The Stroller Ballet

“I don’t eat fish,” Peanut informed me rather succinctly last week, as I began to prepare salmon for dinner.

Well, then.

I gave her my stock answer, “but fish is delicious! like candy, really!”, to which she responded with her stock face (sour). Cajooling and bribery aside, I eventually relented and gave her a piece of chicken. Still, for the duration of the meal she continued to ask (with each forkful) “is this fish?” Every bite might have been a piece of salmon, after all (the horror).

Peanut is a recovering picky eater. A gradually recovering picky eater. Over the last several months she’s become less averse to many foods, trying different veggies and even a few green things (she used to be allergic!). But fish is, apparently, still off the table. Always shocking to us as parents. I’ll try just about anything, and my Chinese husband eats literally EVERYTHING.

Then, last night, I decided to make these. Looks like a chicken tender, but shaped like a fish (I’ll let you in on a little secret: it’s fish). Peanut was eager to finish off her meal (I’m sure the promise of a post-dinner jello helped).

Deceitful? Perhaps. Although I’m fairly certain that Peanut is trying to pull my leg a full 97% of the time (so I don’t feel overly terrible).

And there’s a strong message in this experience, of course.

Animal shapes will take you far in life.

Your three year old gets a hold of your iphone.

(And you find the evidence.)

I remember having a conversation with my husband, shortly after Peanut was born. We discussed – and came to a mutual agreement – that we would never, NEVER, dress any of our children in paraphernalia with cartoon characters (including, but not limited to t-shirts, shorts, socks and shoes). I think this may have been right around the time that we decided we’d avoid Disney World at all costs; instead we’d take cultural trips with our young kids (like to Europe).

Yes. We were delusional. Chalk it up to being pre-parents.

Still. I have a closet full of scratchy princess dresses, but I’ve (mostly) managed to avoid the dreaded cartoon characters. In a moment of temporary insanity my husband picked up a Dora top for Peanut in Las Vegas; she wore it threadbare. That’s been gone for a while, though. Thankfully.

Last week we were visiting my parents. My mom took Peanut on a little field trip to Target (suburban! megastore!) They returned with several bags filled with treasures (junk), including a grass (plastic) hula skirt/lei, and hello kitty dinner set. The last item selected by Peanut was an Ariel swimsuit, blue and green. Lamé. She held it up against her torso, grinning. “It fits!!” she shrieked, having never tried the suit on (translation: it MUST fit). She wriggled into that suit with all her might, and collapsed into a tupperware bin of water, “a pool!” (identified as such by Peanut herself). The suit has since accompanied us on several water-based outings.

I’ve turned a corner. Or, I suppose, she’s turned a corner.

Love.

I’m not completely sure how I filled my free time before children, to tell you the truth. What exactly did I spend Saturday and Sunday doing? Or the evenings? I know I used to enjoy television. I’m certain my viewing choices didn’t involve anything with small guinea pigs or cartoon characters that bounce on their tails.

I spent time alone! (Alone!) I used to get bored! (Bored!)

What I – and every mother on the continental United States – wouldn’t give for a thorough understanding of the words alone and boredom now. Sadly, they’ve left my vernacular.

Having a child has always been busy, but now we’ve entered the world of imaginative play. And it’s infiltrated every aspect of our being.

Yesterday afternoon I was joined at the park by a sea turtle (one that propelled itself on it’s stomach around the perimeter of my blanket). I played the role of a “mama turtle” and “pirate”, alternately (and as instructed). This afternoon I celebrated three birthday parties; one for a kitten, one for a puppy, and one for a bunny (multiple animal guests attended each). We baked several cakes (all quick cooking; ready in 5 seconds or less). In the past 24 hours I’ve been in the presence of a princess, a mermaid, and a train conductor, all in costume (we’re equal opportunity here).

If my pre-child self could only see me now. So consuming. So exhausting.

But so utterly incredible.

First night in her new big girl bed.

