Tragic Sandwich

Category: Parenting

  • Life With Father

    Bio Girl has a post about the father-daughter weekend her dad requested for his birthday. It sounds like a great weekend–and a wonderful birthday gift.

    I did something similar, although it wasn’t for a birthday. Mr. Sandwich and I dated long-distance for our entire dating relationship–he lived in L.A., and I lived in New Jersey. When we got married, we figured that people were going to have to travel no matter where we held the ceremony.

    So we held it in San Antonio, where my dad lived. My dad was our wedding planner (much of his career was spent in project management, and he spent 30 years in the Army, so this meant that he had a budget, a schedule, a goal, and protocol–it was a natural fit). He and I have very similar taste, so it was easy for me to delegate, well, pretty much everything, particularly since I was halfway across the country.

    The bikes were my idea, but he’s the one who painted one of them red.

    But there’s always more to do, and I had to move across the country anyhow, so I gave notice at work for a date one month prior to the wedding and moved home.

    The movers emptied my New Jersey apartment, and I spent a day cleaning. The next day, I went to the airport and picked up my dad. The two of us spent several days (3 or 4, maybe?) on a father-daughter road trip, driving back to San Antonio. While our overall goal was to cover miles, we also took one “detour” each day–such as when we passed through Maryland and swung by the house that he and my mom had bought after I was born.

    Honestly, I don’t remember the route we took south of Richmond–did we take I-85 because it was more direct, or I-95 because we were less likely to encounter snow? (Although it did snow at one point in Virginia and/or North Carolina.) What I do remember is the moment when my father, a lifelong objector to any kind of “potty humor,” suddenly started singing “The Diarrhea Song.” It felt like a crazy, tacit acknowledgement of my adult status–he could now be silly and crass without having to worry about the example he might be setting. At other points we recounted family stories and debated political issues. (Clearly, we have range.)

    Once back in San Antonio, we began the final days of wedding planning in earnest–fittings, printing the programs for the church and the table cards for the reception, ordering the custom dark chocolate wedding favors (the chocolatier was another retired Army officer, so let’s all agree to lay down our stereotypes and go home), and more. My dad pointed out that it would be very easy to get overwhelmed by planning, so every day we rented a movie that had nothing to do with weddings. It was a great month, and I’m so glad that I spent it that way. Even then, I said, “I’m never going to look back and say, ‘Wow, I really wish I’d worked a few more weeks.’”

    So when Bio Girl says, “You never outgrow your parents,” I know exactly what she means. And I totally agree.

  • Having It All, or Not, or What?

    So between Sheryl Sandberg, Elizabeth Wurtzel, Anne Marie Slaughter, and more, there’s a lot of talk about whether women can “have it all.”

    The more I think about it, the more I think that phrase is meaningless. What is “all”? Is it work-life balance? Because that’s so individual–and depends on so many factors that we don’t truly control–that I’m not sure I believe in it.

    Sylvia

    But I have come across two statements that really resonate with me. The first is from Taiia Smart Young, who writes on My Brown Baby about choices, and “having what matters.”

    The second is from Emily Rosenbaum, who in “Having It All” writes:

    You want to talk about what matters to me as a feminist? Fistulas, FGM, rape, slavery, prostitution, domestic violence, healthcare, living wages, and maybe a bit of clean drinking water. Not whether some woman at Facebook thinks I should be holding down a full-time job.

    Yeah. That sounds about right.

    Photo by garryknight, via Flickr.

  • All the Single Ladies

    Sometimes it takes me a while to get around to certain topics. It’s not that I don’t have a lot to say about reproductive rights or access to health care or marriage equality–it’s that I spend so much time ranting to Mr. Sandwich that by the time I think, “Hey, I should post something about this,” I’ve missed the boat.

    But one topic that comes up on a regular basis is the influence of single mothers on society. Last year a Pew Research poll said that Americans think single motherhood is bad for society. Earlier this year, Rick Santorum said, “We are seeing the fabric of this country fall apart, and it’s falling apart because of single moms.”

