When I went to Yahoo!’s home page a few weeks ago, something startled me. It was a picture of astronaut Lisa Nowak next to a bizarre headline about her attempting to kidnap the rival for her love.

I almost jumped out of my chair. I know Lisa! I went to high school with her in Rockville, Maryland. We ran on the track team together. I remember her as smart, ambitious, and very competitive. In her senior year, Lisa won the prestigious student-athlete award and told us that all she wanted to do was fly.

Her dreams came true this past summer when she flew on the space shuttle. I watched her on TV and cheered her on. I hadn’t been in contact with her since high school, but I was proud of her. Look at what she’s accomplished! Particularly as a woman, and especially as a mom!
I could only imagine how incredibly hard it must have been for her to win that principal dream. So it was with utter shock that I followed the news of her drive across half the country to confront/attack someone in the manner that she did (in wig and trench coat, wearing diapers for the long drive, with pepper spray at the ready).

I thought, how could she have thrown away all that she worked so hard for with this one foolish act? How could she have allowed her emotions to overwhelm her reason?

Many theories were bandied about. None of us can say for sure what happened, but personally, I think she cracked, under tremendous pressure. And I’m deeply sad for her.
Being a modern day mom is a tough job. Just being responsible for other human beings is pressure. Raising them, more stress. Maintaining stability and love in your family, additional worries. Working full-time while meeting hundreds of obligations, incredible anxiety. Having a high-visibility career in a traditionally male industry, explosive demands.

Sometimes we moms are so busy we forget: We need to give ourselves breaks, take care of ourselves and each other. Release the pressure. Because we know what’s most important in the end, and it’s not having the moon and the stars, per se. It’s being able to share them with those we love.

By Cindy Bailey

Labels: Cindy Bailey, Lisa Nowak, Maryland, Rockville, shape shuttle

Stumble This Post

A couple of months ago I got a call from my son Julien’s preschool requesting a meeting with both parents. We figured it was about his speech delay, which we weren’t yet worried about, given that he was learning two languages at home.

When we met with the director and our son’s teacher, they handed us a list of seven behaviors they felt were unusual. Three of them had to do with speaking, as far as we could judge, two of them had to do with zoning out and distractibility, to summarize. One had to do with motor coordination and the last, with drooling.

All of these items might be normal in a much younger child, they said, but Julien was three. These items had nothing to do with his cognitive abilities or intelligence, they assured us, and they agreed that he is an intensely social, affectionate, empathetic child. 

But these items gave them great concern. They asked us to observe him at home for two weeks and report back.

My husband and I were still not worried. During the observation period, he only did one of the items with any consistency (repeating a question three or four times), which we took as normal. The motor coordination issue we chalked up to the fact that his legs are rotated slightly inward on his hips, which we were assured he’d outgrow by age seven.

But his preschool insisted there was a problem. Apparently, the behaviors were happening a lot at school, especially toward noon when there were more kids present, and they wanted him to be observed by a psychologist.

Now we were worried.

I checked in with his pediatrician first. She had me come in, held out the list, and said, “I was very surprised, because these items are indicative of mild autism, and your child didn’t strike me as autistic.”

My heart leapt. “What?! But my child is extremely social.”

“Well, there’s a whole spectrum,” she told me. She then spent forty-five minutes asking Julien questions, having him do things, watching him play. Finally, she shook her head and said to me, “You have nothing to worry about. He is not autistic.”

I exhaled relief.

Later that day, I relayed this experience to the person who was arranging a psychologist to observe him at school. She said, “I work with autistic kids all day; that’s all I do, and you have no idea how many calls we get from preschool teachers worried that one of their kids is autistic, and it turns out, they’re not.”

I found this interesting. Do we have such heightened awareness of autism now, that we so easily label certain behaviors as such?

I appreciate my son’s school is over-vigilant rather than under, however a mother has enough to worry about without getting such a freaked-out scare.

By Cindy Bailey

 

Labels: autistic, Cindy Bailey, cognitive abilities, drooling, kids' intelligence, pediatrician, speech delay, wrong diagnosis

Stumble This Post

Late last night, I got into a domestic dispute with the Diaper Genie, and the result wasn’t pretty.

