Category Archives: Baby Girl

Related to Josie

A Story for Wednesday

No! Not this cute girl.

So let’s say there’s this toddler, a sweet little thing with braids held in place with multi-colored flower clips, who walks up to her little friend at preschool, grabs her by the collar and pushes her to the floor. No words are exchanged; there is no fight over a toy, just bam. Smack-down.

Then let’s say, a day later, the mother and daughter make a cake. The toddler is standing on a chair and while they’re holding the beater, this same toddler slips her arm around her mother’s waist, looks up and says “I wuv you Mommy.” Sweet as pie.

Yes, this child is two-and-a-half. Yes, she is a force of nature. Her mother knows these things, but she still can’t help but wonder what causes her sweet child with the braids and flowered clips and all to decide she’s a WWF wrestling super-star. Was she tired? Coming down with the flu? Had she eaten something that didn’t agree with her, had she had too much sugar, too little sugar, too much exercise or not enough exercise, too much time with other toddlers, not enough, too many hunks of cheese, raisins, granola bars or things that stick in her teeth or don’t, she must need more things that stick in her teeth or maybe it’s that new toothpaste with the fluoride or the fact that she isn’t flossing or or or… Picture this mother holding out the ends of her hair going “ACK!” like Andy Samberg playing Cathy from the comic strip on Saturday Night Live. Sweat drops, sweat drops, sweat drops.

Let’s just say this mother is always looking for causes, triggers, patterns, consequences. She knows sometimes she takes the speculation too far, but she also knows what she puts in her child does affect her child’s behavior.

The big health news this week is about a study published in the Journal of Pediatrics that shows kids with above average amounts of organophosphate pesticides in their urine are twice as likely to be diagnosed with ADHD.

“Detectable levels of pesticides are present in a large number of fruits and vegetables sold in the U.S., according to a 2008 report from the U.S. Department of Agriculture cited in the study. In a representative sample of produce tested by the agency, 28 percent of frozen blueberries, 20 percent of celery, and 25 percent of strawberries contained traces of one type of organophosphate. Other types of organophosphates were found in 27 percent of green beans, 17 percent of peaches, and 8 percent of broccoli.”

Another reason to buy organic produce. All this stuff that goes into this mother’s body and this child’s body… It does matter.

Turns out this particular toddler had a virus and two canker sores in the back of her mouth. As far as her mother can tell, her WWF-style take down had nothing to do with organophosphates and everything to do with being miserable. But this mother can never be too sure.

I can't keep my lips off those cheeks!

Nothing

Just Pretty

I’ve been looking for something important to say today. I’ve been reading the health section of various newspapers, toxin blogs, green blogs. I’m just not feeling it. Nothing. So instead I’m going to post some pretty (I hope) pictures.

What could be better?

We went to a friend’s house and got to jump on a trampoline. A big one. Have I mentioned that I bought her a trampoline? It’s a little one – just a place to burn off some extra energy. The good news: she loves it. The bad news: it’s in our living room. Awesome, just what I’ve always wanted.  

Good Fun

We went to a friend’s princess pony birthday party. Yes, that’s a party with real princess dresses and a real white pony decorated with pink and purple spots, colorful tail and a unicorn horn strapped to its head. It was awesome.

Fashion Plate

Plaque-Loving Raisin-Eaters

Spinning Out of Control

Whenever Josie and I arrive somewhere by car, Josie asks for ‘one big and one widdle’ raisin to take outside. As soon as I put the car into park, I start digging through the tub of raisins I keep in the console looking for the extremes. When we get down to the bottom of a carton, and I have a bunch of picked-through medium-sized raisins, it can get tricky, but I’m not above flattening/stretching some and squishing others.

When we arrive at the dentist’s office for Josie’s first teeth cleaning, we complete our ritual before going inside. The hygienist meets us in the waiting area and reads a picture book about their office and the cleaning and tells her everything they are going to do. They have little games to play with the water thing and the suction. Truly gifted people. It’s all going so well. We’re having such a lovely time.

Then the hygienist asks what Josie eats for snack. I mention raisins. Raisins? The hygienist puts her hand to her chest and practically gasps (she may, in fact, have gasped) and begins a rant about the sugar and the sticky getting lodged in the crevasses of Josie’s teeth. For god sake woman, stop with the raisins.

