, so quietly that I had to ask him to repeat it, “How come you never say that me and Aaron are cool?”
This can’t be. I am an effusive mom! I am, aren’t I?
“I don’t?” I leaned down and asked him.
“No.”
He needed me to lay it on thick. “Well, I think you’re the coolest ever. Amazing and awesome and cool and wonderful. And I love you so much.”
And so he reminded me, again and again, that the little moments that constitute our days—the ones we don’t think twice about—are rich with meaning. Tonight at bedtime, after stories and kisses and hugs, I wished them sweet dreams and asked, “Did I tell you enough times today that I love you?” They sighed and rolled their eyes, but I saw the glimmer of contentedness on their faces as they relaxed into their pillows. I give thanks for the child who told me he needed more than I was giving. I give thanks for the teacher who said it is okay to make mistakes. I give thanks for parents who worried about the effects of their own mistakes. And I am a convert to the religion of overabundant gushing; I’m praying that too much will be enough.
Laura Diamond is the editor of Deliver Me: True Confessions of Motherhood, a collection of true stories about motherhood “that enlightens and inspires, evoking tears, laughter and, most of all, the YES of recognition.” More of Laura’s essays can be read at Laura Diamond Writes On…
Saving Face
By Gregory Keer
On a break from jury duty, I pay for a tuna wrap that I’m beginning to regret when I get a text message from my wife. It reads: “In ER. J OK but needs stitches on face. Have an appt with plastic surgeon at 1:00.”
The stomach that sandwich was intended for drops to the floor. I speed-dial Wendy.
“Jacob got attacked by a dog at the animal shelter,” Wendy says, trying to keep her voice steady.
“The dog bit through his cheek and slashed his arm.”
“Oh, God,”"I mumble as horrific images twist madly through my mind.
“We’ve been trying to reach you for two hours,” Wendy says wearily.
My head rings as guilt hastens my exit from the café.
“The jury room is in a basement and there’s no cell reception,” I stammer as I head toward the parking lot.
“I’m fine,” Wendy assures me. “Take care of your jury duty. Your dad is with us.”
“No, I’m coming,” I say, shoving aside anxiousness about the legal ramifications of shirking civic responsibility. I don’t care. I have to see my boy.
“I’ll put Jacob on the phone,” she says.
I try to breathe, bracing myself.
“Hi, Daddy,” my 6-year-old speaks into the cell. “I’m OK. Don’t worry.”
I squeeze my watering eyes tight, relieved to hear strength in his voice.
“I wanted to pet the dog and he jumped at me,” he explains.
I draw back, as if the animal had leaped at me.
“Who helped you get the dog away?” I ask.
“Benjamin yelled for Angie,” Jacob responds proudly about his older brother. “If it wasn’t for him, I would be more hurt.”
“Were you scared?” I say, poorly focused on driving out of the parking lot.
“Yeah,” Jacob says, “but I think the dog was more scared. That’s probably why he attacked me.”
In the midst of his own crisis, my son has greater concern for the canine than himself. This is why he had gone with Angie, our babysitter who works with dogs, to the shelter so he could pet and feed the lonely creatures.
As I race to meet my family, I am torn up by jagged thoughts. Why did I let him be in harm’s way, even though I want him to care for other beings, even though I do not want him to live in fear? Why didn’t I go with him? Could I have been the hero and prevented the attack?
In the plastic surgeon’s waiting room, I gather Jacob into my arms. His left cheek is heavily bandaged, blood smeared beneath the gauze. His left arm is similarly wrapped around the forearm.
In the exam room, the surgeon gingerly undoes the bandaging. On Jacob’s cheek are puncture wounds from the canine teeth that clamped down on his face. One gash reveals muscle tearing. I wince, but Jacob needs me to look fearless.
After an initial anesthetic shot proves too painful for him to bear, it’s determined that Jacob will be operated on in the hospital later that evening.
A few hours later, we take Jacob in for his surgery. He worries it will hurt. I tell him the Bill Cosby story of “Tonsils,” in which young Bill gets the gas to make him sleep, then awakens to buckets of ice cream. Jacob likes that prospect.
Wendy and I send our little guy into the capable hands of the surgeon. We wait with Benjamin, who has insisted on joining us for every step of Jacob’s ordeal. Our youngest is with my mom, being kept happy on an impromptu sleepover. My dad and step-mom sit with us, providing comfort and food.