Labels: Cindy Bailey, Diaper Genie, mommy warrior, soccer balls, trash

Stumble This Post

I’ve been working a lot lately and I’m not seeing my son enough. That bugs me. He’s only three. How can he be spending more time at preschool than at home? What kind of mother am I?

This is not the first time I question my work/family balance. Even when I’ve got the balance right, there are still days it gets thrown off, either because I’ve added to my work schedule (less time for family), our son is home sick unexpectedly (less time for work), or I just feel the need to spend more time with our son (no change in time, just want more of it).

Lately, I’ve added to my work schedule, so our son no longer stays home with me one full day a week. Instead, he’s in preschool full-time. Ack, I feel guilty just writing this—even though I know he’s happy there, loves it, and it’s a great place for him.  It’s not him I’m worried about, really; it’s me.

Will I have regret, I wonder, when he’s eight or nine and wants to spend all his free time with his friends instead? Will I think: I should have spent more time with him when he was three and wanted only to be with his parents?

Time does not run backwards, I know. Once it’s gone, it’s gone.

The extra work I’m doing now is intended to help our family out in the future when I can then hopefully spend more time with our son. The situation is temporary. The trouble with living for the future, though, is this: you’re not living right now, which is where life happens, where memories get created.

So it comes back to balance again. I have to ask myself what will be more painful: cutting out some work and postponing important goals a little longer, or continuing to feel like I’m not seeing my son enough?

I resolve to pick my son up early from school at least one day a week so that we can play, regardless of my work crunch. Because those are the kind of memories (of my son and family) I want plastered all over my mind.

By Cindy Bailey

Labels: Cindy Bailey, full-time working mom, guilty mother, money, preschool, stay-at-home mother

Stumble This Post

In the many years I’ve been struggling to get pregnant (and I succeeded once), I’ve never taken a pregnancy test in hopes that it would be negative.

But that’s what I did last week.

A couple of months earlier I took another pregnancy test. I took that one because I was about to begin a medication for a sports injury and the pharmacist warned that you can’t take it if you’re pregnant. 

I laughed and said, “OK.”

I had been trying for a second child for two and a half years, and after expensive acupuncture treatments and one failed IVF, I gave up. I had exhausted my emotional stamina. It’s not going to happen, I told myself. I’m too old. I’ll have to find some other path to a second child.

So I took the medication.  But then I paused.  Just because I had given up didn’t mean my husband and I had stopped having sex.  And wasn’t my period due around now? 

Just to be responsible, I took the test, treating it like a routine, as  if I were about to brush my teeth.

I was SHOCKED to see the double pink lines. My hands shook when I called my husband to tell him that after all this time we were actually, really pregnant.

That was early October. On Halloween I went in for an ultrasound and it was discovered that the embryo had apparently deceased. 

“No heartbeat.  We’re sorry.”

I felt my trepid hope deflate out of me.

I went to a restaurant and had a long, slow glass of wine. I thought of all the things I did that might have caused this, but most likely nothing I did caused this.  For two days, I embraced the loss, crying and feeling numb, and then I let it go.

At ten weeks I started to miscarry. Although the bleeding has stopped, the double lines on the pregnancy test last week tell me I’m still pregnant, and so it will be a while longer before my body is clear again for another fresh start.

And I believe in a fresh start, despite my just turning 44. My doctor expressed confidence that it could happen again, and there is something to be said, too, about giving up, letting go, and releasing yourself from the pressure.

But I’m wary of hope.

So here’s what I’m thinking: I am not giving up and I am not hoping. I am just going to try to live my life as fully as I can with what I have in the moment.

By Cindy Bailey

Labels: # 2, baby, Cindy Bailey, miscarriage, pregnancy, pregnancy tests

Stumble This Post

I just dropped my sixteen-month-old off at daycare for the first time ever, and it was tricky. Before today, he’s only had one-on-one care, and I’ve only worked part-time from home. I did this so I could sneak peeks at our son, watch him develop, and take pleasure in the joys of his being.