    And it’s not just the last couple of years. Remember this guy?

    I’m fortunate to have a loving husband who is a committed and involved father. And I know how much effort the two of us put into being the kind of parents we want to be. Every day, I think about how hard parenthood would be without Mr. Sandwich, and I am in awe of single mothers. Years ago, as a nanny, I realized that the ideal ratio is three adults to one toddler. Three. I am serious. Doing this as one? Amazing.

    I have friends and family members who are or have been single mothers. They love their children just as much as Mr. Sandwich and I love Baguette. They want the same things for their children that we want for her–health, success on their own terms, fulfillment, happiness, love, and more. They are wonderful parents.

    And you know who else I think would take issue with Rick Santorum and that distressing percentage of Americans in the Pew Research poll?

    George Washington. Thomas Jefferson. Andrew Jackson. Andrew Johnson. Rutherford B. Hayes. James Garfield. Herbert Hoover. Barack Obama.

    That’s right. Of our 43 presidents*, 8 were raised without a father for key years of their childhood or adolescence.

    Single mothers are destroying America? I don’t think so. Bad parenting might be, but that comes in all kinds of numbers. Single mothers raise presidents. And they’ve been doing it from the very beginning.

    *I’m only counting Grover Cleveland once, which is why this number isn’t 44.

  • Talking Points

    Mr. Sandwich: We’ll try to strike a happy medium between oppressive control and Lord of the Flies chaos.

    Me: I miss Brontosaurus.
    Mr. Sandwich: What do you mean?
    Me: They got rid of them. Now they’re Apatosaurus.
    Mr. Sandwich: What? Why?
    Me: Some kind of nomenclature thing.
    Mr. Sandwich: F*%k these “Pluto’s not a planet” people.

    Mr. Sandwich: The flooring in Gwyneth Paltrow’s home is made of stones from a Peruvian schoolhouse. In other news, the Peruvian children are now going to school in a tent.

    Mr. Sandwich: “Toddler injured by piranhas?” Who lets a baby play near a piranha tank? Well, we are officially not the worst parents ever.

  • Date Night?

    Do you go on regular Date Nights? We don’t.

    The last movie Mr. Sandwich and I saw in the theater was True Grit.

    Hey, it could be worse. It could have been the John Wayne version. Now that would have been a long time since Date Night.

    And that was our last movie, not our last evening out. We did go out to dinner for our anniversary in March, and had a wonderful time. That dinner, by the way, was something we’d been talking about doing since Mr. Sandwich’s birthday. In 2010.

    Do I think that parents need to connect with each other in ways that aren’t focused on their children? Yes, absolutely. Do I think that we need to have Date Night to do that? No, not in the slightest.

    When Mr. Sandwich and I started dating, he traveled to meet my parents. (This was our third date. It didn’t indicate anything about our relationship, it’s just how things went.) They showed him around town, and at one point, he said, “I feel bad leaving your parents in the car.” I said, “Oh, don’t worry about them. For them, retirement is one big date.”

    Mr. Sandwich took that to heart. We have what we call “Home Depot dates.” What do we do? We go to Home Depot. To us, spending time together is a date, no matter who else is there, or where we are.

    Our entire relationship was long-distance. What that meant was that when we actually managed to be together, what we wanted to do was be together. One of us would fly across the country. We’d spend the day meeting friends and touring the local area. In the evening, we’d go back to the apartment and eat pizza or Chinese food while watching TV shows we both liked, and talking about them.

    Exciting? Maybe not to some, but it suited us, and it still does.

    We like to go to the movies. We don’t get there as often as we’d like–we missed Bridesmaids and Captain America and The Hunger Games, and it’s looking like we’re going to miss The Avengers, which is really disappointing.

    But at some point, no doubt, Amazon Prime streaming will come to our rescue, and we’ll catch up on what we’ve missed. It won’t be the same as the big screen, but we’ll see them together and talk about them.

