Happy Birthday, dear kiddo

I'm still trying to figure out this whole kiddie party etiquette. Which little friends do you invite? All of them? Some of them? The ones whose parents you like? The ones whose parents you actually know by name? How many adults? Any adults? Is there something fundamentally wrong with getting the kids all worked up, filling them with sugar and sending them home? And if you put a minimal amount of cheapie plastic in the goodie bags, are you being eco-savvy or just chintzy?

Anyway kiddo's third birthday party was over the weekend and I think it went well. In that the kids seemed to be smiling and such. We used one of those kiddie play places with the crazy padded indoor jungle gym-like contraptions, where the guests all run around for a bit and then do games, then have the inevitable pizza and cake and get tokens for the downstairs video games on the way out. We're now veterans of these places, having been to a few kiddie parties. They're a pretty good idea, in that the party is more or less planned for you and the kids are stampeding around a place that is not your house. (We had the grownups and a few of the kids back to our place after; every toy in the house ended up on the floor and DH's laptop was mysteriously non-working the next day.) Some are better designed than others; if there's no barrier between the play area and the spectator seats, you're a little too much in the action. If there aren't enough seats, you're left standing uncomfortably waiting for your kid to hurtle down the slide for the 25th time. There's never room for a stroller. Apparently infant siblings are not invited to these parties.

I needed hands free for my decaf coffee (I'm pretending it's real coffee, dammit!) so kiddette promptly went into her sling, which promptly prompted some to ask whether that was one of the recalled slings. (Told you.) I kept my sling rant to a minimum. Kiddette, not especially interested in the conversation, proved my point by peacefully dozing off.

I hope I was a decent enough hostess. I didn't actually know all the parents involved, and casual conversation with strangers is not my strong point. But then you spend most of your time at these things watching your kid anyway.

Kiddo ran around like the maniac he is, though seemed a little overwhelmed by being the center of attention. They even skipped the parachute. By the time the food came around, though, he was back to normal. He even blew out the candles on his own (unlike last year, when he tried to grab the candle on his brownie and I blew it out for him).

High point of my day: I'd just put a skirt on as we were getting ready to go, when kiddo saw and said, "Mommy a princess!" Too. Cute.

Now only about five months to go before we have to throw another shindig for kiddette. At least she won't be wanting a Thomas cake.

Still slinging

I'm a little annoyed about the Consumer Product Safety Commission's sling warning. Not because it's unwarranted -- three babies dying in one year is alarming -- but because it's not making any distinctions. The sling that keeps coming up in news reports by way of example is this one -- and I have to say, I breezed right past it when I was sling shopping because it looked chintzy. I've used this one and this one, and they've both struck me as being pretty well made and durable. I feel like the warning is lumping all slings together as being dangerous, which may be overstating the case.

The key to using a sling properly is the sizing. If it's too small, the baby doesn't have enough room; if it's too loose or hangs too much away from the mother's body, the baby is more likely to slide around or fall out. Reputable sling sites emphasize this and suggest you whip out a tape measure to be absolutely sure you're ordering the right one.

And even still, I refused to use one with kiddo until he more or less had head control, because it made me nervous. I started earlier with kiddette, for the sheer practical reason that I needed my hands free to corral kiddo. But I always stuck a small blanket under her head and neck to give her extra support, and I glanced down to check on her constantly, listening for her breathing.

Mothering magazine awhile back published a guide to babywearing that more or less sums it all up -- the different types, the pros and cons, some specific products to try out. And it specifically warns to make sure the baby can breathe properly. Among other things like, don't cook with the baby strapped to you, or bend over without holding the baby in place. As though you needed to be told that.

Here's what's frustrating: Apparently some people do need to be told that. I have absolutely no desire to trash parents who lost their babies, because that isn't right. But if you're going to carry your baby around strapped to you with a piece of fabric -- that's fabric, not armor -- you have to exercise more than the usual amount of common sense.

It reminds me of the Bumbo seat recall of a few years back. Seems some parents were leaving their babies in these things on top of tables and other such elevated surfaces, and then the baby would arch backward out of the seat, fall off the table and fracture their skull. Right. So why would you put your baby on an elevated surface for any reason, no matter what they're sitting in? We have a Bumbo. We used it with kiddo. We're using it with kiddette. On the carpeted floor. Like the instructions said to do.

Look, it frustrates me beyond belief how often products designed for children are cheap pieces of crap. But knowing that, I'm as careful as possible about what we use and how we use it. And maybe some people just grab whatever off the shelves and figure it's fine without reading the instructions, or researching it. Parenting = research. It just does.

