The Urban Dad's Open Salon Blog

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Tue, 2 Dec 2008 16:12:07 -0500

Letter to My Daughter: Words = Power

Fri, 10 Oct 2008 07:10:54 -0400

I’ve been thinking about this blog (while not blogging for six weeks or more—crikey!) as a series of letters and stories that my children will read when they are young adults. At the moment, I don’t know if I can think of a better gift for my children. In that spirit:

Dear Mimi,
You turned 3 this summer. I would love to try to describe you so that another person reading this letter would see this rambunctious, loving girl that you are. To start, I’ll just tell a few stories.

When you see someone you know, like a neighbor who is the parent of one of your many friends on the block, you often run screaming to them. It’s pure joy, and it says ‘Look at me! It’s me! I’m here!” without a smidgen of emotional reserve that the use of words requires. It’s not because you lack words. You are very articulate for a 3-year-old.

Several weeks ago, before you started school, I wrote this in a journal:

She has just learned to pedal her bike with training wheels. And while Posey and I play on the slide, Mimi goes to do a lap around the school. She happily pedals slower than her walking pace. Does a good job of muscling her way over bumps or out of a stall. She is out of my sight for several minutes, and this is one of the things I like about her biking. For a short while, she is on her own, out in the world but in a safe place. Can’t see or hear Daddy. Has to pedal her bike to get around the school. Posey and I eventually walk the opposite way and meet her.

MIMI: I talked to myself so that I wouldn’t be frightened. Because this bike is tippy.
ME: What did you say to yourself?
MIMI: I just said ‘Don’t be frightened, Mimi. You’re okay.’

Since then, I’ve thought about why I'm so proud of this little exchange. Here it is: Language is power, little girl.

Some kids develop big vocabularies and verbal ability earlier than other kids. I don’t think it matters much, except at the extremes. In other words, the preschooler who is year behind his peers is not really behind in any significant way. The child who is five years behind is in trouble.

But I think that the confidence you displayed as you pedaled around the school is, in part, connected to your ability to talk to yourself out loud. To say, “Don’t be frightened, Mimi. You’re okay.” If you didn't have the words, you might not have been so confident.

This is just one example. When you have the words to express what you feel, and what you think, and what you want to feel, and think, or discover, then you have some power over the world around you. This is power that may escape you otherwise. What I am saying, is that one of the reasons I am proud of you is that I think you are a powerful girl.

Don’t worry, we don’t coddle you any more than any loving parent of a child does, maybe even less, because I think coddling in excess can be dangerous. Neither do we think you some prodigy.

Several months ago, your mother was crossing the street with you and you asked why we had to obey the traffic lights and signs. The words out of your mother’s mouth made me laugh so much: “You’re not special.” She just meant that you have to follow the rules like everyone else. But I loved the fact that here was a modern American mother telling her daughter, “You are not special.” We need a little more of that in parenting, in my opinion, followed by a good hug, a kiss on the cheek, and at least three stories. Four, if you ask nicely.

Love,
Daddy

How to dislocate your daughter's wrist

Mon, 18 Aug 2008 14:08:52 -0400

On her first camping trip, my then-2-year-old daughter had her wrist dislocated by yours truly. Not exactly what we had in mind, but we thought it was important to get the girls used to camping.

You see, when Darlin and I fell in love, it was in tents. One of our first trips together was a mid-January snowshoe into Ontario's Algonquin Provincial Park; we actually overnighted in a cabin with a wood stove, but you get the idea. Eleven months after our first kiss, we both quit our jobs and spent six weeks camping.

