One Terrible Night (At Least I Hope It's Just One)

I had one of the scariest nights of my life last night.

Granted, I've had it easy so far. I've been lucky enough not to have experienced anything too traumatic in my life: My kids' births went pretty smoothly, we haven't had to rush them to the emergency room for any reason, we haven't had any house fires or break-ins. I know people with sick kids for whom every night is a potential nightmare.

Last night was nothing close to what some parents go through. But nonetheless, it scared me senseless.

At bedtime, our six-year-old had a mild fever, which was no big deal except that he doesn't run a fever very often. When it does, it usually means he's sick for real (unlike our daughter who often gets fevers for no apparent reason and with no other symptoms). But I wasn't too concerned.

An hour later, my husband and I were watching the excellent new Bob Marley documentary on VH1 when we heard screaming.

At first I thought it was coming from the TV (Jamaica in the 70's was a dangerous place, after all), and then I thought some of the neighborhood's teenaged girls were getting rowdy outside. But then I heard loud stomping and wailing (again, not coming from Bob Marley's Wailers). The commotion was coming from upstairs...and then barreling down down the staircase and through the house.

Our son ran into the family room absolutely shrieking in terror, his eyes wild with fear. My husband and I ran to him and tried to comfort him, figuring it was just a nightmare. But it soon became clear we were dealing with something much more serious.

A good approximation of
what my son looked like

Sitting in a chair in my husband's arms, my son suddenly pointed at the TV (which was paused) and screamed, "AHHHH! LOOK AT IT! MAKE IT STOP! IT'S MOVING SO FAST!"

I met my husband's eyes. Whoa, what was going on?

My son's gaze became fixed on a picture on the wall. "BUT LOOK!! IT'S GOING SO FAST! STOP IT!" he screamed, tears streaming down his stricken face.

By now he'd been awake for five minutes, yet the nightmare still gripped him. Or was it the fever? I took his temperature. It was higher. I gave him some children's Tylenol, figuring his overheated brain was causing the hallucinations.

This had never happened before. I wondered if I should be really worried.

We brought my son back up to his bedroom, confident that the fever-reducer would do the trick.

Half an hour later, we were in bed reading when we heard something. Mumbling. Talking. Then yelling.

As I ran down the hall, I distinctly heard my son shout something about dinosaurs (which was weird because his dino phase ended over a year ago). When I got to his room he was standing on the bed looking around and shrieking in horror at something only he could see. He didn't seem to recognize me. I tried calming him down with a hug and soothing, reassuring words, but he struggled against me. He desperately wanted to escape from his room and whatever monstrous thing he saw there. He kept looking over his shoulder and clasping his hands over his mouth as he screamed and cried out.

When my husband entered the room, my son looked at him and yelled, "GET AWAY!" Who or what was he seeing in place of his Daddy? My son broke away from me and ran howling down the hall toward our bedroom.

But before he escaped my arms, I'd been able to process the fact that he was no longer burning up. The fever had gone down. So why was he still hallucinating?

In our bedroom, things weren't any better. When my husband tried to hug him, my son recoiled in horror. He let me hug him but would occasionally pull away and look at me, his mouth gaping in a rictus of fear. He'd scream and his hands would fly up to cover his mouth.

Was he possessed like Regan?

In that moment, my racing mind landed on The Exorcist, which I'd stumbled upon a week ago while channel-surfing. It was like my son was possessed.

Nothing we did or said was working to erase his fear. I felt so helpless, and the tears came.

By then all the commotion had woken up our daughter, who stood mutely by while her brother battled invisible demons. She looked almost as frightened as he did.

"Should we take him to the emergency room?" I asked, my voice breaking. The scene in The Exorcist where Regan is in the hospital getting a spinal tap popped into my head: She's strapped down and struggling while the doctor inserts a giant needle into her neck. Oh, no-no-no.

My husband, who seemed to be keeping his head better than me, said no to the hospital and suggested putting our son in the shower to clear his head. By then my son was no longer recoiling from my husband's touch, and he was able to explain a little what was scaring him.

"Does anything hurt?" I asked when he'd clapped his hands over his mouth for the tenth time.

"No," he moaned. "But when I open my mouth it feels like the monsters are going in and up to my brain and making me see crazy things."

Okaaaay.