I’m thinking: raisins are good for her, raisins are good for her, raisins are good for her… I manage to say something benign and non-committal like: I see your point. But this is not enough, she wants a commitment.

Have I mentioned that I have good teeth? They may not be pretty but they work real well. I don’t have any cavities. One dentist told me I had really effective plaque-reducing saliva, and I’ve grown a little cocky. I have a hard time getting worked up over tooth decay. But Josie doesn’t have my teeth or my super-duper saliva.

Then the dentist comes out and continues the sermon on the perils of dried fruit. When she’s done she looks to me for a commitment, for a confirmation that I got the message. A very rational voice in my head is saying: just nod and smile, nod and smile. Then: don’t do it. Then: for god sake, woman, keep your mouth shut. But I can’t. I say: Raisins are a good source of iron and fiber and she tends toward constipation. 

Oh god, more about the sticky –the raisin-damning continues. She goes into her office and comes back with a picture of a tooth crevasse and toothbrush bristles skimming over the top to demonstrate the brush cannot get down in there. You see lady? Can’t you see the bristles don’t get down there.   

I’m stubborn and continue to defend the raisin. I understand that they’re not good from a dental-hygiene standpoint but I’m trying to take the whole body, her whole system into account and the raisin really does have a lot to offer as far as transportable snack foods go. They come in cute little boxes or tubs to suit your needs. They can be easily handed into the back seat while driving. They come in a variety of shapes and sizes. Some big. Some widdle.

Next thing I know she’s talking about raisins and gummy-bears as if they’re the same thing. Fine. Fine! I’ll buy her some goddamn sunflower seeds, but I won’t like it and neither will she.

Then it comes time for fluoride. The dentist tells me that Josie’s teeth have not calcified properly. They’re sticky (I wonder how many times a day she uses this word) and already starting to decay. Josie really needs fluoride. I wasn’t prepared for this discussion. You’d think I would be, I’m at a dentist after all, but she’s only two and I didn’t think they gave it to kids this young. But, of course, this raisin-hater dentist wants to apply fluoride to Josie’s teeth.

By then I’m broken-down. I’m beaten. I remember reading that babies and toddlers should use toothpaste without fluoride until they can spit it out. I mumble a question about the systemic effects of giving a young child fluoride. They apply it directly to her teeth, but will the amount she incidentally swallows be harmful to her system? The dentist tilts her head and gives me a blank stare. Eventually she responds that too much fluoride can leave brown spots on teeth. Once again, only about the teeth. (I must say that she is a damn good dentist. Perhaps she should be called a tooth-advocate.) At this point I give up and Josie has the fluoride.

When I get home I look it up, and imagine my surprise, when I don’t find too much hysteria about applying fluoride to teeth. There’s some concern with formula-fed babies getting too much fluoride for their little bodies in tap water (oops, too late now). And there is some concern about over-fluoridated water, but really not much talk of fluoride applied directly to the teeth.

Maybe that dentist was right. I guess now I’ll have to go buy a mixture of roasted pumpkin (big) and sunflower (widdle) seeds to keep in my car. But I still reserve the right to serve her dried fruit whenever the hell I feel like it, damit.

No Warts!

A little bit of pretty for no reason at all.

So when I wrote the post about being a creepy parent, I was sporting some righteous indignation on behalf of angry parents everywhere. Then… We watched Mary Poppins, again, and I got that damn song stuck in my head. You know the song that Jane and Michael write about the perfect nanny-to-be. These two lines in particular. 

If you won’t scold and d*minate us
We will never give you cause to hate us

D*mination. (In case you’re wondering, the asterisk is an attempt to avoid the attraction of search engines to that particular word. THERE’S NOTHING TO SEE HERE PERVS. WE’RE JUST HAVING A NICE CONVERSATION ABOUT MARY POPPINS. MOVE ALONG. After the mattress post, when I mentioned I would h*ndcuff the mattress to Josie’s a*kle, you should have seen the search terms that were directed to HMN. Yikes! I changed h*ndcuff to attached in a jiffy. Sigh. I have so much to learn.)

