Mr. WG: By the numbers and more

Today is my tenth anniversary. I am 30 years old; I have been married for 10 years. I have four children. The oldest is seven. The youngest is 6 months.

Mr. WG is 33. When I met him, he was 22. He had coke-bottle glasses which he exchanged for much smaller frames just before our wedding. After we were married, he got contact lenses, which we paid for in 10 installments. Before we had finished paying off the contacts, he got new glasses again, this time the ultra-lightweight frameless lenses. Those were also paid for in ten installments. And before we finished paying for those, he got Lasik, also in 10 installments.

We met in the Israeli army. On our first date, Mr. WG took me to a terrific restaurant on the overlooking the beach in Tel Aviv. We forgot to order because we were so busy talking. The waitress finally forced us to order. Then we forgot to eat. They asked us to leave the restaurant at around 2 a.m., and we were startled to realize that we were the only people there.

On our second date, the next night, Mr. WG took me out for pizza. This may not sound like much, but you have to understand that Mr. WG does not eat anything dairy.

By the end of our first date, it was clear that we would be married. We talked about it briefly and then let it go. We were officially engaged two months later.

Ten years. If you had told me 15 years ago that this is where I would be today, I would have laughed out loud. If you had told me ten years ago that Mr. WG and I would end up here in the city we now live in -- I would have been sure you were mistaken.

But here we are, and I would do it all again.

Happy Anniversary to my sweet. Thank you for ten beautiful years. And one stunner of a ring. I love you.

Reflections on the day of D's birth

Y'all seemed to like Baby J's birth story so much that I figured I'd indulge you -- what the heck, myself -- and tell you all about D's birth.

After I dropped off my daughters at preschool that morning I called my midwife and told her that maybe I was in labor. She agreed to meet me at her clinic in about 45 minutes.

The Santa Ana winds were blowing that morning, and there were wildfires, so the air was full of ash. I mean, you stepped outside, and you were breathing in hot, dry air full of ash. I had to brush the white flakes off myself as I walked into the clinic. T., the midwife, examined me and said that I was more or less at 4 cenitmeters, and that we could go ahead and call this early labor.

With the wisdom of hindsight, I look back and think to myself that maybe T. simply decided that since we had hit 37.5 weeks by dates -- making this a term delivery -- and since I seemed ready to go into labor, that she would tell me I was in early labor, help it along, and in that way be able to manage the birth. I can't blame her for making this choice, because we had spoken extensively all through my pregnancy about my fast labors. She knew I was terrified of going into labor when she couldn't get to me quickly, of delivering the baby alone in my home while both she and my husband were stuck in traffic. I do blame her for not telling me that this was her plan, because I probably would not have gone along with it. Although, I'm not sure if that would have been the best course of action either.... D's head had hit 40 weeks a week or two earlier, and if we had let him go to term, I might have ended up needed an emergency C-section -- who's to know? It is what it is.

Anyway. She told me it was early labor, I called my husband, and I drove home to wait for him. T. and Mr. WG arrived at around the same time; T. sent Mr. WG to pick up some stuff from a health food store. It was basically a homeopathic version of pitocin.

I walked around the house talking to myself, willing the contractions to pick up. I watched TV. The big news story that day was a lawyer whose client was unhappy and began shooting at the lawyer just outside the courthouse. The lawyer ducked behind a really skinny tree -- I mean, like, pencil-thin -- and the whole thing was caught on video camera because a more publicized trial (darned if I remember which one) was happening at the same courthouse that day. The dude shot at the lawyer like 10 times and kept missing, from 3 feet away. It was weird.

Mr. WG and I walked around the block a bit, smelling the ash, stopping to talk to a neighbor. I remember thinking how surprised she would be the next day when she found out that an hour or so after she talked to us, we had a baby.

The contractions didn't pick up as much as the midwife wanted them to, so she broke my water. Then the contractions started in earnest, and I took a shower. Pretty soon it was time to push.