More than an hour passes before the surgeon emerges to announce that Jacob did well. He explains that we were lucky the dog opened its mouth before releasing from our son’s face or else the cheek might have come off. I can’t get this fact out of my mind, despite the doctor’s prediction that, as long as infection is prevented, Jacob will heal without complications.
More than a week passes. Jacob has had to take it easy, avoiding his usual running and jumping. His recovery has been enhanced by an endless outpouring of calls, visits and gifts from our family, friends, pediatrician and people we know only a little.
Generally, Jacob is in great spirits, unconcerned about the marks that will require he wear a bandage on them for another eight months then take years and further surgeries to fade. He loves his dog and remains unafraid of other animals, though he won’t volunteer in a shelter anytime soon.
Wendy and I are the ones floating in a strange, achy place, wishing we could have controlled fate. Wendy has cried a lot, unable to sleep for the first days following the incident. I feel a bit dazed at times and hug Jacob so often it annoys the heck out of him.
And yet, we are so thankful. Deeply grateful that our son’s face still reflects the energetic, creative and compassionate person that he’s always been.
Breathing Lessons
By Gregory Keer
Early one week in January, I commented to my wife that little Ari — then only eight weeks old — was faring well during the cold and flu season. On the very next Saturday, he got a stuffed-up nose. The next day, he slept a lot and his breathing seemed slightly ragged. Still, being experienced parents, we thought he’d be fine with basic care.
On Monday, Ari became increasingly upset, so Wendy took him to our pediatrician. Dr. Esmond said Ari might have RSV and that hospitalization was an option. RSV is respiratory syncytial virus, which usually causes cold-like symptoms. Most children get it by age two, but it can affect a baby’s lungs more seriously.
With the first two boys, Benjamin (6) and Jacob (3), we had avoided hospital visits entirely. Although Benjamin contracted RSV when he was one-year-old, he was cured by a few home treatments. We knew we were lucky but we were also deluded to believe we’d done everything well enough to keep our sons from grave illness.
So we took the option to treat Ari at home. We had to administer albuterol to clear his airways, but he stayed calm and it went well. He slept peacefully that night.
The next morning, Ari was worse. He labored to breath and his wails were muffled. I was at work when Wendy called to tell me that his temperature had risen too high. I felt guilty for not having taken him to the medical center more readily.
When I met Wendy at the hospital, she looked ashen and Ari appeared exhausted. A nurse, who seemed a bit nervous (she’d only been on the job a few months), had me hold Ari down as she ran a tube into his nostrils to deep-suction out the phlegm. Wendy could barely watch from a few feet away as Ari screamed.
More poking and prodding ensued as nurses attempted to draw blood for testing. Ari howled as I helped comfort him, but my stomach sank while witnessing the nurses dig needles in his veins before concluding that he was too dehydrated to give blood. They managed to insert an IV port into his hand, though he fought mightily before they got it in.
I finally went home to grab clothes for my boys who were to sleep over at Nana and Papa’s house. I ate dinner with them, trying to soothe their concerns but swallowed hard when Benjamin asked, “Is Ari going to die?”
“No,” I said. “But he’s going to need time to get better.”
“I miss Mommy,” Jacob moaned.
I kissed them goodnight and went back to see Wendy and Ari at the new hospital room, which we shared with a frazzled single mom whose baby also had RSV. Wendy cried, worn down by concerns for an infant she could no longer protect in her womb. I’d never seen her so worked over and I hope I never see it again. I, on the other hand, felt numb and tried to figure out how to help her, our big boys, my students who were to have a final exam the next day, and little Ari.
I left late and slept for two hours alone in my house. It was eerie with my wife and three children away. I felt like a shell without them.
The next day, I gave my final exam and went to relieve Wendy, who had had a night of worry and beeping medical monitors. For the hours I then spent holding and feeding Ari, I felt strangely at peace. I was so connected to my son as I gave him the only things he needed from me – time and love.
Wendy returned to take the night watch. My mom brought the boys home and I went through the bedtime rituals as normally as possible, then let the kids sleep in the big bed with me.
In the morning, I took the boys to school and went home to tie up loose ends. Then, Wendy called to say Ari’s lungs had cleared enough for him to leave the hospital.
Wendy and Ari got back late that morning, but it wasn’t until the afternoon, when I brought home the older kids, that I felt I could really breathe again. Ari did need medicine at home for several days, though his smiles returned, bigger than ever.