Anyway, D*mination is such an ugly word. Perhaps sometimes, my frustration and/or anger is about control or even d*mination. She’s TWO for god sake. She wants everything exactly her way. No, Daddy, change diaper! She insists I sit on the ‘touch’ right this minute so she can comb my hair with a coaster NOW. Sit! Mommy Sit!

Sometimes her demands are reasonable. Yes, you can have more gogurt (yogurt) or a boo (blue) poon (spoon). But, no, you can’t cross the street by yourself. You must hold my hand in the parking lot. And there are others… While I was sitting in the sun, on vacation, thinking about this, I could not come up with any of them. The humming of the honey bees devouring the nectar of little rosemary flowers was too distracting. While she’s snoring in the other room, all her requests seem perfectly reasonable. I wasn’t in my usual frame of mind.

Rosy cheeks, no warts!
Play games, all sorts

Hmmm, play games. I do sometimes trick her into doing what I want, but I don’t think this is the kind of games the kids mean. Perhaps I’m reading too much into this. I think Mary Poppins is becoming one of my primary sources of parenting advice (or parenting guilt). Move over Parenting with Love and Logic. I’ve had enough rational thinking, I’m all about flying umbrellas and jumping into chalk drawings from here on out.   

Never be cross or cruel
Never give us castor oil or gruel

Sometimes I can’t help but be cross but I will do my best to never be cruel. I guess cleverness is the goal, distraction the aspiration, persuasion the dream, but when all else fails, as I said before, I reserve the right to bring out the angry. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go scream at my umbrella until it learns to fly.

The Red-Headed Messiah of African American Haircare

Have I told you about my new favorite site? My new best friend? The red-headed Messiah of African-American haircare? Perhaps Messiah is a bit much, but let me say this: she is the BOMB. Really. Joyful Mom has two African American children, one with kinky, curly hair and one with looser curls. She posts information on haircare tools, products and how to execute different styles. Furthermore, she only uses natural products. Love. Really.

I’ve been kind of obsessed with the site the last few weeks. It’s always up on the computer in the kitchen and every spare minute, I’m reading about a new style or product or bead. Yes, I’ve spent another fortune on supplies, but look!

Little braids

Look what Josie and I did together. They’re cornrows. No kidding.

After her bath and a dinner break, I sat on the couch with her on a pillow on the floor. I laid out my Noah’s ark full of haircare products (2 brushes, 2 combs, 2 tubs of hair goo). I popped in the Poppins, detangled and sectioned her hair, and started cornrowing. The style took about 30-45 minutes to complete (I’m so slow). Josie had to get up and run around a few times. I was sure she was going to refuse to sit back down and that we’d be stuck with half-finished hair for the week, but she came back. She came back! When I really needed her to sit still, I held her head between my knees. When I did the sides I sat on the floor. We make such a good team.

Tough to get her to hold still for the picture

If you have a kid with curly hair or have curly hair yourself go visit Happy Girl Hair. I think you’ll kind of love it too.

She asked for "sumpin with cheese on it" for dinner

Must We Be Creepy?

We're ALWAYS Happy

While on vacation, we manage to meet up with some friends for a birthday party. My friends’ kids, two boys, are three and almost five and nice, sedate, sorts. Totally foreign.

The party is at my friend’s in-laws’ house, which is filled with white couches and tall free-standing vases… balanced on pedestals… and filled with decorative sticks… Josie loves a good party and runs from one terrifyingly crushable object to another with me trailing behind her whispering in my most compulsive, creepy, mommy voice – these are not our things. These things belong to our hosts. We must respect our hosts and their things.

Oh, sure Mom, I should respect their things, why didn’t you just say so? I’m totally old enough to grasp that concept.

Just as soon as I’m done explaining why bubbles don’t have feelings, I’m going to explain the concept of respect. I’m sure she’s ready. Then we’ll teach her to tend bar. (Yes, sweetie, that’s right, the green jigger. Good work! Now run along and fetch Mommy a slice of lime.)

