Mama Trauma

When faced with the possibility of staying home alone with a sick infant, I'd rather drink Drano. At least it would end quickly. A sick infant means no rest, no time to talk on the telephone, no regular meals, no reading, no errands, no visits to or from others. Your only outside contacts are the pediatrician, who doesn't give enough specific advice, and your mother, who offers way too much advice. I, on the other hand, have no magical healing advice for you. I do, however, humbly offer this list of twenty things to do when stuck at home with a sick baby: 1. Put on a stack of your favorite tunes and dance the baby around the room. Call it sick baby aerobics and wear work-out clothes so you feel as though you're getting something accomplished. 2. Set up a videocamera in the baby's room so you can share what your day was like with your husband when he comes home. Make him stay up all night watching it so he can get the full experience. 3. Listen to ta

My voice is not known for its melodic sweetness. In fact, I was tone deaf as a child. This disturbed my family greatly, since my grandmother's beautifully modulated voice was famous for its clarity and sweetness. Everyone in my family sang. All the time. We sang in the car, in the shower, during dinner, whenever a song would strike us. In a misguided effort to fix my tone deafness and help me develop an "ear", my parents had me take violin lessons. Six years later, I was still tone deaf and they owned stock in Bayer aspirin. I was also loud, a combination that did not endear me to my music teachers or my friends. When a college roommate overheard a boy compliment my singing voice, she exclaimed, "Jeez, love must be deaf as well as blind." Once, in my salad days, I tried out for a musical play. When I called my parents after the audition, they were very concerned. "She went to an audition, today," my mother repeated the news to my father. "Uh-huh,&

I believe babies should come with this warning label: Product has the capacity to destroy civilization. My sweet five-week-old son’s true nature was revealed to us. He is a secret weapon capable of mass destruction. So far there are four known victims of his ability to emit waste material in the form of powerful projectiles in the past two weeks. It all began one night when the baby began crying. I ran down the usual checklist. Diaper? Dry. Hungry? Rejects nipple. Lonely? Won't be comforted. Gas? I held him in my arms and trekked in tight little circles, patting, massaging, rocking. I walked to my husband, who was washing up in the bathroom, held our son for him to see and said, "What do you think?" Then it happened. Projectile vomiting. It took barely two seconds and one burp. We were covered; only our eyes poked through. The walls, the floors, the window, the bathroom mirror dripped gobs of overcooked porridge-like goo in a 360* pattern. Miraculously, the Oriental rug w

My husband and I have always been late-to-bed, later-to-rise people. That's just one of the reasons we got along so well. My close friend, who was pregnant simultaneously, has always been an early-to-bed type. She delivered 11 hours before I did. We should have switched babies. When you're pregnant, your baby gets used to a schedule I call China time, a cruel trick of nature. The fetus sleeps while you're active because your movements rock it to sleep. But when you lie down and put your feet up for a bit of rest, the fetus wakes up and starts cranking. Therefore, once the baby is born, forget sleep. Whenever you want to sleep, your baby wants to play. Sleep becomes a faint memory. You learn to nap. Nap is not sleep. Sleep is when your conscious brain shuts off for six to nine uninterrupted hours. Sleep as you once knew it will elude you for the rest of your life. Nap is when your body shuts down for refueling and repairs. However, one part

When you're pregnant, your body is no longer your own. Not only has the creature growing inside you taken over like another sequel to the movie Aliens; but every sales clerk, taxi driver, train conductor and coworker feels perfectly comfortable asking about your digestive system, bathroom habits and the creature's movement patterns. All want to feel it kick; half of them lay hands on you as if they've invented faith healing. I thought my son's birth would limit this nonsense to his sleep habits, digestive system and bathroom habits. I was wrong. My breasts were now the province of every relative, friend and stranger. All the doctors, midwives, magazines and textbooks say the same thing: breast feeding is best for the baby and for the mother. You know all the arguments: nutrition, bonding, savings, portability, bigger breasts. Women I know still speak of the warm, loving feeling that flowed through them when their milk let down. One even admit

Perhaps you always wanted to be a parent. Perhaps you’re destined to be a great parent; you have no issues, concerns or fears about how your children will turn out as adults. Well, this is for the rest of us who are dazed and confused about this silly and traumatic predicament we call parenting. I was eight years old when one of my older sister's friends defined my life for me. It was a shimmering summer day and I was annoying them by breathing the same air. My world froze when she spun around, pointed at my chest and intoned, "You won't meet the love of your life and marry until your late thirties. Before that, you'll have several fabulous affairs and an exciting career." As she dropped her hand and turned away, she tossed me a devastating one-liner, "Oh and by the way, your pants are too short. You look like a nerd." She was right on all points. Of course at eight the news about my pants was far more disturbing than her predictions about my lo