There are so many things I've wanted to write about this week. Last week. Every day. It's been tougher than usual this week to get anything done during the hour or two each day while Michael Alexander naps because I've been plagued by anxiety dreams. Last night was the closest to peaceful rest I've had all week. Today I'm stealing a few minutes, while he naps and I wait for the laundry cycle to finish, to get something down in print.
It's when I'm most exhausted that I feel overwhelmed, and this week has been replete with myriad last-minute requests that have made my personal to-do list seem impossible. Stealing (guilt implied and magnified with second reference) these few minutes to write -- albeit with little direction or cohesive thought -- is about the only thing I can call my own.
Summertime in New York amplifies the class divide. I cringe every time I hear another stay-at-home mom (nearly always with nanny in tow) complain in line ahead of me that she needs whatever it is she needs now because "we will not be summering in the city." Summering? (Don't even get me started on how utterly offensive such behavior is to the woman behind the counter who wishes she could have a single summer day off with her kids!) Professionally it's tough to get top people on the phone, as most key decision makers -- especially those in the financial services ecosystem -- leave it to the grunts (that's Wall Street for mid-level execs) to get anything done while they jitney to the Hamptons or jet away to Bora Bora. Personally, it's painful to endure the tales of long weekends, every weekend, ahead of a full month or more of sun and surf.
I should not (and am ashamed when I do, even silently) complain, as I among one of the most privileged people in the world, what with all that food and shelter and amenities most human beings will never even taste or dream about. But Manhattan, the land of the haves and the have-mores, can transform even the most compassionate soul into a self-loathing want-more.
We're headed to the Cape a week from tomorrow. We've rented a one-bedroom efficiency on a private "resort" on Provincetown Bay. Aaaah ... I cannot wait. We flirted with the fantasy of renting a huge house in Brewster where our friends are staying a week earlier, but the expense -- without another family to share -- was wasteful at best. We pay far too much for rent in a luxury, doorman building. And even though I am a firm believer that you should never pay to stay in a hotel that's not nicer than your home as it's always a disastrous disappointment, that's often impossible -- or at least stupid -- when you take your regular everyday Manhattan expenses into account. If we were wise enough to think ahead and sublet our place for a week, we could easily afford any luxury rental on the Cape. One day, we'll plan ahead and upgrade from a three-figure rental to a four-figure one.
As I await our week of peasant (hahaha) paradise, I am struggling with my aforementioned to-do list, as the tasks I need or want to accomplish (such little luxuries as cleaning out my closet and lugging bags to the charity shop) become more and more daunting as the requests from others mount and my own goals become tougher to attain. I am trying to take deep breaths, to make it all seem doable, but that would require an expanse of time -- like 10 or 15 minutes -- without an email, text series or other digital interference with a personal request of some kind that bumps my tasks off the radar. I treat my days at home like workdays. I prefer phone and email over text, aside from a quick exchange on when and where to meet a playdate; there is NO TV during the day; and Michael Alexander's needs and my freelance assignments (in that order, of course) take precedence over any distractions.
Library story time in the East Village (and, of course, highly-coveted but informal playdates with Michael Alexander's darling friends and their dear parents) may be my only real respite most days, as I have discovered a true community where stay-at-home parents (most without a nanny in tow!) mix with nannies and other caregivers, giving me a sense that I am not alone in this terribly unbalanced world. (More on the dying breed of mommies-sans-nannies to come.) Running errands like grocery shopping can be isolating in a universe where these tasks are often delegated to the nannies while mommies attend to baby-free mommy matters, whatever those may be. Doing laundry in the daytime may be the strangest of all. I can recall maybe a couple occasions (well, not really recall them, but I am sure they have occurred) when another tenant in the building was doing his or her own laundry. It amazes me how those who never go to an office and stay at home all day still send their laundry out to a service. They just drop that red bag off with the doorman and pick it up when they return. And some complain that's too much of a hassle. Really? (In snarkspeak that's "Riiihl-Eee?") So once a week or so, it's me and the housekeepers (a few who double as nannies) in the basement laundry room.
Maybe it's because I wear my first-generation American status like a badge that the housekeepers have always treated me like a peer. It's been nearly 15 months now that I've been home with Michael Alexander, so I've come to know them well. We rarely struggle to communicate, as my Spanglish and pigeon Polish are pretty good. They all adore Michael Alexander. They all confide in me, often about my neighbors. They all offer to help me, though I would never, ever accept such help without providing proper compensation. And they have never, ever offered me their services in exchange for a fee. And I am well aware, through our conversations, that all are seeking additional work. It's as if they know I am living between worlds. A denizen of a luxury doorman building who shudders at the thought of employing sub-wage slaves.