There are apparently industry trade standards in the works for slings, and I think that's a good idea. All I know is, the next time kiddette and I venture out sling-style (she sits upright now, making things easier), if I get a fish-eye from someone about it, there will be an unpleasant scene.

The things she carried

On the left side: One five-ton breast pump, masquerading as a large black briefcase, likely not fooling anyone. One Coach bag, proving that I do in fact possess some sense of style and at least one purse that is not designed to hold diapers. One tote bag full of kiddo's lunch, kiddo's diapers and kiddo's backup outfit in case the diapers are overwhelmed. On the right side: One small hand, preventing kiddo from picking a direction at random and running off to play in traffic.

My left arm has been feeling weird for the past couple days. Think the pump is killing it?

It's more or less the same morning routine as before -- get up, get fed and dressed, get kiddo fed and dressed, get out the door, drop him off at daycare, get to work -- with the addition of a hungry kiddette who also needs to be fed and dressed, and is in no hurry to finish feeding. Ever. This is not helping time-wise. I have a mark I'm trying to hit and I keep missing it. I'd rather get in to work earlier and leave earlier, but when other small beings are involved the equation gets tougher.

But then I stubbornly refuse to skip breakfast or resort to sugar-bomb pastry crap, so that takes a little more time. Fortunately kiddo is pretty happy with Joe's O's and fruit every day, so I don't have to overthink anything. And I've been eating my regular yogurt/fruit/English muffins/tea meal for about my entire adult life. Boring? Sure. Easy? Yay.

Every day is a race: How fast can I get in? How much can I get done? How fast can I get home? How many times will I get stuck in traffic on the Parkway? (Curse you, Parkway.) How many seconds after I walk through the door will I have to feed kiddette? How much playtime will I get in before double bedtime? And how much of one "Daily Show" episode will I get to watch before conking out on the couch?

I already knew this would be the case. It's just that the second child means more coordination, more energy, more strain on the left shoulder. Seriously, if my arm keeps bothering me I'll have to get one of those little dolly things. Stupid pump and its stupid five tons.

The nice thing is watching kiddo and kiddette interact. He flops down next to her on her mat; she smiles up at him and reaches for his hair, his nose, his hand. He gets right in her face and laughs. She gives him a big toothless baby grin. I still worry he'll accidentally squish her, but at least they like each other. For now.

Back to work, you

So this is the part where I guess I should cry and wail and tear my hair out about the fact that I am leaving my precious babies in the hands of another while I head off to my drudgery job, but I'm just not feeling it. Sorry. We do have a pretty good situation, in that kiddo goes to a day-care setup we like with other kids he likes playing with, and DH telecommutes so it's him with kiddette all day and not some stranger. And I have a certain amount of flexibility in my work hours and can do some things from home, so between the two of us we'll figure out a schedule that works for both of us. Also I like my job. And frankly I think a lot of women feel compelled to do the wailing/tearing hair out just because they think they'll look like a bad/uncaring mommy if they don't, like racking themselves with guilt is how they prove they really, truly love their kids. I really, truly don't feel compelled to prove my mommy-worthiness to anyone except my kids, and as long as they're happy to see me at the end of the day we're cool.

The first day went better for me than for kiddette -- she's a bit needy and spent much of the day on Daddy's chest. He even stuck her in the Bjorn and kept working, which helped a little. But even still, here was the scene I walked in on: kiddette on the play mat yelling; kiddo in his room, in time-out; DH cleaning kiddo's dinner out of the carpet with a snarly look on his face. At which point I said absolutely nothing and walked over to retrieve kiddette. Dinnertime is going to be trouble. We'll have to see how the next few days go.

I have to say, though, the weight loss has been easier this time. I'm still not where I want to be, which is around 120, where I was before kiddo. But I am a little over 130, which is where I was at before kiddette. So I fit into my pre-pregnancy size 8 work pants, unlike last time when I had to run out and buy size 12, then size 10 pants just so I had something to wear. It's nice feeling like I'm sort of within shouting distance of my old body. And I bought some new clothes anyway, because shoot, wouldn't you?

Overheard in the post office

Kiddette and I were on line when two little old ladies entered behind us and their "cute baby!" radars immediately pinged. "Oh, how sweet, she's looking at Mommy, how old is she," etc. Then one started to tell the other about her granddaughter, whose name is Danica.

"Oh, is that Hungarian?" the other asked (I'm assuming the grandma was Hungarian).

"No, it's for a race car driver," the first explained to some amazement. They spent several minutes going back and forth about the interesting race car driver.

So which is funnier, that someone thought so highly of Danica Patrick (despite, or because of the Go Daddy commercial?) that they named their child after her, or that even after Danica Patrick's full media onslaught of the past couple years, two little old ladies had no idea who she is?