The week before, weird emotions surfaced. Was this my own separation anxiety? Guilt over planning to spend less time with my child instead of more? Am I thrusting him into an environment he’s not prepared to deal with?

But I knew he was ready, and I needed to take this step. I would still keep him home on Thursdays, I rationalized. I would still see him grow and change. He needs to socialize now, and
I need to work a little more -- we both need to grow.

I admitted my emotions to another mom. She said, “After you drop him off at daycare that first day and get back in your car, just go ahead and let yourself cry. It’s okay.”

That day came this morning. I dropped my son off, explaining all his little quirks to the new caregiver. I watched him play with the new toys and get scooped up by the new caregiver, who showed him around and played with him. I heard him laugh. I knew he would be fine. After a half-hour, I kissed him good-bye and left. I heard him cry, but kept walking. On the way home, I stopped off for a coffee and a scone. Quiet time was mine again.

I entered my house, went into my office and turned on my computer. The house was quiet, empty. I would get a lot done now, without the distraction of my son’s squeals of joy or cries of discomfort. I stepped into the kitchen for a snack and found our au pair there, this being her last week.

She asked how our son is. He’s okay, I told her. She asked how I am. Fine, I said. Really fine. In that moment, I started to ball, tears flooding out from I don’t know where.

Obviously, our hearts know something that our minds do not. The bond with our children runs that deep.

By Cindy Bailey

Labels: babies, children, Cindy Bailey, daycare, mothers

Stumble This Post

My almost three-year old didn’t want to go to school this Monday morning.  He had too much fun over the weekend with Mom, Dad and Grandma, and he just wanted to stay home and do all those fun things again.

“I want pancakes!” he said to my face in the dark while I slept, or tried to.

“We can do that,” I told him, pulling myself out of bed.

While he ate the pancakes I reminded him he had to get dressed for school.

“I want to stay home,” he declared.

“Not today, Munchkin,” and I explained why he had to go to school.

“I want to go see Grandma,” he said. 

“Grandma went home.”

He thought for a moment.  “I want to get coffee with Mommy.”

“You have to go to school, Julien. No coffee stop today.”

“Nounourse want coffee,” he said, holding up his stuffed polar bear (“nounourse” is French for teddy bear).

“Nounourse is too young for coffee, as are you.  You have to go to school today.”

“I want to stay home with Mommy,” he repeated.

“I know.  Maybe on Thursday or Friday, but not today.”

Sometimes, he doesn’t want to go to school, and sometimes I don’t want him to go.  He’s cute, he’s fun, together we play and laugh and cuddle, he gives plenty of hugs and kisses, and I love him ferociously.  Plus, now that he’s almost three, there’s a whole world of fun activities to do.  Why wouldn’t I want to spend my days frolicking with my young son?

The alternative is to face the dull glare of my computer screen alone in my home office, hustling in my independent consulting practice to earn some bucks, trying to create and finish projects I dream up in my head, struggling to make some mark in the world for my self, my family, and most especially, my son.

Sometimes the pressure is too much.  I’d really much rather go play with my son.

But…

But.  For me to feel whole, I need to work.  That’s part of who I am and I know it.  I need to strive toward goals, work toward accomplishment.  By doing so, I feel engaged and fulfilled, and as a result, I’ve found, I’m a much better mommy.  When I’m with my son, I’m really with him, engaged and relishing every moment. 

If I want more time with him, or sense he needs more time with me, then we play hooky from work and school.  Balancing between work and family is not easy; there’s often tension, and I find myself fine-tuning that balance all the time.  But that’s just part of motherhood, and I wouldn’t give up motherhood for all the accolades in the world.

By Cindy Bailey

Labels: Cindy Bailey

Stumble This Post

We potty trained our son early, when he was twenty-two months old, and he took to it very well.  Within a week he was peeing in his little Bjorn potty, and three weeks later, doing his other business in there too. It took a little longer for him to feel comfortable peeing in bathrooms outside our house.  What we did is take along a portable version of the Bjorn potty, which we would throw in a bulky backpack.  Not only was it something familiar in an unfamiliar environment, which eased our son’s stage fright, but we had something we could whip out any time, any place, when there was no bathroom in sight.

