Category Archives: Motherhood

Addicted to Dr. Google

I have noticed something alarming happening all around me. It is the latest and most prominent addiction crisis impacting the nation, particularly parents.  Another group afflicted with this addiction is pregnant women. I think you all know what I’m talking about.

How many times have you found yourself, with perspiration gathering on your upper lip, your heart rate accelerated, your shifty eyes darting around the room, as you slowly type in the words on your computer.

You wonder what the first links will be, you wonder how many search results will turn up, how many pages deep you will go into the search before you are fully diagnosed.

You are staring down a Google search. You know you shouldn’t. You know you should close out, retreat and just go get some coffee. Or call the doctor. Or pediatrician. Or better yet, even call and equally as clueless friend (I like to fancy myself a pseudo doctor, I know as much as McSteamy – call me).

But you can’t help yourself.  You can’t move away from the Google search. Another common scenario is that first time you are in the doctor’s office, doctor is mumbling words, you don’t know what it means, you really aren’t listening, you are wondering how quickly you will get back to your office and can settle into your chair. You worry your internet service will slow down, some jerk might be streaming video and slowing down the service. How quickly can you punch out the words and pull up the search? You hold your breath. What will you learn from the results?

Sudden death is surely imminent, of this you are certain.

The other common scenario is the foggy thinking of a sleep deprived new parent. It’s 3am. Outside the walls of the home, the world is quiet and peaceful. Inside the home, a small infant no bigger than your neighbor’s stupid looking small dog, is wreaking havoc on their world. They just need to sleep. They just need quiet.

And the baby has…..gasp……HICCUPS.

The mom is crying, the new dad is just dazed and confused, so what is the solution? Pull up Google. Google it.

“Should I type in ‘baby hiccups’ or more specifically “newborn with hiccups?” asks the dad.

Mom glares at him, eyes shooting lasers through his brain for such a  numb-skulled question when time is of the essence.

He types in the phrase and 449,000 results come up. This man doesn’t have all night. What is a desperate parent to do?

An intervention is in order. We all are addicted to curing ourselves and solving our medical problems via Google search. It’s quick, it’s cheap and it doesn’t require loitering in a doctor’s office for hours on end.

The trouble is, relying upon Dr. Google only enables our imaginations to run wild. And if you have a flair for dramatics, as I do, then the most life-threatening possibility of all the Google searched possibilities, is the only outcome to your health crisis. This crisis is rampant and one that we must stop.

Google medical searches only keep your blood pressure up, your heart racing and give life to our worst case scenarios. I vote that as much as we can possibly do it, we refrain from relying upon Dr. Google to diagnose our ailments. It’s a slippery slope out there.

Perspective

I’ve had several conversations with several different friends that all end up back at the same conclusion – perspective. Example – a friend’s friend’s child was recently diagnosed with a rare form of leukemia. He isn’t even 2 and his prognosis isn’t good. As a parent, who among us can imagine much worse. Then you get started thinking about how the parents of this young boy wake up every day and face the reality that he might die and it just seems so much to take.

Then inevitably, conversation drifts onto something mundane, possibly even a complaint or venting about something frustrating a child did that day.

Which then leads back to this – how can we be complaining when this other mom has a child with cancer?

Here’s the thing – who said that we can’t appreciate what we have and be so grateful for what we have – but that we still can’t vent or complain about smaller things in life? I think no one said that. It’s all about your perspective and if you are balanced with it.

So then I found myself reading theNYT Motherlode blog, there is a guest essay about Infertility. The author candidly explains her struggles with infertility, her profound disappointment and how this has impacted how she views herself as a woman. I respect her candor and I cannot imagine how exhausting the path of infertility is. Having grown up in a house where my mother was very honest about the five years and countless miscarriages she had, however, this is a subject that I was exposed to for as long as I can remember. The path my parents took ended with them adopting my older sister. My mom later went on to have three more girls.

So when the guest author of the NYT so forcefully slams the door on adoption, I began judging her. As one of the many commenters to this piece pointed out, pregnancy is not motherhood, raising a child is motherhood – and how you get that child isn’t what makes you a mother. How you raise the child, how you love the child, how you support the child – that is what makes you a mother – and a good one or a bad one.

The she goes on with resentment towards parents who talk too much about their children – how we should keep others’ feelings in check – for we don’t know what they’ve been through or how badly they have wanted a child.

Is this code for – hearing about your kids is boring – or is it – be sensitive because I wanted a child and never had one?

What I appreciated again from the comments to the piece were the people who said without apology – I’m going to talk about my kids, they are a part of my day – just as having a bad day at work or getting stuck in horrible traffic – are parts of the day.

And I totally agreed with this point – furthermore, sometimes parenthood makes you want to throw yourself off the roof of a building – and you can say that and still love your kids and be grateful that you were able to have children.

But again – if you have the financial means for years of infertility treatments – then you have the financial means for adoption – so don’t claim you can’t be a parent because you can’t get pregnant.  Choosing not to adopt is a totally different story – and not a decision to be judged – but by choosing not to adopt – you are choosing not to be a parent.  

So how does this fit back in to perspective? I think that’s what this is all about. Something bad or challenging or unexpected happening to one person, doesn’t then mean that the rest of us seem ungrateful or uncaring for talking about, cheering about, or complaining about the smaller things in life. I think it is naive and selfish to assume otherwise and went from empathizing with the author of the guest post to genuinely disliking her and her pity party.

Labor Lore

Should we talk about our delivery stories? Especially to preggos?