Anyway, the postal worker at the counter and I were amused.

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... Aaaand happy to report that I have completed my Jane Austen project, just in time to head back to work and lose all leisure reading time that does not involve "The Wheels on the Bus" or "Red Light Green Light." Celia will be less pleased to know that I liked "Northanger Abbey" but did not love it; I think I just enjoy Austen's heroines more when they're smart and self-possessed, not wide-eyed and innocent. I did laugh at how "Northanger" makes fun of Gothic stereotypes, and there are a couple of passages in praise of novel reading and of writing that appealed to me. But my favorites are still "Pride and Prejudice," "Persuasion" and "Emma," in that order.

Scalpel?

Actually I don't know if scalpels are used in strabismus surgery. Maybe they use something else equally sharp and horrifying.

We went for our second opinion this week. Kiddo was pretty well-behaved, I must say. We read a Highlights together in the waiting room (infinitely more interesting than Rachael Ray on the TV) and after we headed to the examining room, he was perfectly happy to play with the toys in it while hanging out in the big chair. He answered the opthalmologist's questions like a pro. Even after getting his eyes dilated, he shrugged it off pretty quickly and bopped around the rear waiting room -- clearly designed for dilated kids and bored mamas, with more toys and a few magazines -- not even trying to escape and run wild through the place, which he's been known to do. The opthalmologist was impressed, calling him both smart and mature for his age. Excuse me while I bask in that for a minute.

Of course, he also said kiddo absolutely needs surgery. Excuse me while I freak.

He said 25 percent of kids with this problem grow out of it more or less on their own, and the trick is figuring out whether the kid you're looking at is in the 25 percent or the 75 percent that need intervention. He also said he doesn't think patching ever works and he's had kids come to him after patching, vision therapy and glasses but he's never had to redo a surgery. And that the parents most against the surgery in the first place tend to be happiest with the results.

It's a half-hour procedure, they put the kid under for it, he's been doing it for years, etc. and yada and yikes.

I can't argue the fact that kiddo's eyes are worse. And obviously patching only worked for a little while, and you can't patch an eye indefinitely unless your name is One-Eyed Willie. And boy, there was absolutely no hesitation on the doctor's part; about five seconds into the exam he was talking surgery.

So there's the second opinion. The pediatrician recommended yet another specialist if we wanted to explore the issue further; do we try for a third?

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Better writers than me have already weighed in on the late lamented Mr. Salinger, but I thought I'd note that I just reread "Catcher" a couple months ago and liked it all over again. Holden's such a screwed-up kid, but you can see the wry, caring adult he might actually become if he can manage to survive to adulthood. I especially like when he offers to buy the nuns a drink, which is both kinda creepy and a nobly failed attempt to be as sophisticated and gentlemanly as the adults he hates.

I think I'd like to be the catcher in the rye too. Except I'm old enough to know you can't always save people from themselves.

Strabismus: The Sequel

For the longest time we thought kiddo's eyes were better. The patching seemed to work. It was almost like the visits with the pediatric opthalmologist were a formality.

Yeah, that didn't last.

So his eyes are worse. To the point where someone besides us might notice the wandering eyeball if they watched him closely enough. Sometimes he seems to do it deliberately, push them in opposite directions to get a rise out of us, and then he looks a little like a lizard creature. Which kills me, because he's a pretty adorable kid.

And the doctor's verdict, so far, has been, and I'm paraphrasing here: "Huh. Looks worse. See you in three months."

I cannot believe there's nothing else we could be doing right now. What are we supposed to do, sit back and wait for it to get bad enough to require surgery? Because that seems to be the doctor's strategy. And surgery doesn't always work. And also: It's surgery! He's not even 3 yet.

So I'm taking him to another specialist for a second opinion, because I'd like to feel like we really did exhaust all other options.

Periodically I meet another adult who clearly has a variation on what he has, and it's incredibly disconcerting. You can't tell whether they're looking at you, so you can't watch their face for social cues. Makes conversation difficult. I always want to ask them about it -- have you always had it? did anyone try to treat it? how does it affect your life? -- but of course that would be crazily rude so I don't. And then I feel like a jerk, hoping my son doesn't turn out like them.

On the plus side, he seems to function pretty well with a wonky eyeball. He loves being read to, and is starting to figure out the words in books (by having them read to him over and over and over and over and sigh). He can focus on his toys or his food or that godawful "Super Why" show with no problem. Just sometimes, when he's tired or cranky or when he feels like it, he unfocuses.

I hope the doctor tells us something useful.