Some days I find this living between worlds amusing. Some days I can laugh at the banal banter of the moms who shriek on smart phones while their nannies chase after their spoiled sons. Other days I am so disgusted, appalled even. And what disgusts me more than bemoaning their existence is when I feel sorry for myself. I really do not want somebody else caring for my son. (I do, however, often miss working full time, but I'll save that for another post.) I consider it a great gift that I can witness Michael Alexander's growth, especially his burgeoning compassion and desire to share with others. It's a quality strangers and playmates' parents notice. They say "it's in his eyes." For that I am so grateful, so proud. There is no greater, truer, human quality than compassion.
We're far from (and may never have access to) the five-figure rentals some of our friends can afford, but I am OK with that. I am excited to see the sea and share a pool with the occupants of eight other humble units for a week. Until then, I'll continue living between worlds, not quite certain where I fit in or if I really want to.
Friday, July 8, 2011
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
Loss, Legacy and Faith
Eight years ago today, my father, Michael William "Brother Mike" Gural, died. I wasn't by his side. I was here, sleeping after an overnight shift at the AP, because I had a horrible boss at the time. Of course I could have insisted on taking more FMLA leave, but I didn't. I will always regret that.
I think it gets harder every year. That pit in my stomach feels as deep as it did on that train ride home to Massachusetts. I weep as mournfully today as I did when I first saw him in a casket in the funeral home, and when the monks lowered it into the ground.
The loss is daunting and profound. Euripides said, "To a father growing old nothing is dearer than a daughter." My father never got to grow old. He worked and worked and then he was diagnosed with cancer. He suffered and then he died. What stings worse is that he never met his precious grandson.
The pain is incomparable. And that's compounded by my ongoing struggle with faith. I was raised in the Russian Orthodox faith, by a devout mother and her parents, who often hosted the hierarchs and other clergy at the homes where I grew up. We made frequent pilgrimages to churches and monaserteries across the Northeast, including the monastery where my father is buried alongside my maternal grandparents.
As Aldous Huxley said, "My father considered a walk among the mountains as the equivalent of churchgoing." We spent many hours on Wilbraham Mountain, a short hike from the cul-de-sac where I grew up and my mother still lives. In the early years, it was often Tex (our purebred German Shepard who had been trained as a state police dog), dad and me, and later my sister, too. As much as I love and seem to need the city to keep me sane, I do miss escaping in the mountain. Names are very important to Russian writers, and to me. (I will take any comparison I can fairly make!) My father's mother was Jadwiga Urbanski (city dweller), and his father was Wolodya Gural (mountaineer). I never met them, but in my heart I will always be a combination of the city woman and the mountain man.
In the end, my father chose to be buried by the Russian Orthodox Church. My mother asked him many times (I heard several) if he was sure, as she didn't want him to compromise his principles or make a mockery of her faith. My father went to church on major holy days and was respectful to my mother's cleric friends. He was a spiritual man, but he believed faith was practiced within oneself, not necessarily within a house of worship. Like Henry David Thoreau said, "Heaven is under our feet as well as over our heads." But in the end, my father insisted he wanted to be buried alongside my mother (they will share a towering grave marker in the shape of an Orthodox cross), and that he would make the required preparations through prayer and confession. Homer said, "All men have need of the gods." I question how those needs change as we get sick and grow old, and what that means to the next generation.
Like Khalil Gibran, my father respected men of all faiths. "I love you when you bow in your mosque, kneel in your temple, pray in your church. For you and I are sons of one religion, and it is the spirit," said Gibran. It's still hard for me to reconcile that, in the end, my father chose to "pray in your church."
It's easy to use science to dismiss religion. It's much harder to use philosophy. In his last days, my father returned to many of his "life texts," re-reading them in what I think was preparation for what lied ahead. I'm struggling to figure out where my faith fits into his final decisions.
"I would rather live my life as if there is a God and die to find out there isn't, than live my life as if there isn't and die to find out there is."
_ Albert Camus
I think it gets harder every year. That pit in my stomach feels as deep as it did on that train ride home to Massachusetts. I weep as mournfully today as I did when I first saw him in a casket in the funeral home, and when the monks lowered it into the ground.
The loss is daunting and profound. Euripides said, "To a father growing old nothing is dearer than a daughter." My father never got to grow old. He worked and worked and then he was diagnosed with cancer. He suffered and then he died. What stings worse is that he never met his precious grandson.