This is what six weeks of camping looked like for us: One sweltering night somewhere in the midwest trying to overcome the distance between the Appalachians and the continental divide as quickly as possible; then South Dakota national grasslands and badlands; Wyoming national forest; Yellowstone; Montana; backpacking Idaho's Sawtooth Wilderness from cedar-shaded hotsprings to moose-and-mosquito infested high country; Oregon Coast with its gray whales and bay-laurel-scented campsites; a few nights homesteading off the grid in Humboldt County, Calif., with crazy Cam (berry picking with an icy pitcher of gin and tonics in a canoe with cupholders, then recreational bulldozing); backpacking California's Lost Coast past barking sea lions and a curious harbor seal, then steeply up to the ridge where Darlin surprised a black bear on the trail among the redwoods; San Jose for a Bare Naked Ladies concert that resembled a meeting of the Canadian diaspora's Silicon Valley chapter; Sacramento to pick up Tim and Hillary for an impromptu camping run to Tahoe and Shakespeare under the stars; Nevada, where a barn owl nearly became our hood ornament as we climbed a canyon to our campsite in the dark; Salt Lake City, where Darlin's paternal aunt and cousins and families sang me happy birthday over a homemade cake; Colorado's Rocky Mountain National Park, where we boldly and naively climbed Long's Peak (elev. 14,200-plus) within days of being at sea level (Fortunately, the physical effects of the elevation hit you after you descend--we slept all afternoon.); visiting friends in Boulder; then one last pitch of the tent in some anonymous midwestern campground on the way back East.

My point is, we like to camp. A related point is that, after six weeks in a car and tent you will know if you are really in love with someone.

Raising babies and holding down jobs makes camping more difficult. But last summer we wanted to prove that we could do it, and we wanted to set a precedent. (Precedent being: Our babies camp.) We booked one night at the state park campground 1.5 hours from the city. It was Sunday, the day before Labor Day. We picnicked in a field, we took turns hiking the loops of trail near town while the girls napped in the car. Mimi was two, while Posey was just 8 months old. When the girls woke, we strapped them onto us and hiked to the river. Mimi in an aluminum-frame backpack, and Posey slung from Darlin's chest. Through hemlock and rhododendron forest and finally down to the river where we all splashed in a cool pebbley eddy and sunned on the rocks while watching rafters and kayakers.

When we were done swimming, it was a steep, steep climb back to the trail. Mimi held my hand as she negotiated the giant log steps. At one big step, I pulled on her hand to help her make it up; at that exact moment, she, being two, surrendered all her weight to gravity to let herself fall back down. I could have let her fall or I could have kept pulling to get her up on the next step. I pulled, and I felt something pop.

From that moment on, Mimi could not move her arm without pain. If you've never seen a two-year-old with inexplicable pain that won't go away, let me tell you that it's a sad sight. When it's your daughter and you feel responsible, it's even worse.

"I think her wrist is dislocated," I finally admitted. "I felt a little 'pop'"

"What do we do?"

"If it doesn't get better... If it stays like this, we've got to find a hospital or a clinic." We asked about a clinic in the little state park information kiosk in the tiny river town. We got a free icepack and directions to the hospital, which was just under an hour away. We decided to go to our campsite, pitch the tent and get something to eat. If Mimi didn't seem better in an hour--by around 7 p.m.--we would drive to the hospital. That would most likely be the end of the camping trip.

At the campsite, Darlin starting whipping up some food on the picnic table while I pitched the tent. Mimi clung to her daddy like a faithful, fearful puppy. She followed me everywhere as I retrieved the tent and stakes from the trunk of the car and started to set things up. She held her arm in front of her like it was in an invisible sling, and every minute or so, she'd say, "Daddy, my arm hurts," in a pitiful voice.

"I know, sweetheart. It's going to start to feel better soon."

I had the tent up, and now I was stringing the rain fly. One rope extented a good two feet from the tent to where it was staked. I realized I needed the other tent stakes, which were on the picnic table.

"Go and get those stakes from the table, please Mimi," I said.

Mimi turned and ran for the table and immediately tripped on the rope extending from the tent. It snagged her right across both shins and she fell hard. It happened so fast that she threw both hands out to keep from smashing her face in the dirt. Immediately, I winced, thinking about her injured arm absorbing all that force.

Mimi cried a bit, and we comforted her. But the funny thing was, she never again complained about how much her arm hurt. She had clearly popped her dislocated wrist right back into place. Even knowing that was what she needed, I never could have attempted to pop it back in myself.