I love those moments of pushing. I close my eyes and try to recapture that intensity. The baby crowning, that moment when the pain reaches the point where you think it's unbearable, and you push through it, the warm gush of amniotic fluid, blood, a slippery shoulder, that final push where you feel knees and legs and feet whoosh from inside you, through you, to the other side.

And then he was on my chest, not crying. Just there, and I kissed his head and held him for a few seconds, and then the midwife started getting more serious.

"We might need to go to the hospital," she said, and I remember thinking how silly she sounded. I mean, the baby was already born. Why go now? "He's working very hard to breathe," she said. She gave him oxygen, she gave him a bath, she rubbed his back. He still didn't let out with that big cry you want to hear. Some whimpers, but nothing with any force to it.

And of course, we did wind up going to the hospital. We called 911 for an ambulance, and we got 2 fire trucks and an ambulance to the house. About 9 rescue workers crowded into my room. Somehow, it was decided that only one parent could ride in the ambulance with the baby. Mr. WG would be that parent, I would follow with the midwife. At the last second, they let me come in the ambulance as well. By then, Mr. WG was strapped onto a stretcher holding D. I sat on the bench in the back and the EMT buckled me up.

When we got to the hospital, it was already dark, and it was raining. (Now it's the sad part of the movie.) They wheeled in Mr. WG with D. nestled in his arms. I hopped down from the back of the ambulance and walked in, in the rain, behind them.

And then we spent 11 days in the NICU. And then.... and now.

And so it goes.

Waiting for my happy ending

One of the questions Mr. WG asked over and over again at the conference in Anaheim was, "What will D. be like when he grows up?" A related question is, "Well, when can we find out?"

The general consensus seems to be that the earliest you can really assess what a child is capable of achieving is age 9. That is six and half years from now. In other words, I will most likely have to refill my Zoloft once or twice. Or, you know, take up drinking as a competitive sport. (You should know, as much as I talk about wine, I'm actually allergic to alcohol, so I'm only able to drink about 2 tablespoons of wine in any 48-hour period.)

Anyway, we go back to the same refrain of taking it day by day, waiting, watching, over-analyzing, celebrating the successes, and swallowing down that fear that threatens to overwhelm me every so often.

D. starts preschool in a few weeks. His speech is improving daily, I do see that, but it's still... not where I want it to be. And I've been cavalierly assuming that once he turns 3 at the end of October and we no longer qualify for in-home services from the early intervention people that we'll "just hire a private speech therapist" rather than going through the public school system. But I'm beginning to wonder about the expense, the reality, the day-to-day. We have four children, and I don't ever want the others to think that they are denied things because we need the money for D. I don't want that thought to enter their consciousness. I don't want them to resent D. I don't want them to hate me.

A long time ago, Mr. WG and I were watching a movie, and I pointed out to him how it rains at the sad part, when the hero is down and you think he can never meet his goals. Then, when things are good again and we reach the happy ending, it's sunny. Ever since then, whenever it rains in a movie or in real life, Mr. WG says, "Now it's the sad part of the movie."

It's pouring now.

I'm holding on to the promise of the sunshine.

In Which I Get All Preachy

Right, so I've spoken before about taking Zoloft. But listen up now, because I'm not just repeating myself.

1. We live in a sucky world. We do. For me, it's 9/11. The tsunami. Katrina. The disengagement and the threat of civil war in Israel. Israel united -- but fighting a war for her very survival. You might be affected by different world events, but you are affected, because we live in a sucky world. If you can honestly wake up and look around and say, "Nothing is wrong today!" then you are -- well, I don't know what you are, but it's not healthy.
   
