Raspberries, Mushrooms, Garlic, Plums, Peace

farmers-marketFor ten summers, with varying frequency, I’ve been taking my daughters to the Saturday Farmers’ Market. In more ways than I could have ever expected, it has saved our sanity.

We began going to the Farmers’ Market as a way to preserve the parenting energy my husband and I needed. He and I made a pact after our second child was born: each of us would ensure the other got to sleep “late” (read: 8 am) one day a week. He slept “late” on Saturdays and I claimed Sundays. On Sunday mornings, he packed our squealing, chattering daughters quickly into the car — sometimes in their pajamas — to go to Home Depot, which was sometimes the only place open on Sundays. There, he handed them paint sample cards to carry and let them touch all the doorknobs while he mused over the varying bolts and power tools that just might be required for his next renovation project in our old townhouse.

On Saturdays, I took the girls to the Farmers’ Market. It opened at 7:30 am, and some Sundays, we parked our car in the tall parking garage overlooking the Market and watched as the farmers set up their stands. Had we stayed home, I would have been aggressively shushing them, desperately trying to give their father the sleep he’d earned yesterday in the dawn at Home Depot. Out of the house, I somehow discovered the reserves to be patient.

“Look,” I’d say. “Look at all the flowers in that truck!” Continue Reading…

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Broken, Brittle, Patched, Softening

babysammiShe was outside my body for only a few moments before someone was suctioning her throat. I was paralyzed on an operating table ten feet away and I could hear the sound of the suction tube interspersed with the sound of her newborn cries.

“Listen to her cry,” the midwife, at my side since the start of the c-section, said encouragingly. “That’s a solid cry. She’s strong.”

She was six weeks old when she had her first bronchoscopy, 13 months old when she went under general anesthesia for the first time, and fourteen months old the first time a doctor opened her body up and laid an expert hand on her tiny aorta.

She was four years old when she started having regular endoscopies. She was five years old when she started remembering the road to the hospital and asking me if today was a day she’d go to sleep there.

She was eight when, finally, they fixed what was wrong.

She was nine when the bullying started. Continue Reading…

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We Know The Things

peas

I have never identified so closely with something written by another mother as I identify with a Mother’s Day essay written last year by Ellen Seidman of LoveThatMax.com.

Entitled, “I am the person who notices we are running out of toilet paper, and I rock: A Mother’s Day tribute to moms everywhere,” this essay includes Seidman’s lists of all the practical, life-improving practical things she notices in her own home. Among things like snack food and glitter and glass-cleaner are also the things like “shoes that fit” and recent family photos and storage for the growing collection of tiny toys from birthday party giveaways. Ellen, like most mothers, also notices uncharged electronics and plugs them in, and she realizes the vegetables in the fridge need to be used before they spoil, and she remembers to procure a gift for the next graduation party her family will attend.

In short, Ellen is a parent.

For most but not all of my female friends with children, Ellen represents in her blog post the inner workings of their minds at all times. Without question, many dads I know have a similar inner monologue, and Ellen notes in her blog that her husband has his own list going. In my house, actually, my husband notices the dwindling toilet paper supply long before I do, but I’m more likely to notice the absence of roasted seaweed, clementines, and red delicious apples before he does. Still, I definitely hold more of the practical, hands-on requirements of child-rearing in my head than he does.

In response, my husband has done a remarkable job thinking ten years ahead of me. When our daughters were born, he set up college savings accounts. He remembers to fund them, too. He handles detailed paperwork like school and religious school registration, health care savings accounts, vehicle research for our current one-car-every-decade-and-a-half car purchasing plan, mortgages, and managing things like making sure the roof isn’t falling in and, if it is, selecting a good roofing company with a good reputation.

And I buy the frozen peas.

Because of this division of labor, when I am forced to consider anything further than a few months away (“does she need new sandals for this summer?”), I find myself out of shape and ill-equipped for the task. I have a talent for dealing with this very moment, and that talent has been honed more than I’d care to have honed it in operating rooms and hospital bedsides over the last dozen years. I know how to throw resources into this very moment far better than how to plan for a moment in the distance. However, as health care plans for this country show a clear path toward ruin for my children, I was forced to get out of this moment and think about what might come next. Continue Reading…

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Tell It Again

It is 2005, and my newborn daughter’s breathing is wet, gurgling, raspy and fast. It gets worse every time I feed her, and when I consult my dusty copy of Dr. Spock to see what he says on the topic of infant breathing, it tells me that she is taking far too many breaths per minute.

I take her to the doctor, who waves me off. “Rapid breathing of the newborn,” he says. “She’s fine.”