The lesson of the story: If your child dislocates a wrist, wait until she least expects it, then give her a really hard shove in the back so that she falls hard on her hands and pops it back into place. [Editor's note: Before anyone comments on how this is abusive and stupid, understand that it's a joke.]

"She's not breathing."

Thu, 14 Aug 2008 13:08:44 -0400

When my first child was born, she wasn't breathing. This is one of the things I will never forget.

Sometimes I try to remind myself that nobody is born breathing. That's correct, isn't it? A fetus lives for months in the womb. Heart driving oxygen to all those tiny parts without fail. One hundred and forty beats per minute. Eight thousand times per hour. Two hundred thousand times per day. Six million beats per month. Zero breaths.

Then suddenly, there is an atmosphere. And cold, I imagine. But still there is no need to breathe air, at least not right away. (We're talking moments here. When you're there, the moments can last so long.)

My neighbor had her second child in a wading pool in her living room. She caught the infant girl in her own hands, her partner told me. We were talking at the playground with our toddlers a few days after the birth. I think it was then that he told me about holding the pulsing umbilical cord in his hand. It stopped 10 or 15 minutes later, he said, then they cut it.

I relayed my story about my first daughter. The part about not breathing, which is what I always remember. About how they whisked her away as soon as she emerged.

Then my friend asked this question... I can't believe it never occured to me to ask. In three years, I never wondered about this.

"Why did they cut the cord if she wasn't breathing?"

It's a good question. Darlin had been breathing for her for months. Why not wait a minute, or five minutes, or ten minutes, until she breathed on her own and then cut the cord?

I'll call my first child Mimi. We celebrated her third birthday recently. She's rambunctious, and likes to tell stories, though she doesn't quite have the 'beginning-middle-end' thing down. She's still uncertain about cause-and-effect, too. "Why are you mad at [best friend] Billy?" I might ask. "Because I hit him," she'll say, when clearly the former preceded the latter. When I lift children of her same age in my arms, they are as light as pillows. Mimi, on the other hand, feels to me like she just ate a bag of cement, and I mean that in a good way. The girl is sturdy. The girl is strong. Her eyes are gray, though I doubted that anyone really had gray eyes before hers turned this clear and bright shade. These eyes are a regular source of mild wonder to me, the dark-eyed grandson of Slavic immigrants to these green hills.

I was at the office when Darlin's water broke. It was late morning, and she was scheduled to work around mid-day. A day shy of 39 weeks gestation, she was at home on the telephone trying to take care of some bills or something. She dropped her pen walking from one room to another. She squatted down to pick it up, and the amniotic sac burst and leaked fluid all over the floor.

My office is halfway between home and the hospital. Darlin said she could drive through the contractions and pull over if she needed to. It was only two miles.

Okay, I said. Call me when you're here. I have to wrap some things up.

I was interviewing someone for a job. He was busy taking a sort of writing test we'd concocted. I told him I wouldn't be around when he finished because my wife was in labor. I told my supervisor. I was in a mild sort of shock, I guess, like I'd been told to evacuate the city and wasn't sure if it was a joke or not. My eyeballs were a bit loose in their sockets as I walked back to my desk. Good luck, everyone said.

Darlin called. She was just a block or two away. I'll see you out front, I said.

I emailed a few colleagues to tie up loose ends. Darlin called. I can't recall her exact words, but "Where the fuck are you?" captures the gist of it.

I found her on the front steps of the building. She was gripping the steel handrail and trying to look like she wasn't having a contraction. One hand was on the small of her back. She gave me a pained smile then put both hands on the handrail in order to snap it in half. She breathed for a moment or two, then said that the construction workers across the street had been looking at her funny.

Lots of things happen between arriving at the hospital and holding your firstborn. I'll try to make it quick: Somebody checks your wife's cervix to see how much it has opened. Ten centimeters is tops and ready to birth. Darlin is somewhere under five. Women who have been exposed to Group B Streptococcus, as my wife had, get an hourlong IV drip of antibiotics and, afterwards, they continute to sport the IV port taped to the forearm so that they can be topped up again later. When the IV drip is finished, we walk the halls. Darlin moves slowly and stops every minute or two to grip the rail that lines the hall. I put both hands on her, usually the small of her back and shoulders. Firm pressure or light massage. She breathes slow and deep, lips pursed like she wants to be a teapot.