   
2. We expect a ridiculous amount from women today. We expect women to work, rear children, keep up the house, cook, deal with child crises, and never complain. Now, I am not saying that I personally do all these things, nor am I saying that Mr. WG doesn't lift a finger, but let's be realistic. Let's take this morning for instance. If you ask Mr. WG, he will likely tell you that I slept late while he got everyone ready. But let's take a closer look. Mr. WG got up first, that's true. But he also slept through the three times I got up to nurse Baby J. last night. So anyway. I got up at around 7:20 this morning, and I got out to the kitchen about 25 minutes later, showered and dressed. Mr. WG had made lunches for the girls. D. was sitting at the table eating breakfast, wearing only a diaper. Baby J. was strapped into the highchair. Mr. WG zipped up the girls' lunchboxes and went to his office. In his mind, he is done.
   I then: told DD2 to put on her shoes, asked the girls to find their swimsuits and towels for camp, took Baby J. out of the highchair and noticed that no one had changed his diaper, changed Baby J's diaper, told DD2 to put. on. her. shoes already, took D. upstairs to get him dressed, came back down and gathered the girls' lunchboxes and swim stuff and put it all by the front door, began cleaning the kitchen, told DD2 to PUT. ON. YOUR. SHOES before I get REALLY ANGRY, found DD2s shoes for her, nursed Baby J, strapped DD2's shoes onto her feet FOR HER, returned to cleaning the kitchen, mediated fights between the girls, changed D., and dropped what I was doing several times to go check Baby J. and make sure he was OK.
   If one of my kids has a planned -- or unplanned -- pediatrician visit, it is a given that I will be the one to go. Groceries? Me. Picking up kids from camp -- one at 3 and one at 4? Me. Dealing with fussy kids who don't want to take naps? Me. You get the picture. You LIVE the picture. So you're stressed, and it's not surprising.
   
   
3. We got some whacked out hormones, yo. I mean, seriously, being a mom will totally mess with you. That's how we're wired. And if you thikn that you can go through that process without any outside help, you are FREAKING NUTS.
   

Zo. Loft. Baby. Get you some. Get a low dose. You will be AMAZED at the difference it makes in your life. There is a real difference between watching the news and sobbing hysterically, feeling like you will never be able to stop, thinking What if that were my child?, imagining the funerals of your family members -- there is a real difference between that (THE CRAZY) and watching the news and saying, "My. GOD. That is horrible. Those poor people." And acknowledging the horror and being spurred to some sort of action, but being able to then get the kid's shoes on and get her out the door to camp.

It's not weakness to ask for help. But it's irresponsible to ignore your need for it.

So many questions and answers that somehow seem wrong...

(Anyone get the reference?)

A little more from the conference: When Mr. WG met with the docs privately, he asked our favorite question: What will D. be like when he grows up? Now, for some reason, every doc we ask is realllllly reluctant to give a straight answer. Why do you think that is?

Anyway. So, the doc said, "Look. 60% of these kids don't live independently as adults. Another 25% live somewhat independently -- maybe in a group home or on their own with some kind of help. A very small percentage truly live independently."

What cheerful thoughts! Goody!

Right. OK, but the doc, just like the last fairy in Sleeping Beauty, tempered the harsh decree, adding, "But remember, our numbers are skewed, because we only see the kids with problems. We know Sotos is underdiagnosed. So we know there are a lot of people who have it but who don't show symptoms and who live normally."

Have I mentioned that I don't really enjoy riding roller coasters?

Update from Anaheim

Mr. WG and D. are in Anaheim at the annual Sotos conference. They have professional childcare, split by ages, and the caregivers are equipped to deal with all sorts of special needs kids. Mr. WG dropped D. off at the start of the Saturday sessions -- he said it was hard to leave him there, because D. was crying, but he knew he had to do it.

In the afternoon. he took D. back and set him up for a nap. He stayed till D. was just about asleep and then snuck out. He returned at just past 4 p.m. and peeked in the room. D. was sitting on a chair with his backpack on, clearly just waiting to GET OUT. When he saw Mr. WG, he just burst into tears.

How much do I miss my kid?

Mr. WG says he's getting lots of good information at the conference and really enjoying it a lot. In the Sotos 101 session, he learned that there are several genetic presentations of Sotos -- there's a deletion of the gene, and several forms of the mutation. In one mutation, there's a single letter that's out of place. In others, there's a "stop" in the middle of the sequence -- which basically tells the "program" (Mr. WG put it all in software developer terms) to just... stop, and ignore everything afterwards. And then there are massively jumbled mutations. Mr. WG thinks that what he understood is that the stop is a milder form, and that that is what D. has, but he will have to clarify that in his private consult today.