But the shower helped, his lucidity returned, and we let him sleep with us in the hope it would keep the demons at bay.

It worked; there was a lot of kicking and thrashing but no more screams.

Today, he seems none the worse for wear; I'm not sure how much he remembers. But he feels terrible, is nauseous, and still has a fever.

And that's what scares me. What if tonight's a repeat of last night?

Only Happy When It Rains

I was watching the very mediocre Something Borrowed on cable the other day (flirty, sexy, bitchy Kate Hudson is BFFs with bookish, cute Ginnifer Goodwin; Ginnifer has a secret affair with Kate's equally bookish, hunky fiancé; mayhem ensues), and it totally reminded me of how things were in my 20's with the never-ending, exhausting relationship drama; the worrying about my future; and the confusion, self-doubt, and sadness.

In the flick, Ginnifer and the fiancé are in love, but because he's engaged to Kate, they try to repress their feelings. Poor Ginnifer spends half the movie choking back tears as she watches Kate and her fiancé be all lovey-dovey. She walks down Manhattan streets crying in the rain, mourning the love she let slip away (she and nerd hunk liked each other first but both were too loser-ish to make the first move, so Kate swooped in and charmed the pants off him). 


Arrgghh, I wanted to strangle her! Oh, poor me...fret, fret, fret...I will never have the man of my dreams, I will never be truly happy, boo-hoo, my life sucks. So much pointless angst!


The truth is, I wanted to strangle her because she reminded me of...me. That's what I was like during my 20's--constantly stressing my relationship status and where my life was going. Do I like him more than he likes me? Do I sabotage relationships? Will I ever get married and have kids? Am I pretty/cool/sexy/interesting/smart/successful enough? 


I was so preoccupied worrying about my relationships and fretting that my life wasn't going the way I'd hoped that I couldn't see straight. Oh, sure, I put up a pretty good front. Most people probably couldn't tell I was total head case. 

Looking back, I want to slap myself across the face. What was I doing? I should've been basking in my life; I had a "great on paper" job at Scholastic (which, in reality, was horrible and demeaning), a cool apartment in the West Village, fun friends, plenty of disposable income...my youth. The world was my oyster, as they say. 

Shirley Manson, my 90's idol

But yet there I was, stumbling through my 20's all confused, down, and depressed--though I had no legitimate reason to be sullen. Sometimes I wondered whether perhaps I actually got off on the darkness and sadness. You know I love it when the news is bad./Why it feels so good to feel so sad./I'm only happy when it rains./Pour your misery down./Pour your misery down on me. 


Because when things were awful for real (like after 9/11), at least how I felt finally made sense. 


This wasn't clinical depression (I know the symptoms), but I walked around with a strange hollowness inside, and my head was a buzzing hive of doubt. I felt burdened by life and by what was expected of me (okay, what I expected of myself). Living my life just didn't feel the way I thought it should/would/could.


Occasionally, the burden would lessen (new & better job, vacation, marriage), but it always came back with a thud once the novelty wore off. 


Until, that is, I became pregnant with my first child. I was over-the-moon elated. And suddenly, it wasn't all about me anymore. By focussing on the life growing inside of me, I was finally able to get out of my head. The burden was lifted.


And it hasn't come back. 


Oh, sure, I still have "I'm Only Happy When It Rains" moments, but that's just it--they are mere moments (or, at worst, a day). I no longer spend the majority of my time in that dark place. 


These days, life is more "Here Comes the Sun."


And Ginnifer Goodwin's character? In the end she gets her man and lives happily every after. 

Don't Let the Sound of Your Own Wheels Drive You Crazy

If you'd asked me a few months ago what subject matter I'd be least likely to blog about, I would've answered, "Cars." (And I'm not talking about the movie.) As a rule, I don't think about cars, notice cars, or care about cars. Living in the city, I was car-less throughout my 20's.

But lately, because we have to purchase a new one (our current car's transmission is dying and costs too much to fix), my poor brain is full of nothing but Hondas, Mazdas, Toyotas, Fords...V6 engines, MPGs, horsepower, and finance charges. Bear with me....

Nothing brings out your inner teenager like buying a car. Just look around at all the middle-aged dudes out there driving sports cars and the young grandmas in their cute, impractical convertibles.