The next day, still on vacation, while sitting in the sun reading my magazine, I come across a cartoon that has a picture of mother and child on a playground and says Mommy needs to get mad at you in a weird calm voice now. (I wish I could embed it here but I would have to pay the New Yorker $450 for that right.) This was exactly how I felt the night before, and really, how I feel most of the time.

Why is yelling forbidden? Not that I yell often, but isn’t there a time and a place? Dangers, for example? Or instances of extreme frustration? Sometimes it’s the only way to get the point across. Sometimes the kid needs to know how much trouble she is in. Sometimes nothing else works.

Shouldn’t we be free to show the whole range of emotions to our children? Can’t we be loving and happy and nurturing but also sometimes frustrated and angry and just pissed off? Can I write a whole blog post consisting only of questions? Perhaps.

My point is this (I think): why do we have to act all weird? This is how life is. It’s tough, and if we argue and get frustrated and then reconnect and work things out, aren’t we better off for it?

Can I get a hell yes and a fist pump from all the angry mommies in the house?

The Swim About

A girl and her dog

As I’ve mentioned before, Norah is new to us. We bought her from a breeder. She was four years old and had just finished having a litter of sweet, tiny, golden puppies. She’s slightly neurotic and dumb as a pile of rocks, but nice enough company. She’s good with kids and small so she can fit into tight spaces. She’s the Honda Accord of dogs – very practical.

One day, Josie, my mother, Norah and I go for a walk on the beach. We head left and Norah takes off to the right. She’s gone, around the point. We play around for a minute, calling her and waiting for her to come back. Nothing. Josie works on her beach relocation project – she carries rock after rock down to the water’s edge and throws it. Finally after calling and calling, I walk around the point and look down the beach. No Norah. She’s vanished. Fortunately, we’re in a small community where we know almost everyone and I know she’ll make her way home eventually.

I start walking down the beach while my mother and Josie throw rocks. It’s a clear warm-ish afternoon. There’s a layer of high clouds and a little blue sky. The sun is nearing the horizon and marking a patch of orange over a neighboring island. The water is completely still. There’s not even a bird or otter around to break the surface. I turn back to tell Josie that I’ve found the perfect rock for her to throw when I see something in the water coming around the point.

A kayak? It’s an animal but it’s moving so fast. Polar bear? No, pretty sure there aren’t polar bears in the Puget Sound, even in the winter. Beaver?

I remember seeing a beaver swim in Lake Washington. It was a dark almost unidentifiable form that was mostly under water. Only its nostrils stuck out. It was like a ripple – a single wave, moving through a clear surface. It was like you didn’t see the animal, only the water it displaced.

But this animal isn’t a beaver, of course, it’s Norah. But she doesn’t look like any other dog I’ve seen in the water. Most dogs I know snort and huff and paw at the surface. As she round the point about 15’ offshore, I call her but she doesn’t hear me, doesn’t look at me, just keeps going right on past us.

As Paul says, she’s made for speed, streamlined, even her head is shaped kind of like an arrow – “not much room for brains but she sure is fast.”

I worry she isn’t smart enough to come back to the beach before she runs out of energy. Assuming she started swimming right away, and that is why I couldn’t find her on the beach, she’s been swimming for about 15 minutes. But it looks like swimming is as easy as walking for her. I call her name again just as she’s swimming around the far point and out of sight. Finally she veers toward the beach but then back out again. Each time I call, she veers toward me then away. I call her name over and over and over and gradually – like Josie to a packet of string cheese – she’s pulled in. When she finally washes up on shore, I’m nearly hoarse.   

Norah has a good shake and when I give her a good pat on the head, I notice that her fur is completely dry from the top of her head down through her shoulder blades. She looks up at me like, what’s the big deal lady? I was just checking things out.

OK, maybe she’s not the Accord of dogs. Maybe she’s something a little sportier. Maybe she’s a Civic. Maybe she’s an Impreza. Maybe she’s an Impreza with a spoiler… and a hood vent.

The Real Deal

These days Josie is always reaching into bags or up to counters or under chairs. When I ask what she’s doing she says I’m lookin’ for (or geddin’ or movin’ or doin’) sumpin’. Then she gives me a look with raised eyebrows that says: ok? She’s not particularly irritated. She does not roll her eyes. She’s speaking as a fellow grown-up. It’s all very mature and her message is clear. She does not need my help.