I tell you, the enormous waves of guilt that wash over me when we discuss D's genetic mutations -- dude, it sucks. It just makes me feel so horrific. I realize this makes no sense. But how do you not feel guilty about creating a child with a genetic mutation?

Everything changes, but nothing is different.

It's official. We finally received the results of the genetic testing that was sent off to Chicago back in May. Just as Dr. Positive predicted, D. has the mutation that indicates Sotos.

It's odd to see it in black and white. It's hard not to feel horrifically guilty -- after all, if I didn't contribute to his genetic makeup, who did?

And yet. And yet, he is still my D. And nothing is really different.

Mr. WG and D. are headed to Anaheim in a few hours for the Sotos conference. For those keeping score at home, this means that Mr. WG has one kid and expert-level childcare for the weekend. I have 3 kids and 7 hours of help tomorrow, then it's all me, baby, until Monday morning.

Because -- say it with me now: It's all about me.

That's what I'm talking about.

And back to me. And my kid.

D. had speech therapy this morning. The therapist brings in a big bag o' toys, and we head upstairs to the playroom. D. is super-excited, bouncing around the room. He takes one toy, runs around, takes something else, runs around, chattering all the while.

The therapist wants him to play with one toy that she chooses, and play with that toy properly. This annoys me, but I try to bite my tongue.

"He really needs to work on his attention span," she says. Hey, you know what might help? DON'T BRING A GIANT BAG OF TOYS. Bring in one or two things. Dude, the kid sees a GIANT BAG OF TOYS, he's gonna wanna go through it.

She pulls out a wooden pizza thing. It has velcro spots on top to add little topping pieces. And all the slices velcro together, and then you can slice them apart with a little wooden slicer thing. I am amused to note that she does not give him the pepperoni toppings, only the vegetables. So it's ostensibly kosher wooden pizza. He places all the toppings on the pizza, slices it, and serves it.

But when he starts to get the tea set stuff from the toybox -- forks, knives, cups, because in D's mind, this is a meal -- she stops him. "All done?" she says.

"I want more," D. says, and I am kvelling over the way he says it, and she's still telling him that he has to choose one toy.

Am I the only one who thinks the therapist is ANNOYING?

What the heck do I do now?

A quick update on the whole secret smoking thing: so far, I've done... nothing. This is because:

1. I am a big fat coward.
2. I have never smelled smoke on S., and I am really sensitive to smoke.
3. I am a big fat coward.

Right. Moving on to the current crisis: DD2.

DD2 is 5 and a half, and she's starting first grade in the fall. Months and months ago, she was invited to play at a friend's house. She went, she had a great time, we had him over a few weeks later; everything was cool. Then she was invited again. I took her, and she starts whining that she doesn't want to stay and play. We try to persuade her; she refuses. A few weeks after that, the mother called again. This time, I went and asked DD2, "Do you want to go?"

"No."

Fine. So she's got a problem with this particular kid? I might have bought that. Except that yesterday, her teacher, who is a friend and has a daughter DD2's age, called. Did DD2 want to come play? I pose the question. "Yes," she says. Then, about 10 minutes before we had to go, she starts in on why she doesn't want to go. I reason with her. I take her there. I suggest that we JUST TRY FOR 10 MINUTES. No. No. NONONONONO.

I explained to her how it makes people feel bad when you don't want to play with them. How people won't want to come to her house if she never wants to play. How it's BORING to sit home alone.

Nothing doing.

This kid -- I love her. But she makes me NUTS.

Mr. WG suggested listing her on ebay, but I think it violates their TOS. Bummer -- we probably could have gotten a lot for her.

And now for something completely different

Indulge me, will you? Even though I started this blog just two and a half weeks after Baby J. was born, I never wrote his birth story -- and I think he's the only one of my kids for whom that is true. and since he's nearing six months, I want to write it before I forget it, and if I write it, it may as well see the light of day.