But then, Dad got tired of carrying that backpack around and instead started holding our son suspended over regular toilets. When one of those weren’t handy, he started teaching our son to pee standing up next to the closest bush or tree.

I was thrilled because in fairly secluded areas outdoors, I could just walk our two-and-a half-year old son to a tree, pull his pants down, hold up his penis for him, and voila, the business was done, simple as that.

My son liked this too.  He was enthralled.  So much so that he’s started trying to do it on his own, whenever he feels the urge.  This morning in Golden Gate Park, for example, we were walking back to our car when he stopped in the middle of the road, pulled his pants down, and just stared at his penis waiting for action, his arms at his side.  I had just enough time to whisk him to the side of the road and lift his penis. 

He whined, “No, Mama, no, Mama,” wanting to do it himself.

I certainly don’t mind, and in fact encourage, this bold new step in his learning and independence.  But how do you teach a toddler that unlike the portable potty, his penis is not something he can whip out any place, any time?  How do I teach him to do it properly?

Of course, there’s nothing to do but nudge him in the right direction and patiently wait for him to learn.  In the meantime, I hope the public doesn’t mind, if, for example, they find a cute, little boy peeing on their lawn.

By Cindy Bailey

Labels: Cindy Bailey

Stumble This Post

I remember the moment I realized my son was no longer a baby.

I was watching him pull himself up on the couch and attempt to walk its length. He made noises as if he could talk, and when he got to the end of the couch he grabbed the toy he was after and stuffed it into his mouth.

I howled, “Great job, Julien! Way to go.”

Then I looked at him, standing on his little legs, all stretched out. He was nine months old. I thought, “He’s not a baby any more. He’s on his way to toddlerhood.”

Something in me felt sad.

This happened again, recently. At two and a half years old, our son must have had a growth spurt. Suddenly, his one-piece pajamas don’t quite fit him anymore. His body reaches almost to the full length of his crib, much of the baby fat on his face is gone, and he’s become taller and more slender. I watched him pretending to cook with pots and pans and realized, “Oh, my God. He’s not a toddler any more! He’s a kid.”

Again, something in me felt sad.

Three months ago he was sucking on his pooh bear. Today, he’s trying to feed it, put it to bed, and set it on the potty. A few months ago he whined for what he wanted. Now he says, “Please, Mama,” and “Please, Papa.” He knows how to operate the TV control, drink from a cup, and pull his pants down to sit on the potty. Watching his progress and seeing his personality deepen has been exciting. My husband and I are filled with exhilaration and joy.

As he reaches a new milestone, he leaves an old one behind.

I am sad for the loss of the old.

Every moment now is cherished; knowing that each moment counts. I snuggle him close to my heart, feel the warmth of his soft skin and bathe in that, just as I used to bathe in the scent of his hair as a baby.

I remind myself, “I am lucky to have this. Life is really, really good.”

By Cindy Bailey

Labels: Cindy Bailey

Stumble This Post

I don’t know what got into me. I’m not someone who normally shouts at people in public.

But that’s what I did one Saturday a few weeks ago.

I was taking my son out for a walk in my family friendly neighborhood and decided to get him a cookie at our local café.

When we entered, my son immediately ran to one of two available tables, climbing up on the bench and putting his face to the window. My eyes swept the area: friendly faces, kids running around, and an unattended cup of orange juice at the table next to us. My subconscious deemed the environment safe.

I told my son to stay there, I’m going to the cash register (I pointed at it), and I’ll be right back. Now, I know a two-year-old is not inclined to “stay there,” but the register was four strides away and my eyes would be on him the whole time.

I watched him as I walked to the register and ordered. “Stay there, honey. Mom is getting you a cookie,” I said repeatedly. He was licking the window.

I turned to pay for the cookie. In those seconds, I heard a woman shout, “No!!!!!!”

Flipping back, I saw that my son had climbed off the bench and was reaching toward a cup of coffee that now appeared next to the orange juice.