It gets worse and worse and finally, we make an appointment with a specialist. Terrified that the specialist will send me back home, where I have to turn my tv louder to hear it if my six pound month-old baby is breathing in the same room, I wrack my sleep-addled brain for a way to convince any doctor that Something Is Not Right With This Baby.

And then I find USAmma.

On the parenting forums at Mothering.com, USAmma is posting regularly about her baby daughter who suffered from terrible reflux. Though she is active on several forums there, most often I see her answering questions about GERD (gastro esophageal reflux disease). If any parent mentions reflux, inevitably, USAmma responds. At one point, she shares links to a series of videos she and her husband had made of their daughter exhibiting behaviors consistent with severe reflux.

It is my light bulb moment. I take the tape recorder I usually keep in my violin case — to record fiddle tunes from local fiddlers — and set it next to me on the couch. I turn off the TV. I record my baby breathing, then nursing, and then breathing after nursing.

When I play the recording for the specialist, his eyes widen. He rewinds, listens again. Then he gives her a diagnosis. As I leave, he thanks me for making the recording.

“That was very smart,” he tells me. “Great idea.”

I write to USAmma, and thank her.


It is mid-2006, and I am going out of my mind with the tedium of at-home motherhood.

I hear about a new blog network called Zaadz. A friend from my old life, someone who’d championed my work and enjoyed even my boring technical writing, tells me to start a blog about playing the fiddle and writing a book. “Call it ‘Fiddle and Quill,'” she suggests.

I call it “Here we go,” instead, and start writing about what’s happening. I tell the story of my sick little baby’s birth — a series I call “Woah Baby” — and out of no where, a mother from Alaska contacts me to say that her son, born a week after my daughter, has the same diagnosis.

We chat online every day. Her son vomits; my daughter wheezes. She lives in the country; I live on an alley in the city. Alone in my kitchen with a baby constantly attached to me and orders not to take her out among people and germs, I see my friend in Alaska as a lifeline. Without her, I would be heartbreakingly lonely. In the process of comparing medical notes, we become fast friends.

I keep writing our story. She keeps reading.


It is 2014, and my baby is eight years old.

I join a committee at our local synagogue and find myself the youngest person in the room by more than a decade. Everyone else has raised their children. I am intimidated, wondering if I have enough in common with this group to forge relationships. I needn’t have worried; the committee is full of good souls with open minds, and we work together well.

Several months into the work, I learn that my daughter will need cardiac surgery — her second operation, and more complex. Distracted and flustered, I walk into our monthly meeting and share the news. I expect nods, side-hugs, and perhaps offers of ambiguous help. Instead, one committee member looks across the table with faint tears in her eyes and says:

“Did you know my son was in that cardiac ward for over a month a few years ago?”

I hadn’t known. She tells me about the virus that attacked his heart, the weeks she spent in the hospital with him, and the recovery he made thanks to the very same surgeon who would soon be operating on my daughter. She talks about her current volunteer work on that same ward, the wonderful nurses and the dedicated volunteers who will surely make our stay as easy as they can.

As the weeks go on, she checks in with me. Before the surgery, she sends me an email, and after it’s over, when I email the large group of well-wishers with the good news that it was a success, she is one of the first to respond.

“So glad to hear! Obviously, still a ways to go, but sounds overall like good news. Phew!”

Years later, she admits to me that she worries about how much she shares the story of her son’s illness and how it affected her. When she says that, my own heart sinks a little. I, too, worry that I talk and write about my daughter’s illness too often. Then, I think of the stories above — how someone’s willingness to share their experiences had a direct and positive impact on exactly the person who needs that information most.

Where would I be without USAmma?

Where would I be without my friend from Alaska?

Where would I be without my fellow committee member?

Begging for the recognition of a problem. All alone in the world. Terrified without a soul who understood me. 

I’m going to keep talking and writing. I hope others do the same.

 

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Across the Border

fromthebackI’ve been thinking about resolution and falling action, lately.

In any compelling story, there is a natural building of intensity that leads, as we all know, to a climax. A couple searches for each other, meets, falls in love, and commits or separates, and they’re left different, marked by their experiences. Or: a world is beset by confrontation and battle, factions emerge, one side is victorious or decimated, and a new world is born. Or: a child is born to a yearning mother, grows sick, struggles, stumbles, regains her footing, and is cured, revealing mother and child older, changed, and almost unrecognizable.

That’s the resolution. What happens next? What is in the falling action of my story, the third story, the one with a once-sick now-well daughter, and a once-frightened now-what mother?

My daughter is eleven now, almost three years past her final surgery, two-and-a-half years past the time she first began eating well, two years past her dismissal from all her specialists, two years past the first major gains in height and weight she’d had since her babyhood. I haven’t had reason — real reason, justifiable reason — to worry about her health in the last two school years.

It has been, in many ways, like becoming a mother all over again. Continue Reading…

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