Looking back, I realize that what we went through cannot compare to what other parents endure with children who have more serious illnesses. Those parents have courage I can hardly fathom.
Indeed, parenthood has plenty of twists and turns to make us all feel out of control. It’s enough to force us to hold our breath for fear of what might happen next. Yet, we manage to settle down, however cautiously, breathing in the fullness our children bring to our lives.
Fear and Parenting
By Gregory Keer
In my pre-fatherhood days, Saturday night meant excitement. There were the pre-marriage nights of cluelessly searching for women, followed by the post-wedding evenings of double features and an apartment all to ourselves.
But now, Saturday thrills have a new description: rushed family meals, bone-rattling screams, and calls to the paramedics.
Let’s rewind that last part and explain. It’s a recent Saturday night at the house of our friends Julie and David. Everyone gets along famously. The moms complain about the dads. The dads watch football. The kids tear the house apart, pitting the girls against the boys with the littlest ones on the sidelines, crying to be included. The parents try to pretend that this is fun, smiling through clenched teeth and yearning to go to bed by 8:30—three hours before the once requisite Saturday Night Live.
Around 8:30, we attempt to wind down. I get Benjamin through a “flash” bath, then work on my overtired toddler. At 14 months, Jacob likes to stand in a slippery tub and fling toys with reckless abandon. He wriggles from my reach five times, laughing mockingly like a swashbuckler in an Erroll Flynn film. But I finally grapple-hook him, braving waves of bawling, and wash his pudgy physique in the available watermelon-scented body wash.
His crying escalates as I lay him in a bedroom to dress him. With the instincts of a mother pterodactyl sensing her fledgling’s imminent demise at the claws of a velociraptor, my wife rushes into the room to ask, “What are you doing to him?”
“He’s tired!” I retort, my voice rising above the now powerful wailing. In Alias fashion, she bends down to help me defuse the timebomb by taking one side of the diaper while I tape the other. Jacob kicks and flails his arms, shrieking in what sounds like pain mixed with too much snot.
Our host, David, comes over to ask Jacob, “What’s the matter, little man?” My son changes octaves and shades of purple. I try to distract Jacob by kissing his chubby legs to make him laugh. The screaming gets hoarse. His complexion goes vermilion—Jacob passes out.
Surreality sets in. I stare dumbly at my small child, not fathoming what just happened. My wife shouts, “Is he breathing?” In a daze, I pull Jacob’s limp body to me. He slumps unconscious in my arms. I am numb.
But Wendy springs to action, running from the room, shouting, “I’m calling 911.” I stand up with Jacob, gently shaking and patting him. I want him awake. My heart thumps and my head feels like it will pop from the strain of not freaking out. “Jacob. Jacob. Jacob-Jacob-Jacob,” I sternly say as if scolding him for the lapse in his “good behavior.” His eyes flutter and roll back in his head. This is some kind of fit, right? What do people do in these situations?
I bounce him in my arms and…he…awakens. Jacob cries, a little more softly now, as I walk jelly-legged from the room, relieved, saved.
In our friends’ living room, Wendy is finishing the report to 911. Her reddened eyes brighten at the sight of her groggy but alert child. “Oh, my baby,” she says as she kisses him. I won’t let him go, fearing something else might happen if I do. Benjamin comes over and rubs his little brother’s back saying, “You’re OK, now, Jacob.” And we all hug each other.
Jacob thinks this group embrace is funny and starts giggling. Actually, he laughs through most of the next hour, during which two sets of paramedics and phone calls to two different pediatricians (including my calming father). The final diagnosis is that Jacob passed out as the result of a massive tantrum. Given his temperament, we’re told it may even happen again!
Our son finally drifts off into a peaceful slumber (still in my arms) and we thank our amazingly supportive friends for hosting this “very special episode” of ER.
At home, we decide to let our boys bunk with us. We want to watch over them, feel them breathing. We’d been rattled, unprepared for the fright we had. Though this was only a blip on the parenting nightmare scale, we’ve come away with a respect for what Saturday night excitement now means. It means that the mysteries of childcare never cease. It symbolizes that parenthood is full of surprises, both joyous and terrifying. It signifies that we no longer can take a weekend break from responsibility. And, as we lie there with our two kids, we are quietly excited to have them here with us, safe and sound.