“Julien!” I shouted. “Go sit down.”

I had to say this twice, but, reluctantly, he obeyed.

I took the cookie and settled down next to him, cuddling and playing.

The owner of the coffee sat down at her table and watched us. Then she spoke.

“You know, he almost got my coffee.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I said.

“No, no. I’m not worried about me; I was worried about him.”

“You know, I didn’t see the coffee there.”

“Uh-huh. Well, I’m a nurse and you know what the number one reason children come into the emergency room with?”

“Burns?” I tried, shamefully.

“Well, accidents. You shouldn’t leave your son near coffee like that.”

Functioning on little sleep, under all kinds of pressure, with my husband out of town, my son sick and refusing his naps, and my back wacked out again, the full strain of motherhood was upon me.

Suddenly, I had an edge in my voice.

“Look, I didn’t see the coffee, OK? Just the orange juice.”

“Well, you shouldn’t leave your child there…”

I snapped.

“I’m not perfect you know!” I shouted on the verge of tears.

“I didn’t say you were. I was just…”

“Being a mom is hard work,” I said, annunciating each word. Heads lifted and turned. I didn’t care.

“I, I, I was just alarmed, that’s all,” she said, and then lifted her newspaper to her face.

I went back to playing with my son, shaken but defiant. There it was. Me defending my motherhood -- flaws and all.

By Cindy Bailey

Labels: Cindy Bailey

Stumble This Post

I want to scream!

My husband and I went back East with our two-year-old for the New Year holiday. We returned refreshed, inspired and motivated. This would be the year we break from our routine and create more time for family and travel!

Yet, here we are at the end of January and neither of us had done anything toward our goals.

Two weeks earlier, in the twenty minutes we had before our son would wake from his nap, we whipped up a plan and gave each other assignments.

“Great,” my husband said, as our son started to cry. “When do we want to meet next?”

My mind Rolodexed through the days and weeks ahead, and my jaw sort of dropped. There wasn’t any reliable time for us to “meet.” Our son’s weekend nap time was not reliable.

It dawned on me then that if we couldn’t find time to sit and talk (when we weren’t both dead tired), then how were we going to find the additional time we needed to actually do our plan, and change our lives?

Our lives were already so full. We had commutes to and from daycare and work, physical therapy, phone calls, e-mails, clients, doctor’s appointments, house work, groceries, bath time, dinners, and on and on.

What comes to mind is a saying from Einstein: “Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again while expecting different results.”

I felt like we were in a Catch-22: in order to break from our routine, we first had to break from our routine.

I understand why some people choose not to push their boundaries or create dramatic change. It’s like salmon swimming upstream: it requires tremendous energy, focus and work to go against the natural flow of our lives.

But my husband and I are determined.

In the end, we decided to meet at five a.m. one morning a week, and otherwise find time wherever we could. We anticipate that we’ll have to let some things go (like dishes, or sleep), and I’ll have to accept that things will probably take longer than expected -- which, as a mom, I should already know!

But all is good, as long as we keep swimming.

By Cindy Bailey

Labels: Cindy Bailey

Stumble This Post

Christmas is coming. My son is two, so I’m not worried.

Yet.

What about when he’s four or five? We are not big on showering gifts, and I worry that he’ll feel deprived or cheated if he doesn’t get as many as his friends. Is it possible in our culture of abundance to raise a child to be above that?

These thoughts first came a couple of years ago when my son was three weeks old. A friend invited us to her family’s house for Christmas. There were aunts, uncles, cousins, brothers, sisters, nieces, nephews, a grandmother—a fully loaded house.

In the spacious living room stood a tree eight-feet high, and all around it presents were stacked to the ceiling. I had never seen so many gifts under, or next to, one tree. You could hardly see the tree.

When it was time to open gifts, the six or eight kids positioned themselves around the living room and sat.

At first, one child retrieved a gift for another, and once that gift was opened, another was retrieved. By the fourth gift, all the kids were opening all the presents all at once, tearing through one as fast as they could to get to the next.

There was barely enough time to recognize a gift, say “cool,” and shout out the crucial information to the note taker (who would later send thank-you cards) before ripping into the next gift.