I should know...I've been arguing with myself over which car to purchase for a couple of weeks now. I have a few musts: mid-sized, 4WD, third-row seating, not a mini-van. A back-up camera would be nice. There aren't tons of cars in this category and I've test driven four so far.

Kia Sorento

My sensible mom side says, "The Kia Sorento is fine--it's not exactly luxurious but it's a solid car and one of the least expensive options."

My inner teen, however, has a something different in mind. She wants what everyone else has. And by everyone else I mean the other moms tooling around our little pocket of Westchester County.

And they all happen to drive Honda Pilots. So, of course, now I want one, too. I wish I wasn't such a copy-cat. It makes me feel like I did back in high school when all I craved was to fit in and wear the same clothes the popular girls were wearing. I've never been one of those people who thrived on bucking the trend.

Honda Pilot

The Honda Pilot has a lot going for it besides being the vehicle of choice for all the cool moms. Too bad it's more money than we want to spend: almost $10K more than the Kia Sorento. Sure, it's more luxurious inside, but 10 G's worth? Doubtful. It's also kinda huge--we don't even know if it would actually fit through our garage door.

But when my rational mom side starts talking, that's when my inner teen begins to beg and plead...because the car I most wanted when I was 18 was a Jeep. And the Pilot is slightly Jeep-ish (kinda, sorta) which makes me want it all the more.

Mazda CX-9

So my inner teenager is at war with my sensible mom side. I'm not sure who will win.

Maybe we'll split the difference with a Mazda CX-9. The basic model is a few grand cheaper than the Pilot but it's definitely cooler than the Kia. But then no one wins (except Mazda), and that's not right.

Buying a car is such a major purchase; I just want to make the right choice. I don't want to be overly extravagant but I also don't want to regret our decision and end up ogling every Pilot-driving soccer mom I see.

Sigh...can you tell I've never bought a car before?

Compare and Contrast...Or Maybe Not

I'm not one of those moms who baby their youngest. I've often wondered how that's even possible, since the younger child always wants to try whatever his or her sibling is doing. If anything, they tend to grow up too fast and do more at an earlier age than their siblings. Right?

Lately, I've begun to wonder.

Because it seems that I might have been guilty of underestimating what my daughter is capable of. The problem is, my son was always so darned advanced that Little Miss suffered in comparison. I know you aren't supposed to compare your kids, but it's impossible not to. It's not like I judge them based on the comparisons--that would be mean--but I can't help but set a benchmark based on what my son has been capable of at various ages.

And, unfortunately for my daughter, the kid's fine-motor skills have always been off the charts. Which I didn't realize for a long time because I had nothing to compare it to. Eventually I began suspecting he was more artistically capable than the average kid. I have seen other mothers blanch as they looked at my son's drawings on our refrigerator and then mentally compared them to their own child's scribblings.

My son's drawing of a dinosaur (a Therizinosaurus, no
less--look it up, it's pretty spot-on), done when he
was almost four.

My daughter's drawing of Minnie Mouse, also done
when she was almost four. 

My daughter's fine-motor skills weren't nearly as impressive. Because she wasn't great at drawing, she didn't seem to enjoy it all that much. She didn't show any interest in coloring until she was three-and-a-half; then it would be just five minutes of haphazard scribbling and she'd move on to something else. As a result, I've never really encouraged her to develop her fine-motor skills.

It also doesn't help that, while my son had brand-new markers, 64-pack of crayons, colored pencils, (the works), poor Little Lady has had to make do with half-dried out markers and broken crayon nubs. Not exactly inspiring.

Over the past few months, however, my daughter has gone to some birthday parties with craft themes. I was concerned that the parties might bore her because her preferred party entertainment is usually more of the physical, gymnastics/tumbling nature.

But I've been pleasantly surprised how into it she's been. And actually not all that bad at it, either. Lately, she's been drawing and coloring up a storm and she can't get enough of craft kits. I've been surprised by her coordination and attention to detail, and she's starting to take real pride in her work.

No thanks to Mom.

Oh, sure, I'm trying to make up for lost time: new crayons, setting aside time to color together and do crafts every morning. But I still feel terrible because I've totally been selling my daughter short. I've been treating her like she couldn't do something of which she's more than capable. I've been babying her, I guess.

I hope just I haven't soured her to artistic pursuits or hurt her self-esteem in any way.