My first baby was born in an ordinary hospital birth, but things went really quickly. I mean REALLY quickly. Like, I had one contraction, I felt my water break, we left for the hospital, and two hours from that first contraction, I was holding a baby. So when I got pregnant with my second, I started looking into homebirths. DD2 was an absolutely ideal homebirth. Picture-perfect, right down to the fact that she was born inside an intact bag of waters. D's birth -- well, he was also born at home, and the birth itself was great, but the aftermath... right. I think we've talked once or twice about that, no?

Anyway, partly because it turned out that D. was a little bit early, I was worried about the possibility of another premature baby with Baby J. So I figured that it made sense to plan for a hospital birth and to see an OB so that if I wound up in early labor, I would at least have an established relationship with an OB; I would be slightly more in control of the situation.

It should come as no surprise to anyone, therefore, that well past 40 weeks, Baby J. still showed no signs of readiness. At 41 weeks -- and mind you, it was 41 weeks by my adjusted count; it was 42.5 weeks by dates -- my OB insisted that we induce. We had discussed my preferences ahead of time, and she was respectful of those. So early that morning, Mr. WG and I headed over to the hospital. We checked in at around 10 a.m., and I changed into a gown and got settled in bed with my laptop. They pushed an IV and started the pit probably around 11.

I felt mild twinges, but nothing so serious that it affected my ability to send and receive email. Thank goodness for wireless Internet access, right?

At around noon, the nurse checked me, and I hadn't really made any progress, which didn't surprise me, since I hadn't really had any pain. So my OB came in, checked me, broke my water with no warning, and then mentioned that she had to be back in the office in half an hour, and she'd really appreciate it if I could help her keep her schedule.

The contractions got really intense, and I concentrated on breathing. Breathing doesn't actually do anything for the pain, but it does give you something to focus on. And then about 15 minutes later, I said that I really wanted to push. They checked me, and I was at just about 10 centimeters. they got everything ready, and I pushed maybe four or five times, and Baby J. came out.

They checked the baby and gave him back to me, and my OB thanked me for helping her make it back to the office on time. And then Mr. WG and I just hung out with Baby J. for a bit until they took him off to the nursery (and THAT is what I hate about hospitals, the fact that they TAKE YOUR KID AWAY). I got him back after about 2 hours, and all of our parents and my other kids came and everyone was all happy and everything.

And then everybody left, and it was just me and Baby J. and we hung out until around midnight -- I remember that I watched Chicago on the hospital movie channel. And then I was tired, but Baby J. was fussy, and I held out as long as I could, but then I did ask the nursery to take him for a bit. They brought him back about 3 hours later to eat. I nursed him and held him for another hour or so and then finally got him to sleep, closed my eyes, and was immediately awakened by someone wanting to take my blood pressure or something.

Fortunately, that was our only night in the hospital; by that afternoon we were back home and I could rest while other people held beautiful Baby J.

And that's the story. Thanks for indulging me.

It's not like I'm losing sleep over it or anything, but I still feel bad for her.

Dear Lauren Weisberger,

I'm sorry, honey. You wrote a really good book, and Hollywood messed it up. They took a great story -- I mean, yeah, OK, it was chick lit, but it was REALLY GOOD chick lit -- and they tore out a bunch of pages and then tried to make up stuff to fill in the blank spots, and they didn't do a very good job.

I can only imagine what you were thinking the first time you saw words and ideas that you had imagined in your brain suddenly coming to life on the big screen. You probably sat there, grinning for a minute, and then your brow furrowed.

"Wait," you thought to yourself. "Wait a second. Who the hell is NATE?"

Also, they DESTROYED your poor Christian, PLUS he had no eyebrows. Or something. There was something VERY WRONG with his face.

I'm sure they paid you well and all, but was it really worth it?

Yeah, it probably was.

Well, anyway, I just wanted you to know that I feel your pain.

Love,
WG

Oh CRAP.

I don't know what to do. I feel like my world has just been thrown into chaos. I seriously don't have a CLUE how to handle this.

I think my nanny, S, who is my salvation, is smoking.