Sometimes, a child paused for a few seconds to play with a gift before moving on to the next. It was madness, with the living room a stew of wrapping paper, kids and half-buried toys.

Watching from above on the staircase, it all seemed too much. I wondered if the kids were truly appreciating what they were getting, or even, what they already had.

The kids were having a ball, though. And I know them. They’re wholesome kids with great values. So why not let them celebrate in this way? Why not give a lot and get a lot?

Nevertheless, my husband and I knew instinctively that we don’t want this for our child. We hope our son develops the kind of values that make him appreciate the people and experiences in his life far more than a huge stack of material gifts around a tree.

But perhaps I’m being too idealistic. To expect that of him. Or of us.

By Cindy Bailey

Labels: Cindy Bailey

Stumble This Post

As mentioned in a previous blog, my back went out recently. Wham! Just like that, and afterward, I could barely move.

One of the questions I asked myself is, “How could I have let myself get so out of shape that now I couldn’t even take care of my own child?”

Well, there’s a reason, and it’s stupid, in hindsight.

I had never been truly out of shape my entire life, even when plagued with debilitating sports injuries, of which I’ve had many. If I couldn’t run or bike, I’d swim. If I couldn’t use my legs, I’d get in a pool and flap my arms.

Then about three years ago I was trying to get pregnant and couldn’t, “advanced maternal age” being the likely reason. As is my nature, I refused to buy into statistics and put myself on my own natural, self-healing, fertility program.

Every day, I ate organic, meditated, practiced yoga, quit caffeine, and took other strict measures. I also stopped exercising and lifting weights. Books said I shouldn’t get my heart rate over 110 beats per minute, in case I might be one of those whose hormones are adversely affected by it. That’s too slow to call exercise for me, so I stopped completely.

Four months later, my body soft in a way it had never been before, I conceived my son.
After his birth, I started rollerblading again, but I kept it really slow, never breaking a sweat. I figured, if I wanted to attempt to beat the odds again with a second child, why bother getting myself back in shape?

So I let it slide.

Well, that was a mistake! As every mother knows motherhood is a demanding physical sport. With all the bending, twisting, lifting, and carrying involved, you need to be in shape for it!

It suddenly made no sense to me to stop exercising as a way to help one get pregnant. Exercise carries oxygen through your blood to your muscles, it heals the body and the mind. It greatly alleviates one of the worst enemies of unexplained infertility: stress. Plus, carrying a baby for nine months is an athletic event that one should be prepared for.

I need to trust my body and the way my hormones work more than that. So when this back heals, I’m getting in shape.

The sport of motherhood demands it!

By Cindy Bailey

Labels: Cindy Bailey

Stumble This Post

Twisting my body to lift my son, I strained my back. Bam! It went out, just like that. Afterward, I could barely move without excruciating pain.

I thought, “How am I going to care for my toddler?” Just the thought of putting my son in his car seat or even lifting his legs to change his diaper made me cringe.

Luckily, my husband is Superdad, and he swooped in to the rescue. Superdad is not a mythical comic book figure, but a real superhero that lives in our home. He heard there was trouble in the family, so he raced home from work early to help. No matter that his work was in crisis and he was under tremendous pressure. His family comes first.

Once home, Superdad scooped up our son and commanded that I do absolutely nothing. When I picked up a brush to clean our son’s bottles, he snatched it away. “I mean nothing!” he said, pointing at the couch, where he commanded I sit.

Then, in one swift move, Superdad washed the dishes, cleaned the baby bottles, took out the garbage, fed our son, changed his diaper, cooked an amazing chicken-vegetable curry, played with our son, gave him his bath, put on his PJ’s, read him a story, and put him to bed.

After the dust settled at his feet, Superdad entered the living room where I was sitting like a guilty lump on the couch. With a twist of his wrist, he handed me Tylenol, and then lectured me about the importance of taking it easy. He then slipped onto the computer to solve a problem I complained about, and after that, he finally had his dinner. It was 10 p.m.

This is typical Superdad.