I'm sorry, my darling! Let's blame your brother, okay?

Say Yes to the Dress

My four-year-old daughter will only wear dresses. She has dozens of them: long-sleeved winter ones we pair with thick tights; comfortable, everyday cotton ones; light, flouncy sundresses; fancy, poofy, special-occasion ones. Most are hand-me-downs and the rest were bought at inexpensive stores. Luckily, we haven't had to take out a loan to fund her little dress obsession. Yet.

I've noticed the other girls in her preschool class wearing dresses pretty often. It must be the age. I vaguely remember my niece going through a "dresses only" phase when she was little (which morphed into an "anything but dresses" phase).

So I'm pretty sure this too shall pass. And it's not like it's a big deal. It's only clothes, after all. Except that there are times when a fancy frock isn't exactly practical. Take the other day for instance. It was a rare day when we had nothing to do, so my little lady and I decided to hit DD first, then visit a local playground. Here is what she opted to wear:

What would you call that dress? It's like a pinafore, right? She chose a pinafore and strappy, pink, jelly sandals with zero cushioning or traction. Not at all suited for playing in the dirtbox sandbox or climbing rope ladders. Did it slow her down? No. Did she regret her outfit choice? No.

I, however, enviously eyed the other little girls wearing sensible leggings, cargo pants, and sneakers. They looked so comfortable and didn't have to worry about stepping on the front of their dresses while climbing or getting wood chips stuck in their open-toed sandals.

I also don't like it that my sweetie-pie seems to measure her self-worth by how pretty her dress is. I remember one day not too long ago, I somehow managed to convince her to wear leggings. I think it was cold and rainy out and a dress just didn't make sense. The outfit was plenty pink and girly so I thought it would pass muster, but about halfway through the day, my daughter started crying for seemingly no reason.

"What's the matter, baby?" I asked.

"I don't look pretty," she whimpered.

"What? You always look pretty. There's no way you can't look pretty--you are a beautiful girl."

"But my clothes don't look pretty!" she wailed.

So up we went to her room and changed into an appropriately frou-frou dress, and the day was salvaged.

Another time, there was a birthday party at a kids gym. Again, it was coldish outside and because much climbing and tumbling would be occurring, I convinced my darling to wear leggings. Well, we got to the party only to discover that all the other little girls were wearing dresses. I watched her watching them. Her eyes darkened and she looked down at her outfit. I could see her little brain working to process it all.

My daughter at 18 mo. She's wearing leggings, T-shirt,
a brown sweatshirt. She let me dress her until age
two. This outfit would be unacceptable now. 

But she was a trooper. She didn't even mention it. She just she sucked it up and had fun anyway. But you can be sure that when she went to another party at that same venue a month later, she wore a very pretty dress.

I get that my daughter wants to look pretty--that's normal enough. But I do worry that she's taking it a bit too seriously. I don't want her confidence and self-worth to come from how she perceives herself to look.

I'm really hoping this is just a phase, too, and that as she matures, she'll understand that beauty is so much more. Of course we tell her all the time that she's smart, kind, and funny. We make sure to explain that a person can only be truly beautiful if he or she is kind-hearted and good. (Yes, Snow White is pretty, I explain, but what truly makes her beautiful is how nice, caring, and gentle she is to all those she meets.) 

I just hope it's sinking in.

I Couldn't Possibly Have Been This Annoying as a Child, Could I Have?

My son's elementary school is only K through Grade 2. I love that the school is specially geared to meet the needs of this young and impressionable age group, and also that he doesn't have to sit on the bus with rambunctious, huge (to him) fifth graders.

When the kids enter school they are five, and by the time they leave most have turned eight. Three years--no big deal, right? I didn't think so, but then the other day it was brought to my attention just how much older kids are at eight than they are at five.

Last Thursday the Kindergarteners didn't have school because it was orientation for next year's batch of K-ers, but it was a normal day for first- and second-graders. It was finally decent out after a few days of rain and gloom so we headed to the elementary school playground just as school was letting out.

We had the playground to ourselves for a few minutes, but before long the after-school club (kids whose parents work) joined us.

"Where are the Kindergarteners?" one girl asked.

"They didn't have school today. Isn't it soooo much better without them here?" answered a wise-ass boy (to whom I immediately gave the stink eye).