    Sounds like the perfect Date Night to me.

  • My Balance, Revisited

    Nearly a year ago, I was inspired by a post by Oil and Garlic to write about my balance. So, where do we stand now?

    1. What’s your work schedule?

    I still drop Baguette off at 7 so I can be at work at (or around) 8, and I still work until 5 and am home a little after 6. All of this is likely to change on Friday, however, because the Rampture is coming–and that means all bets are off. I have no idea what my commute will be like for the next year, except that I know it won’t be good.

    2. How do you handle childcare?

    We still love Baguette’s day care. Mr. Sandwich’s parents come over to help around the house, but are less likely to babysit on weekend evenings; they have their own busy schedules, and it’s a lot harder to keep up with a toddler than it was to monitor an infant. However, one of her favorite teachers left the day care (not for reasons that concern us), and we’ve had her over for a get-reacquainted evening so that she can sit for us on occasion.

    3. What do you find best about your current set-up?

    It works, but just barely. Because of our jobs and commutes, we just don’t have enough time with her on workday evenings. We get home, go for a walk, eat dinner, give her a bath (while the other person fixes lunches for the next day), play a little, and go to bed. There just isn’t a lot of leeway in that schedule. But at least we have a routine.

    4. What advice would you give to other moms about the juggle?

    It doesn’t last forever–at least, not in this form. For a long time, I barely cooked at all. Now, I can manage to make a big batch of food in the slow cooker on Sundays, and that means lunches for several days that week. But being able to do that, which previously I could not, tells me that some day I will be able to cook meals with more than one dish.

    5. Do you think the juggle is harder for women than for men?

    Yes. There are no Daddy Wars, not even in the media.

  • 5 Things I Found While I Was Looking Around: Father’s Day Edition

    Five Ounces

    Father’s Day on Wikipedia

    Stories that make no sense in the era of DNA testing, on IMDB.

    Even the Google Doodle is getting in on the Father’s Day action on The Guardian.

    Photo by pirate johnny, via Flickr.

    Happy Father’s Day, everyone!

  • It’s Not Rat Poison*

    I had such big plans.

    I was going to nurse. There would be no sugar water or formula in the hospital. I would breastfeed throughout my maternity leave and pump after I went back to work.

    That’s not how things actually worked out.

    Baguette got sugar water in the hospital to supplement the meager colostrum that I produced. There, and after we were home, I nursed her every two hours during the day, and every three at night. And every time, after about five minutes, she would fall asleep, and I couldn’t wake her back up to continue. So I nursed her every time she woke up, but never for very long.

    An acquaintance came over with dinner and told me that the weight charts were based on formula-fed babies, and that “Mommy produces all the colostrum and milk that baby needs.” I know she meant to be supportive. But she just racheted up my stress level to the point where I couldn’t produce any milk at all, and drove to the store for formula, sobbing because I couldn’t feed my baby.

    Once I calmed down and got a little rest, I was able to start again. But it still wasn’t easy, and she was still hungry all the time.

    On the way to her five-day well-baby appointment, we decided to rent a pump. At the appointment, the pediatrician told us that Baguette had lost 13% of her weight since birth. We picked up the pump on the way home. While Mr. Sandwich filled out the paperwork, I went to the lactation room in the back of the store to nurse, and picked up a few tips from the lactation counselor who happened to be there.

    From then on, this is what my schedule looked like:

    • Baguette wakes up.
    • Change Baguette’s diaper.
    • Nurse Baguette for as long as she’d stay awake.
    • Change Baguette’s diaper again.
    • Pump for 40 minutes.
    • Have 10 minutes to do something (eat? use the bathroom? change my clothes? only one, though).
    • Baguette wakes up.

    Every two hours.

