Practice Mom

tween
Every morning when I wake up, I lie in bed and listen to the radio for a few minutes. I am a morning layabout, suddenly, even if it’s just for long enough to hear the news snippets and the day’s weather. Below me, I hear the muffled sounds of my two daughters getting ready for their day. They’ve been up longer than I have.

This year’s mornings, I find I am no longer a lunch-maker, a breakfast-nagger, a pill-preparer, or even a walk-you-to-school mother of young children. This year, my daughters do all of that themselves.

Much like in the early years of my motherhood, when I tiptoed around my own instincts to see what worked and what didn’t, I am auditioning my moments of parenting with my tween and teen daughters. Particularly with my little one — no longer quite as little — I am working on the line between playful teasing and hurtful taunting; on the right time to help her find solutions to her worries and the right time to listen and offer no advice at all. 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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Spring Breaks: 2011-2017

It is April 7, 2011, and my family is giddy.

Sitting around the sticky table of a local frozen custard shop are my daughters and husband, each of them with a mountain of gooey dessert: piles of custard under clouds of whipped cream and rivers of fudge. My younger daughter, aged 5, is grinning ear-to-ear. I’m snapping pictures like the mother of a baby trying solid food for the first time. At one point, I step outside to breathe the fresh air of a world restored.

For the ten months prior to today, my little girl has been on a path to discovery, she and her team of doctors searching for the food protein that’s causing the strange patches of white blood cells in her esophagus, the patches that were keeping her from swallowing well. For ten months, she’s been avoiding a list of common allergens — dairy, soy, egg, nuts, and wheat — and undergoing tests to see if the culprit could be found. Earlier today, we got the news that only one food was left to be added, since all the others had seemed to cause her no ill. Adding that last food — dairy — means that she can eat out at any restaurant she liked. It means that, for the first time in ten months, we can travel without worrying about her food.

We leave the frozen custard shop and embark immediately on a road trip. We feed her everything she’s been missing: restaurant pancakes with butter and syrup, cheese popcorn, candy bars, pizza, string cheese and yogurt. For the first time in nearly a year, I don’t carry a big insulated bag full of food for her. We rejoice, but under the rejoicing is the knowledge that this is just another food trial. It’s both a first meal and a last — this is the last food trial, and everyone expects it to be a failure.

Spring break, 2011: last meal. Continue Reading…

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The Deep Dig for Impact

Every second of every day, life changes profoundly for someone on earth. A death, a crime, a lottery win, an election, a new job, a lost job, a child born or adopted, coffee spilled on the stranger who will become the life partner, a car accident that cripples, a letter, a diagnosis: the world shifts and reveals itself transformed.

Sometimes, the change is immediate; a woman gets the call about a baby being born and races off to the airport to meet her new child in a faraway hospital. On the flight, she feels the difference and labels it: that call made me a mother.

Other times, the change has to be carefully traced back to its root. The beat-up old car that college student drove made him the likely grocery-store connection for a group of giggling women, who introduced him to the woman he eventually married. Was his grandfather — the car’s original owner — the reason he met his wife? Where did that story begin?

Truth be told, this is a question of consequences. How do we know when we had a part in change? Also, how long should we wait to let go of a moment and its potential to alter the world? Is there an expiration date on an event’s power to reshape the future? Continue Reading…

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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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