But even when his family is not in crisis, Superdad is there. He cooks fantastic meals, grocery shops, makes repairs around the house. He often gives our son his bath and puts him to bed. If our son wakes in the middle of the night, Superdad is usually the one who puts him back to sleep. (I offer, but he says he likes to do it.)

Superdad also comes home from work early if I need him, plays with our son for hours, and brings me flowers unexpectedly.

He loves his family and protects them from all evil on the planet. Can any mother think of a better superhero to have in this modern world?

By Cindy Bailey

Labels: Cindy Bailey

Stumble This Post

Recently, I attended a potty training class that was advertised as getting toddlers between the ages of fifteen and twenty eight months potty trained in one long weekend.

My toddler is nineteen-months old and doesn’t speak yet. He doesn’t point to a toilet or his diaper when he has to go. He has his own potty, but mostly he uses it to store toys. He does, however, strongly dislike having his diaper changed, and according to leaders of the potty training class, that’s one of the signs.

When I told friends about my intent to potty train, I was surprised by the wall of opposition I got. They said: “He’s way too young.” “He’ll tell you when he’s ready.” “He has to be able to talk first, so he can communicate his needs.” “When they’re ready, they practically train themselves.”

Even my daycare provider shook her head and said flatly, “He’s too young.”

In the class, I learned some interesting statistics that supported my intent. “Eighty-five percent of all twenty three-month olds in the U.S. were out of diapers in 1957 and 1971. Today, the average U.S. age of getting out of diapers is thirty nine months.”

The difference is huge.

The teacher, Julie Fallom, a long-time daycare provider and preschool teacher, also said that it was harder to train three-year olds and that those toddlers who learned before twenty seven months had less day-time accidents.

This is not surprising to me. In developing countries, kids are out of diapers long before three, if they’re in them at all. My mother reminded me that in her generation, kids were out of diapers by two. What happened between then and now?

Disposable diapers, which are convenient.

The downside is that they’re loading up our landfills. According to Fallom, “In two years of wearing disposable diapers, one child will produce nearly four tons of solid waste in the landfill, and an additional half ton is produced between ages two and three.”

This is what’s driving Fallom’s mission, which is to get as many of the 4,000 toddlers in San Francisco as possible out of diapers by twenty eight months. She hopes to start a revolution.

I’m on board.

After all, if you can train a dog to poop in a certain place, then why can’t you train your toddler to pee in a potty?

In other words, why not now?

By Cindy Bailey

Labels: Cindy Bailey

Stumble This Post

We spent Fourth of July the way most families do: at a BBQ with friends at their backyard pool, soaking up the sun and each other’s company. It was wonderful.

Nevertheless, in the week leading up to the event, I was overrun with terror.It would be the first time we would be spending time by a pool since our 19-month-old son, Julien, learned to walk, so, naturally, the gruesome, worst-case-scenario visions started: Julien is running along the pool’s edge and I’m chasing and shouting at him to stop. He looks back at me giggling and goes over the edge and into the deep end. I vault to grab his arm, but he slips under. Seconds pass and I’m finally able to snatch him by his T-shirt and pull him out. He chokes, coughing up water, but is OK. I am not.

I know. Horrible. Sick.

Sadly, this was not the first time. Ever since Julien was born I’ve been involuntarily projecting life-or-death scenarios over otherwise innocuous events. Walking the baby in his stroller in hilly San Francisco instantly conjured an image of my tripping and accidentally letting go, and the stroller speedily racing down the steep hill, right through an intersection.

I thought, ‘I’m a freak. A morbid mommy.’ I came to learn that I was not alone. A few moms have confessed to having gruesome visions themselves. While reading The Mommy Brain by Katherine Ellison, I bumped into a casual remark about the crazy, twisted thoughts moms have over what might happen to their children. And, like me, these were not overprotective moms. I thought, ’This must be another phenomenon that comes with mommyhood, like worry and guilt.’

I believe these visions serve an important purpose: they make us hyper-vigilant about protecting our children, while training our motherhood reflexes in the process. Those ugly images of a bath tub drowning kept me glued to my son whenever he took a soak. On walks, I gripped the stroller’s handles as if I were hanging from them.