We're riding out a contraction on the long wooden rail, when a familiar face appears at a window in a security door. It's Dave, who was in our childbirth class with his wife. Our due dates are about a week apart. "See you at the hospital," we always joked with each other. And here he is. How is Shelly? Going in for a c-section he says. She labored a while, but it ain't working. But everybody will be fine, including their son.

Later, we're exploring the halls of the hospital more, exercising our midwife-assured right to not be confined to a bed just because one of us is in labor. This can go on for hours, maybe even more than a day. There's no sense confining Darlin to a bed, especially when moving the hips might help ready her for pushing. A nurse appears through another security door to find us on a bench. "There you are," she says. "We need you back."

We go to our labor and delivery room. Dim the lights, stow our bag, put a Ladysmith Black Mambazo CD in the player. Darlin wears a fetal monitor strapped around her belly, put there by the nurse staffing this part of the floor. After a good bit of normal heart rate monitoring, I start to help Darlin out of bed. The nurse returns and exclaims, "W-w-w-whoa! What are you doing?"

We just want to move around. The nurse likes her pregnant women in bed and stationary, apparently. We find a way to get what we want. Track down E., the midwife, who assures us the Darlin can stand up and move around if she wants to.

Darlin progresses. She likes to stand next to the bed, bent with her hands on the mattress like she's trying to keep it from levitating. I apply pressure to her lower back, where she feels the contractions. Sometimes I hold a wet icepack wrapped in a towel there. She breathes. She lets out some low animal sounds.

Essentially, she retreats into herself. We don't make eye contact for hours, it seems, because her eyes have turned inward. She knows I'm there because my hands are always on her and I am in her ear.

When she's fully dilated, they tell her she can push if she wants to. She's been feeling the urge to push and now she gives into it on the contractions. She rests between, and I am in her ear telling her she is strong, which is the truth. I call her 'babe,' and tell her she's doing great. We met playing competitive sports, and I feel like I am coaching her through a marathon session of weightlifting and sprinting.

Eventually, we can see the top of a head, which is a dark patch of hair emerging from her. You have no idea how long it takes a woman to push her first child into the world until you see it happen. You see the head when she pushes. When she stops, it retreats. Her tissues are stretching and it takes time and effort. An hour after she started pushing, she is still pushing. Now the head does not disappear completely when she stops pushing. In the room with us are a midwife, a labor nurse, and a nursing student. We tune out the student at first, because she tells Darlin to breathe in when she is clearly breathing out. Eventually, this student and the nurse are holding either of Darlin's fully bent legs as she pushes and things are happening fast. A mirror has been brought so that Darlin can see. The head is out.

A human head protruding from my wife looks to me as outlandish as if she had sprouted a sunflower from her chest. It is time to push the baby all the way out and I am for the first time in hours feeling my attention pulled away from my wife--like i haven't been more four inches from her ear since I don't know when--and now I am drawn down to the end of the bed as she pushes and all at once there is an entire human being, slippery arms and legs and bottom in the hands of the midwife.

And they whisk her away. And I am between Darlin and the turned backs of the midwife and two nurses. But this is not how I imagined it would be. "She's pink, she's perfect, her heart rate is good," says the midwife over her shoulder. "We're just waiting for her to take that big first breath."

And despite the midwife's best efforts to convey this information in the most positive light, I can't help but hear it as, "She's not breathing."

Incidentally, this is also how we find out that we have a girl. We don't get to look at her on Darlin's belly and touch her little head and limbs and then discover, It's a girl! We hear it from the midwife as she tells us, "She is not breathing yet."

We get more assurances just a few seconds later. She's pink. Her heart is beating away. We just want her to take that big lusty first breath and let out a wail, we are told.

Now they are agitating her. They rub her skin, shake her floppy limbs rudely. C'mon baby. Cry.