I’ve been pretty vocal about my plans to keep Peanut in a crib forever, or at least until the age of sixteen. A crib is confining, and does not allow my 3 year old to come “visit” on a whim. Plus, we’d never had an argument, an attempt to escape, a complaint. I have friends whose children were jumping from cribs at eighteen months. Not Peanut. It’s basically worked for us, pretty seamlessly.

A few days ago I was putting Peanut to bed after bath, the usual routine. We’d returned only an hour or so earlier from a dinner-time play-date at a friend’s home. As Peanut lay down in her crib, she stroked the bars. “A has a big girl bed,” she said, “L too”. “I have a baby bed,” she sighed, sadly. “I want to sleep in a big girl bed.” I’m not sure how, or when she realized that she was one of the only ones left in a crib. She’d seen her friend’s beds on countless occasions, never commenting, never wondering, never questioning. In fact, she’d often explained, “my bed is called a crib”. That was her normal.

But last week, she decided it was time. And, I suppose, it is.

It was a moment. A moment when Peanut realized she’s ready for the next stage, even if I’m not entirely.

I’m guessing this won’t be the last time. I know this won’t be the last time.

That’s the reality of sleep.

And of parenthood.

Just when you think you’ve left “that” phase,

“This” happens.

A friendly reminder.

I haven’t written about my birth story much on this blog; suffice to say it was long. After 12 hours of labor and 3 of pushing, I ended up with a cesarean section due to a narrow pelvic opening; Peanut’s head was unable to engage through my pelvis. My ob/gyn, in practice for over 40 years, cautioned me against ever trying for VBAC; in my situation it just won’t work. Post-surgery I had the luxury of recovering in a state of the art hospital with qualified nursing care.

Women in some parts of the world aren’t as lucky.

The statistics are sobering. Each year, more than 340,000 women around the world die due to childbirth-related complications.  Out of every 100,000 live births in Guatemala there are an estimated 290 deaths; in Liberia the death rate is 994. Compared this to only 14 deaths out of 100,000 live births in the developed world. Most of these maternal deaths could be prevented with basic supplies that would ensure hygienic births.

Saving Mothers, a program spearheaded by Dr. Taraneh Shirazian, Director of Global Women’s Health at Mount Sinai, aims to give these underserved women and their health care providers the tools they need to reduce maternal mortality and morbidity. Saving Mothers’ Clean Birth Kits include basic materials chosen to prevent the infections that lead to maternal death as well as detailed pictorial instructions to the kits to make them easier to use and understand.

And you can help.

Saving Mothers has recently launched a text message campaign asking for a $5 donation by texting “MOTHERS” to 50555 to help pay for additional kits.

Dr. Shirazian and her team will bring these birth kits to Guatemala, Liberia, and other countries in need as part of their program to help educate the traditional birth attendants and midwives who currently provide obstetric care.

I sent my text…will you?

I’ve been blessed with a pretty good sleeper. Of course, we all have our bumps in the road – weeks or months involving night-time wake ups and such. But when I look at the past three years, on average, things have been pretty good. Part of that may have to do with my decision to keep Peanut in a crib until the age of thirteen (she’s never tried to get out!), but I’d also like to think it’s partially inherent.

This spring, however, things changed. Every morning several birds, perched on the large tree in my patch of front lawn, begin their morning song early. Far too early. I feel like I’m sleeping in the Audubon Jungle; at 5:30am. And the time seems to only be creeping backwards. Two nights ago I woke to a very loud chirping…at 3:45am. It’s horrifying, really.

Of course, Peanut knows roosters (and heck, any type of bird) mean it’s time to rise (what self-respecting three year old doesn’t?). So, when the birds are up, so is she.

“Do you think you could try and pretend the birds aren’t there?” I asked her.

“I told birds…go away! They fly away. And I sleep longer and longer,” she responded.

Apparently she’s already taken care of the problem.

Thanks, P.