Babies and toddlers can’t save their own lives, so as mothers we are forced to overcompensate for them.

Now that Julien is a little older and less fragile, and my mommy reflexes are better honed, I rarely get these visions. But new situations will present themselves. When they do, I just have to brace myself for yet another training session in motherhood. I’m certain there are even more yet to come.

By Cindy Bailey

Labels: Cindy Bailey

Stumble This Post

While in Switzerland a couple of weeks ago, visiting my husband’s family, I called my friend Hanne, who had just moved there from San Francisco.

I was hoping I could visit, but I knew the timing wasn’t right: she was expecting her second baby any day.

When we spoke she reminded me of this, and said that also her first, Lucas, who is 20 months old and extremely active, had fallen down and wasn’t walking properly, so they were taking him in for an MRI.

No chance for a visit, but I called her back later to check in. “Is Lucas all right?” I asked, thinking the fall couldn’t have been that bad. “No he’s not,” she said. “It’s extremely rare, but he has a large tumor in his spine and that’s why he’s not walking right.” I was in shock.

She explained the tumor had to be removed immediately and there was the risk Lucas might be paralyzed afterward, unable to walk again. I glanced at my own son, who is 18 months old and was standing on a coffee table ringing a mini cow bell with his whole body. I thought again, Lucas is not even 2 years old! I warned Hanne, though, against jumping to the worst case scenario. There are so many possibilities in between.

On May 21, Lucas underwent surgery, and the outcome was the best they could hope for. Doctors were able to remove 95% of the tumor, the rest being too difficult to get without causing permanent damage. Nevertheless, there was some damage and Lucas will have to learn to walk again. They’re now awaiting biopsy results, which will tell them if Lucas will receive chemotherapy or radiation to remove what remains.

The day after her son’s surgery, on May 22, Hanne delivered her baby girl. When I called again she joked, “At last I can buy pink things!” and for her son, she sounded strong and optimistic. “I have to be,” she explained. “If I’m not strong, how can I expect him to be?”

I was impressed with the grace with which she was handling her situation.

“Kiss your boys on the head tonight and thank God they’re healthy,” she said.

That I did.

By Cindy Bailey

Labels: Cindy Bailey

Stumble This Post

While in Switzerland a couple of weeks ago, visiting my husband’s family, I called my friend Hanne, who had just moved there from San Francisco.

I was hoping I could visit, but I knew the timing wasn’t right: she was expecting her second baby any day.

When we spoke she reminded me of this, and said that also her first, Lucas, who is 20 months old and extremely active, had fallen down and wasn’t walking properly, so they were taking him in for an MRI.

No chance for a visit, but I called her back later to check in. “Is Lucas all right?” I asked, thinking the fall couldn’t have been that bad. “No he’s not,” she said. “It’s extremely rare, but he has a large tumor in his spine and that’s why he’s not walking right.”

I was in shock. I thought, 'he’s not even 2 years old!'

She explained the tumor had to be removed immediately and there was the risk Lucas might be paralyzed afterward, unable to walk ever again. I glanced at my own son, who is 18 months old and was standing on a coffee table ringing a mini cow bell with his whole body. I warned Hanne against jumping to the worst case scenario. There are so many possibilities in between.

On May 21, Lucas underwent surgery, and the outcome was the best they could hope for. Doctors were able to remove 95% of the tumor, the rest being too difficult to get without causing permanent damage. Nevertheless, there was some damage and Lucas will have to learn to walk again. They’re now awaiting biopsy results, which tells them if Lucas will be receiving chemotherapy or radiation to remove what remains.

The day after her son’s surgery, on May 22, Hanne delivered her baby girl. When I called again she joked, “At last I can buy pink things!” and for her son, she sounded strong and optimistic. “I have to be,” she explained. “If I’m not strong, how can I expect him to be?”

I was impressed with the grace with which she was handling her situation.

“Kiss your boys on the head tonight and thank God they’re healthy.”

That I did.

By Cindy Bailey

Labels: Cindy Bailey

Stumble This Post