This is a question a BFF posed this week. She is expecting her second child in November and emailed in that she was miffed with some woman in her office who proceeded to ramble on and on about her own personal labor story with every excruciatingly painful detail.

This WM friend interrupted her – she just didn’t want to know, especially as she’s rounding the corner to the final weeks of her pregnancy. Part of me was thrown back to days before my own second delivery.

I had a false labor – one that was so powerful it landed me in a delivery room – only to learn it just wasn’t time. It wasn’t until that moment of sitting in the bed, dressed in the gown, with the sitz bath in all its putrid yellow glory squealing my name from the bathroom, that the reality of getting the kid out of me starting settling in. It’s terrifying in those final moments, when you really start to think about it, isn’t it?

So why do people feel compelled to share their stories with others? Especially third tri preggos?

Is it rude?

Or is it a badge of honor? A way we bond with each other? Not to mention, it is such a profoundly moving day – even if you feel like the insides of you are being split into a million pieces – it still is such a profound day that I understand the desire to speak of it later.

What is the protocol here?

I actually don’t think there is a one-size fits all approach here. I mean, we’ve unanimously agreed that it’s best to keep your mouth shut and refrain from commenting on the size of a growing preggo. We’re definitely not sure about whether it’s appropriate or presumptuous to tell a woman you think she looks great when you learn she has a newborn at home, so what about labor?

I think it’s healthy and interesting and normal to discuss it with girlfriends. I respect it when someone doesn’t share because they just might not want to relive it but for the most part, almost everyone I am good friends with has relayed details of their delivery stories with me. Everyone’s experience is so different.

But I think there is definitely a line – is it from the moment you learn someone is preggo or is it just as they’ve crossed the 30 week threshold – is it if they are a first time preggo whereas if they’ve already found their legs in the stirrups and their ass hanging off the table – we figure they can handle it?

I ask you.

Generally I presume that preggos – whether they’ve been there before or not – or whether they have 2 weeks left or 30 weeks left in their pregnancy – just being pregnant seems like enough reason to not openly discuss labor in their presence. They haven’t forgotten that they have to get that baby out some day – and either way you slice it – it’s no sunday walk in the park.

What do you think?

What’s wrong with a wife?

The NYT Modern Love column is something I look forward too every Sunday. Typically I am pacing for the paper to be delievered because that is my sad life. It’s true. I am generally fired up every Sunday when I check and check and recheck and the paper still isn’t there, only for my lazy slovenly, good for nothing NYT delivery person to toss it into my yard around 8am.

I mean really. We are like 2.5 hours into our day by then, why do I have to pace for it? Its sad really.

So, back to the column. I think Sunday’s column is the first time I’ve been not only pissed off as I read it but also confused. I needed to read it a few more times to even make sense out of what the point of it was.

The writer had me with the first sentence, I was seething, as she bragged about how she has a big job and two kids and how when other working moms comment that she must be so busy, her response was a flippant “Not really, my wife stays home.” Imagine if a man responded in such a fashion. We’d be organizing to burn and pillage his home, decrying him as the world’s biggest chauvinist and wondering why in the world he doesn’t pick up some slack around home to appreciate just how much is wife makes his successful career possible.

Yet instead, because the author is female, we are supposed to accept her obnoxious statement and appreciate that it’s a column about gay women raising children and the struggles with what to call each other.  But not me. I’m pissed off at how obnoxious she is regarding the ease with which she maintains her career because she has a wife at home. Then she goes on to berate straight women in marriages because essentially we take on too much and are power hungry and refuse to relinquish tasks to our husbands, as she so gallantly did to her wife (after implying her wife still doesn’t do it all as well as she would and flat out stating it took her 18 months to accept her wife’s way).

How noble of the author to admit that her career is successful and she is able to maintain it and manage it all because she has an organized wife at home. Isn’t the reality that most women take on the majority of these tasks – whether they work or stay home – and when they stay home, they do so because that is their job but when they work, they do so because these things help them stay connected and involved in the lives of their children in the way that they would want too, if they were home. 

But then she cuts at the heart of at the biggest point of contention among almost every woman with kids I know – the unbalanced workload between husbands and wives. While her arrogance and judgement irritated the hell out of me – she still made a legitimate point in that having a more involved husband at home means relinquishing control and letting him take charge of some duties – without berating him for doing it differently than we would.

What a conundrum I find myself in – both loathing and appreciating some of the words of this woman. And she’s right. We all want our husbands to take on more work around the house, really to just take initiative. To notice when something needs done, cleaning, fixing, purchased at the store, and just do it – without being asked or handed a list. And I do think that this behavior happens more often with positive reinforcement, like that of a child pushing boundaries – the more praise and recognition we heap on them for menial tasks, the more inclined they are to do them. I think if we critique what they do constantly or we don’t ever ask them to do it because we figure that is more work than just doing it ourselves, then we forfeit the right to complain about our husbands because we are enabling them NOT to be a true partner.

Then the author goes back to what was her original point of their identities as two women, both wives, and how to refer to each other publicly. At the onset of their relationship, they felt it was very in-your-face to people to refer to each other as wives, both because it is unexpected and the word “wife” has such negative connotations.

Now here’s something else I have a beef with. Why is this? And why are other women reinforcing this notion? Why is someone who manages the house, primarily raises the children to be upstanding and responsible members of society, and keeps food on the table and clean clothes on everyone’s bodies – why is this condescending and something we recoil over? Aren’t we way past that? Haven’t we all recognized that many women deliberately choose this path and take great pride in it, often times finding it more fulfilling than some dumb job in a cube.

I couldn’t believe this made it into the Sunday NYT.