Let me rephrase that. Or back up. Or both. We found her through an online matching service. We stated that we were looking for a non-smoker; her application said she was a non-smoker. We may or may not have verified this when we interviewed her; I really don't remember.

A couple months ago, she left her bag on my kitchen table, and I noticed a pack of cigarettes. She's French, my nanny, so it's not SO shocking, and I was disappointed, but I figured, OK, what she does on her own time is her own business.

Today, I had to go pick up DD1 from camp. I exited the house into the garage and noticed as I did so that someone -- S, I assumed -- was closing the side door to the house. In other words, that person had been outside and was going back inside. And I thought -- weird, I didn't see her take the trash out. And then I saw a little cigarette butt by the doormat. And my heart sank.

You know what made it sink even lower? The fact that the butt was GONE when I came back from my camp run.

So. It's not that I think S. is smoking so much as that I KNOW she is, and I don't know what to do. I HATE the thought of secondhand smoke being around my kids. Do I get rid of an AMAZING nanny/housekeeper over this? WHAT DO I DO?

These Tears of Mine

Since I started taking the Zoloft, things have gotten a little bit easier. I have made a conscious effort to be less stressed about things that don't really matter. And more noticeably, when I talk about D's history, I don't cry. In fact, I don't cry at all these days, which was starting to weird me out a bit.

I mean, I got through genetics and the followup with neurology with no tears. I met D's new speech therapist and gave her his whole history -- which usually has me wiping my eyes furiously and muttering about allergies. I watched some sad movies and read some fairly moving stories -- nothing.

It's almost like I'm a NORMAL PERSON or something.

BUT. BUT. Then, the other day, I was talking about something remotely emotional -- I don't remember what it was, but it was something along the lines of RUNNING OUT OF SOAP -- and I felt the tears springing up. I noted it and moved on. And then, the last few days, I've noticed that I'm stressing the small stuff again. Like, yesterday, the girls were going to be late for camp, and I couldn't stop myself from freaking out about it. I mean, what did I think they were going to miss? Five minutes of macrame?

The dose I'm on is 25 mg/day -- borderline theraputic. Should I ask for more? Is my body developing a tolerance? That seems a little dangerous. Thoughts?

It's all in perspective.

Yesterday morning, Mr. WG says, "You don't mind if I take all the kids and go out for the day today, do you?"

"By all the kids, you mean..."

"Well, not the baby."

"OK, well, that's not all the kids then, is it?"

"Well, I CAN'T take the baby."

"Whatever. No, fine, take the other ones, I don't mind."

"So you'll have the day to yourself."

"Well, no, I won't, actually. I'll have the baby."

"Yeah, but that's like not really work."

"Really? So why don't you take the baby?"

"I can't take the baby! How can I do anything if I have the baby?"

Mind you, it's not that I don't like the baby. In fact, baby J. is delicious, and it's a pleasure to snuggle him on the sofa. But it's not the same as having "a day to myself." Don't tell Mr. WG, but we had a really good time, baby J. and I. We watched Psych, that new show on USA, we watched Drew Carey reruns, we ate junk food ALL DAY LONG.... It was really nice. In some ways, it was better than having a day to myself.

Oh. My. GOD.

I went to pick up DD1 from camp just before 4 p.m. I came home with her, and D. met me at the garage door, arms wide open. "Hello!" he said. I gave him a hug, spoke to Mr. WG who was sitting in his office (he works from home, have we talked about that?), and went to get baby J. I found DD2 upstairs with the nanny and left baby J. up there to play. For a minute, I forgot that I had JUST SEEN D. DOWNSTAIRS, and I asked the nanny if D. had somehow deigned to take a nap. She said he was with his father.

I went back downstairs and stuck my head in Mr. WG's office. "Where's D?"

No answer.

"No seriously, where's D?"

"Upstairs."

I go through all the downstairs rooms, then rush back to Mr. WG's office. "You haven't seen D?" I ask calmly shriek. Now he takes me seriously and we both race through the house.