The boys broke off to play football with one of the apathetic high school kids who only do the job because their parents force them to supervisors, while a group of second-grade girls came over to the fire-engine structure where my kids were playing.

The girls climbed to the top, leaned against the bars in a tightly packed group, and began to sing as loudly as possible:

Baby, you light up my world like nobody else,

                            The way that you flip your hair gets me overwhelmed,

But when you smile at the ground it ain't hard to tell,

You don't know, 

Oh oh,

You don't know you're beautiful,

If only you saw what I can see,

You'll understand why I want you so desperately,

Right now I'm looking at you and I can't believe,

You don't know,

Oh oh,

You don't know you're beautiful,

Oh oh,

That's what makes you beautiful

I was unfamiliar with the song, though I figured it might be a new tune by Katy Perry or Kelly Clarkson (though it didn't sound slutty enough to be Katy or angry enough to be Kelly). It was vapid and frothy and catchy...one of those new British boy bands, perhaps? So, yeah, I Googled it when I got home. It's "What Makes You Beautiful" by One Direction, for those of you who don't happen to live with a female between the ages of 8 and 18 and therefore have remained blissfully ignorant.

The adorable faces and Bieber-esque
hair of One Direction

Over and over and over and over they screamed sang those words. Never any other part of the song--just those lines. It was super annoying.

The supervisor stopped the football game. He came over and hollered, "Girls! Enough! Sing something else...anything else! PLEASE!" (Ha, not so apathetic now, are you dude?)

Did it work? Of course not. The howling-passing-for-singing continued.

The girls reminded me of myself when I was young, except in those days we sang "Da-Do-Ron-Ron" or tunes from Grease. And that wasn't until fourth or fifth grade. I didn't have any mad crushes on pop stars until I was at least ten.

But nowadays the girls start earlier. Call me crazy but eight just seems way too young to be singing love songs and giggling about boys. 

Now I know what to look forward to when my own Little Lady turns eight. Someone please help me. 

What to Do When Dr. Jekyll Jr. Becomes a Mini Mr. Hyde?

My son used to be the sweetest little boy you could ever meet. Oh, sure, lots of mothers say that, but it wasn't just me who thought so. Over the years, many people have complimented me on how compassionate, kind, even-tempered, and intelligent my son is. "Such a sweet boy!" is something I've heard often.

And then he started Kindergarten. Or maybe it's that he turned six. Not sure what the cause of his behavior change is, but it happened right around then. He has become demanding, short-tempered, and petulant. Oh, not all the time--no, of course not. Our sweet little boy is still in there but unfortunately, we don't see him quite as much as we used to.

Our son, during one of his
less-than-stellar moments

The transition to full-day Kindergarten has been tiring for him. The school bus gobbles my son up at 7:50 a.m. and spits him back out at 3:15 p.m. That is a long day for a six-year-old. But every other Kindergartener is dealing with this same schedule and I doubt all of them have undergone such personality changes. I'm sure the long days have something to do with the behavior changes, though. Our son absolutely adored preschool--he went three days a week and was usually bummed when it wasn't a school day. He loved the activities, teachers, and other kids. He was friends with everyone.

Well, he still loves his teachers and friends, and he enjoys school activities. But now every single morning goes something like this:

"It is a school day today?"

"Yes."

"Awwwwwww!!!! How many more days until the weekend?" (Imagine this uttered in the whiniest voice possible.)

Thankfully, all his bad behavior has (for now, at least) been restricted to when he's home. His school record is still blemish free; in fact, he's one of the only boys in his class whose status has never gone from Green ("Good") to Yellow ("Warning"). During parent/teacher conferences, his teacher raves about him--she literally has never said a less-than-glowing thing about him.

Which is why, when he gets home and rants and raves and orders me around, I'm dumbfounded. What the hell happened to the sweetest boy there ever was?

If this is a temporary thing, then fine, we can ride it out. I understand that kids go through phases and that each kid has his/her own way of dealing with change and stress.

But what if it's not temporary? If it continues, do we punish him for his outbursts? Right now, I'm reluctant to do so because he's in so much pain as it is in those moments, I hate to add to it. But on the other hand, we don't want him thinking he has free reign to be tyrannical whenever he feels like it.

If any of my faithful readers have experience with this, I'd love her hear how the situation panned out for you.

Because we are at a loss.