    At night, it was every three hours. I would nurse Baguette at 11 and then sleep until 2. Mr. Sandwich would sleep from 2 until 5, when she needed to nurse again. One week, my dad and stepmom were in town, and that meant that I got to go back to bed at 5 after I’d nursed Baguette one more time. On a good morning, she wouldn’t need to be fed again until 8 a.m.

    Many times, I was only able to get a fraction of an ounce into her. And so we began to supplement with that formula I’d bought. I continued to nurse and pump, but by the time she was two months old, I was pumping all day to get one ounce.

    Just looking at the pump made me feel guilty. Every time I saw it, I would think, “I should be pumping.” Except that then I looked at Baguette, who was just starting to take an interest in the world around her, and I thought, “I should be playing with her. And I can’t do that if I’m pumping.”

    So at two months, I put the pump away, and she became an all-formula baby.

    Here’s the thing: I’ve never judged another mom for whatever choice she made regarding formula or breast milk. I’ve always felt that they were doing what was best for them, their child, and their family. But I did judge myself. And that makes no sense. Because throughout my pregnancy, I had my big plans to nurse. But I also said, “I don’t know what’s going to happen, and my ultimate goal is Fed Baby.”

    Mr. Sandwich could not have been more supportive. He did everything else that needed to be done so that I could focus on nursing. He reminded me that he and his sisters–all athletes, all healthy, and all intelligent–were entirely formula-fed. He assured me that what our daughter needed most of all was not breast milk, but Sane Mommy.

    And he pointed out: “It’s formula. It’s not rat poison.”

    My daughter is fed and healthy. This is the solution that worked best for us. Breast may be best, but formula is fine.

    *And here you thought this was going to be another post about the mouse!

  • This Explains a Lot

    Thing One and Thing Two

    Second photo by hummingcrow, via Flickr.

  • Adventures in Scrapbooking

    Genealogy Scrapbooking at Archivers

    Meagan Francis’s post “Confessions of a scrapbooking dropout” on Babble.com got me thinking about my own love-hate relationship with the activity.

    And to start with, “hate” applies to the mental energy it requires, not to the process or results. In other words, I enjoy creating scrapbooks. I just don’t enjoy thinking about them.

    My mother used to make yearly scrapbooks for our family. I’ve always enjoyed flipping through them, and at some point we started working on them together, because she had such a backlog. We didn’t get very far, though; the last family scrapbook covered the year 1978, and I’m pretty sure we were at least 10 years behind.

    Mr. Sandwich and I were married in 2004; we bought a photography package that provided us with all the negatives and digital files, and a full set of prints. I have yet to make a wedding album from them.

    I also inherited all the archival family photos. And by “archival,” I mean that they go back to the late 1800s. A stunning number survived WWII in the Philippines. I’ve gotten my mother’s side of the family up to the 1950s, but have yet to start on my father’s.

    What holds me up, regardless of which set we’re talking about, is the thought of the physical process: identifying and sorting photos so that I know what goes where, and who is in them. And it’s not just photos. There are ticket stubs, theater programs, newspaper articles, and brochures from places we went.

    And then there are papers and stickers and colored pens and any manner of embellishments that (apparently) everyone but me can use to create a scrapbook page that is a work of art. Seriously, I’m good with the funny captions, but I have the design capabilities of an untrained capybara.

    The pressure! It’s too much!

    But then I took another look at the scrapbooks I love from my childhood. They were mostly photos and captions. My mother didn’t use themed paper with coordinating accessories–those simply weren’t available to her. And not once have I looked at her scrapbooks and thought, “This page of photos from my Girl Scout camping trip would be better if it had a sticker of a tent.”

    So I’ve stopped worrying about that. I’ll use the materials I have, but I’m not going to buy any more. I don’t need the anxiety or the expense. For more recent digital photos, I’ll create photo books on Shutterfly.com (although that method comes with its own lengthy selection process, because WOW do we have a lot of digital pictures).

    And those archival family photos? I’ll scan them to share with the rest of the family. I think we should all have them.

    Photo by Valerie Renee, via Flickr