But, of course, I continue to give it to her in a variety of useful and useless ways. I, for example, collect hair care supplies – combs, clips, beads, head bands, ponytail holders – as if simply owning this equipment will make me a better hair stylist and, by extension, a better mother.

When I recently found out that Josie’s hair stylist (yes, she is too young to have her own stylist) moved out of town, I called around to all the local kiddie salons, asking if they have any African American stylists. No, I’m not looking for someone familiar with black hair; I’m looking for someone with black hair. Yes, that’s right, I’m looking for a real genuine black person. You, blondie, will not do.

I hear about a hair salon that specializes in “kinky, curly or locked hair textures.” Pefect! I ask the woman who answers the phone how old Josie has to be to have her hair cut. The woman asks what Josie needs done. I say she just needs a trim. She says, well, how does she wear her hair now? Is it an afro?

What I think she really means is: are you sure your baby is black because you sure do sound white?

Meanwhile, I’m thinking: what is the technical definition of an afro? Does it mean, super-curly hair worn loose? Or does it have to be a certain size to qualify as an afro? Because Josie’s hair isn’t super-big but it is often unstyled. I have no idea how to answer this question. I am so white. Josie is so doomed.

Eventually the receptionist tells me Josie needs to be about 5 years old and “salon ready.” My child is definitely not 5 years-old, and defiantly not salon ready.

A few days later, I’m walking through the mall and I see a black child waiting in a hair salon. I walk in and ask how old children have to be to have their hair done. Two. Two! Wesley, the brunette at the front desk, tells me she’s familiar with African American hair. Step aside, Wesley, you’re not needed here. I make an appointment with their black stylist.

I come back a few days later with Josie, and I’m a bit nervous. It’s not a kiddie salon and, as I’ve mentioned before, my kid generally does not sit. So I do my best to talk to Josie about it beforehand. To play it up as a special treat – going to the salon. I can see the terror in the stylist’s eyes when we arrive.

We survive the wash and comb-out and the stylist rubs in a little dab of two products – one promises to make her hair smooth and the other to make it shiny. Anxious to learn everything I can, I pick up the bottles, write down the names, and read the instructions. On the back, in all caps, both bottles say HAIR IS FLAMMABLE and should be kept away from cigarettes and open flames. Tap, tap, tap. Excuse me, did you just douse my child in lighter fluid?

Eatin' Sumpin'

When her hair has been dried and while it is being cut and braided she gets a little antsy. I hand her a sticker book and she flips through it like its People Magazine. I ask what she’s looking for, if I can help. I’m doin’ sumpin’ Mommy. Fair enough.  

The Real Deal

By the time she’s finished, Josie’s been in the chair for over an hour. She sat quietly the whole time. I’m so proud. We have a little celebration that includes lots of high-fiving and a few bunny crackers.

The next day is the Sunday before Martin Luther King Day and Paul and I decide the best way to celebrate the day and celebrate black culture is to go to the gospel choir concert at a Baptist church. I dress Josie in her cute dress and tights and shoes, her hair still a bit of braided perfection. We find a seat on the aisle. Josie squirms on Paul’s lap and then mine. She’s turning and twisting, and wants to get down, then wants to be up, then wants raisins, then wants to be with Daddy, then with Mommy, then more raisins.

Then the music really gets going. I mean really going. Everyone is dancing and clapping. I stand with her in my arms and I dance. The choir is loud, beautiful and stunning but the energy in the church is even bigger, even louder. I’m trying to clap and dance and hold her. The bag of raisins falls to the floor. She’s completely still, gripping my arms with her hands, and staring at my clavicle. She’s full and open and focused with every sense except sight as if seeing the choir in their swaying robes would take away from the sound, the energy, the movement.

It looks as if my girl with her flammable braids has started moving toward the place I cannot take her. I wish I could go with her, but I can only hope she’ll give me a glimpse into what it is like to be a black person in America. Maybe by living her experience I’ll learn sumpin’, like how to be a better mother or, if I’m lucky and pay attention, maybe I’ll even learn how to be a better person.