Suddenly, it hits me. "The garage," I yell. "The car, check the car!" and as Mr. WG is going to do that, I open the side door and see D. ON THE DRIVEWAY playing with the trash can.

Boy oh boy, did Mr. WG let him have it. "NO!" He shouted. "NO NO NO NO NO!" And D. cried.

But my heart is still racing -- especially when you consider that to get outside, my kid had to UNLOCK THE DOOR.

THERE IS A REASON 2-YEAR-OLDS AREN'T TALL ENOUGH TO REACH THESE THINGS.

In Which I Whine About Stupidity and Stupid Things

I mentioned how I joined the Yahoo! group for parents/caregivers of Sotos kids. I get all my groups in digest form, because I get a lot of email. Digests are easy to go through quickly and don't clutter up my mailbox. Except that in this particular group, no one seems to have heard of the whole "trim your posts" thing. It's making me absolutely insane -- I try to read a digest, and I have to scroll FOREVER to get through a one-line post, because they've quoted the past 6 rounds of back and forth, with the whole Yahoo signature included EACH TIME. Am I the only person who finds this incredibly irritating?

Also, could someone please come and explain to D. that he is not yet 3 years old and that he NEEDS to nap each day AND go to sleep at night. His new trick is to lie awake in his bed at naptime, kicking the wall and hurling shoes at the floor. Then, at bedtime, he hangs out for a bit in his bed or his sister's bed or the playroom, but seems to invariably wind up downstairs with a big smile and a "Hello, D!" (He's taken to greeting himself every time he enters a room.) Somehow, the kid is surviving on like 6 hours of sleep in a 24-hour-period. This better be a REALLY SHORT PHASE.

Share, share , that's...not what I wanted to do.

Is it just me? I HATE sharing my lunch with my kids. Look, I love them, but my food? MY FOOD? They break all my stuff, ruin everything of value, destory expensive electronics, and I'm OK with that. I don't love it, but I deal with it. But when I finally get a chance to eat at 2 p.m., I WANT MY FOOD.

BACK OFF, D.

I Have Other Kids, Too

And occasionally they do cute things, believe it or not.

Tonight, Mr. WG and I were watching the latest DVD in our 24 extravaganza. We've only just discovered 24, and we're already up to season 4. Anyway, somehow, my three older children -- the ones who can walk -- came downstairs an hour or so after we had put them to bed and decided they would watch with us. We, being the pathetic parents that we are, continued to watch the carnage and Kieferliciousness that is 24, with our kids right there.

At every smash to commercials, when the numbers flash on the screen, D. would say, "numbers," and we'd all cheer. Then, when they had discovered that one of the bad girls was a different girl from the one they had accused of being the bad girl, the real bad girl (you following this?) ran out of the building as they were trying to lock it down. (Dude. You would think that the geniuses at CTU would have figured out by now that their screening process SUCKS BIG TIME and that they really need some sort of one-button lockdown process that ACTUALLY LOCKS THE DOORS.)

Anyway, the bad girl is racing away, and my 5-year-old says, "If I were that girl, I would be nice and say sorry."

Heh.

With Apologies to Amy Tan

I remember when I was pregnant with D., when I found out that I was having a boy, I was so excited. I had two girls already, and even though I knew nothing about boys, I was still SO EXCITED. I had all these visions of Mr. WG taking our son to synagogue on Friday nights, of him watching my husband do his morning prayers. Never mind that these visions would have meant that my husband needed to, ahem ATTEND synagogue on Friday nights and REMEMBER to do his morning prayers. (These days he does both, but at the time? Not so much.) Anyway. It's like that bit in the opening of The Joy Luck Club where the mother says something about the feather she brought from China "carries all my hopes and dreams for you."

For a long time, I would whisper to D., "You have to be OK, because I have pinned all my hopes and dreams on you." Gradually, I started letting go of some of those dreams. I'd bargain. With myself, with God, I don't know, but I'd bargain. "Just let him achieve this, and I will be OK." Now, once again, we're in the mindset that the road ahead may be long and arduous, but we can scale this mountain. And I begin pinning my hopes and dreams back in their places.