She lets out a little squawk of mild annoyance. She's doing fine, we are told. They are still a bit puzzled by the lack of a big lusty wail. But perhaps she just has nothing to cry about. The whole 'not breathing' episode probably lasted 10 seconds or less. Darlin will later say that she never worried about anything at that time. She is exhausted, covered in sweat and now suddenly growing cold since she has stopped laboring. The nurses cover Darlin with blankets to her shoulders to keep her from shivering.

After staying by Darlin's side while Mimi, as we'll come to know her, is worked on by the midwife and nurses, I finally get my chance to walk to my little girl lying beneath the warming light. I touch her arms and belly and her little fingers and talk to her. Dry and warm and soft and vaguely chalky from having her skin dry for the first time ever. Head shaped funny from being forced through a too-small passage. Her big dark eyes with their thousand-yard stare turn to my voice beside her.

I say to the nurse, "I know she might not have scored to well on the Apgar test you give at birth. Do you do that again?"

E, the midwife, bless her kind heart, immediately hears the uspoken concern in my voice. She stops what she is doing (which is sewing up a tear that Darlin suffered while pushing this monkey into the world) and turns to me and states unequivocally, "Your daughter is fine. She is absolutely perfect. There is nothing wrong with her."

A neonatologist, summoned as a matter of course when Mimi did not immediately draw breath, soon comes to take a look and tell us exactly the same thing. A few minutes later, a nurse swaddles our baby girl and puts on her little cap. I walk her across the room, two hands beneath this tightly swaddled bundle and introduce her to her mother.

For three years, this is the story I tell. Then someone asks me, "If she wasn't breathing, why did they cut the cord?" And I don't know. I'd like to ask before Darlin delivers our twins. I expect the see the midwife again, too; she may or may not be the midwife who attends the birth of the twins, depending upon who is on the schedule at the time.

What do you make of the question, those who have been there?

Boy, Girl, or Both?

Wed, 13 Aug 2008 13:08:19 -0400

We decided before the ultrasound not to learn the sex of our baby. Then, 30 seconds in, we find out we are having twins. The ultrasound technician explains to the MD who popped in that we don't want to know.

Wait, did the MD just refer to baby A as 'she'? I swear she just said 'she.' I don't say anything to Darlin. I'm unsure, and that is the same as not knowing.

The technician takes all the measurements of Thing 1, while Darlin and I talk and watch for recognizably human images in the ultrasound screen--a pair of feet, a spine, a beating heart, a head. Then she moves on to Thing 2. After a few minutes, she says, "Now, close your eyes." And we do, until she says, "Okay, you can open them."

As the woman wraps up the exam, she shows us a picture of our babies from the top of Darlin's rounded belly. It shows the shape of two heads as seen from above; it's as if we've caught them talking things over, comparing notes. "And how is your side of the womb?"

They are plotting against us, we'll joke later. But truthfully, the power of the image was apparent the instant it appeared on the screen. It looks for all the world like exactly what it is: two small monkeys silently resting with their heads close to one another. Close as can be. We practically shout, "Print that picture!"

Afterwards, we ask ourselves, "Why did we have to close our eyes when certain views of Thing 2 were on the screen and yet we never had to close our eyes with Thing 1? A day or two later, we are still talking it over. I believe that Thing 1 is a girl and Thing 2 is a boy.

I think this over so much over the next few days that I realize that I have had it with surprises. I want to know the sex of our twins.

Darlin is surprised when I tell her. There are so many uncertainties with twins, I tell her. For example, will she be able to carry them to full term? Will she even be able to attempt to labor and give birth naturally, or will our babies reach 36 or 37 weeks wedged breechwise in her womb with no options (in the minds of our midwives and obstetrician) but removal via an incision in Darlin's abdomen?

I email the midwife. Is there a record of the gender in our file? No. But since we're having twins, we'll have ultrasounds every 4 weeks or so throughout the pregnancy, she writes. We'll have another opportunity. So we wait.

A few weeks later, we are back. Thing 1 is a girl. Hooray! We like girls, and we have a proven track record of making nice ones (2). Thing 2, as we suspected, is a boy, our first.