The pain is incomparable. And that's compounded by my ongoing struggle with faith. I was raised in the Russian Orthodox faith, by a devout mother and her parents, who often hosted the hierarchs and other clergy at the homes where I grew up. We made frequent pilgrimages to churches and monaserteries across the Northeast, including the monastery where my father is buried alongside my maternal grandparents.
As Aldous Huxley said, "My father considered a walk among the mountains as the equivalent of churchgoing." We spent many hours on Wilbraham Mountain, a short hike from the cul-de-sac where I grew up and my mother still lives. In the early years, it was often Tex (our purebred German Shepard who had been trained as a state police dog), dad and me, and later my sister, too. As much as I love and seem to need the city to keep me sane, I do miss escaping in the mountain. Names are very important to Russian writers, and to me. (I will take any comparison I can fairly make!) My father's mother was Jadwiga Urbanski (city dweller), and his father was Wolodya Gural (mountaineer). I never met them, but in my heart I will always be a combination of the city woman and the mountain man.
In the end, my father chose to be buried by the Russian Orthodox Church. My mother asked him many times (I heard several) if he was sure, as she didn't want him to compromise his principles or make a mockery of her faith. My father went to church on major holy days and was respectful to my mother's cleric friends. He was a spiritual man, but he believed faith was practiced within oneself, not necessarily within a house of worship. Like Henry David Thoreau said, "Heaven is under our feet as well as over our heads." But in the end, my father insisted he wanted to be buried alongside my mother (they will share a towering grave marker in the shape of an Orthodox cross), and that he would make the required preparations through prayer and confession. Homer said, "All men have need of the gods." I question how those needs change as we get sick and grow old, and what that means to the next generation.
Like Khalil Gibran, my father respected men of all faiths. "I love you when you bow in your mosque, kneel in your temple, pray in your church. For you and I are sons of one religion, and it is the spirit," said Gibran. It's still hard for me to reconcile that, in the end, my father chose to "pray in your church."
It's easy to use science to dismiss religion. It's much harder to use philosophy. In his last days, my father returned to many of his "life texts," re-reading them in what I think was preparation for what lied ahead. I'm struggling to figure out where my faith fits into his final decisions.
"I would rather live my life as if there is a God and die to find out there isn't, than live my life as if there isn't and die to find out there is."
_ Albert Camus
Sunday, June 5, 2011
Blinded by Science? The Odds Narrow
Michael Alexander is suffering from his fourth ear infection in as many months. Mike and I have become pros at diagnosing these, and I knew the pediatrician would prescribe yet another round of tummy-torturing antibiotics this morning. Our normally happy son was inconsolable last night and cried nonstop from midnight until shortly after 4 a.m. His temperature spiked above 104 yesterday, the first sign that the evil infection had returned with a vengeance.
About one in five children with a cold or other respiratory viral infection develops a middle ear infection (acute otitis media) that may range from mild to severe, according to a study published in the February issue of The Pediatric Infectious Disease Journal. Michael Alexander was hit with the first one following a viral infection. When he returned to her office a month later with another ear infection, his pediatrician warned that this could likely become a chronic problem.
According to the study by Dr. Stella U. Kalu and her University of Texas Medical Branch at Galveston colleagues, just 7 percent of the 294 children children ages 6 months to 3 years had inflammation of the eardrum without fluid in the middle ear. In Michael Alexander's case, that fluid is causing hearing loss in both ears. Neither of his eardrums is vibrating at all due to the amount of fluid, said the otolaryngologist, or ear, nose, and throat (ENT) doctor, he saw last week. Among the children studied by Kalu's team, eardrum inflammation was rated mild in 8 percent, moderate in 59 percent and severe in 35 percent. Michael Alexander's infection has been severe in both ears all four times. And now he's got a sinus infection.
The Galveston study said that children with the infection were treated without antibiotics whenever possible. Michael Alexander's case has been so severe, that he's been treated with antibiotics every time. During his last bout we learned he's allergic to Cefdinir, an antibiotic used to treat ear infections, when he broke out in hives on a Sunday afternoon. Now Michael Alexander is a candidate for a tympanostomy, a surgical procedure which involves the insertion of tubes to allow fluid to drain from the middle ear. Mike, who suffered from chronic ear infections as a child, had "the tubes." (Mike also had his adenoids removed, and jokes that's how I could tell him apart from an alien replicant. I explain in the next paragraph why this is no longer a course of action.) A tympanostomy requires a general anesthetic and children typically recover completely within a few hours. The surgeon makes a small incision in the eardrum -- a myringotomy or removal of fluid -- and then inserts a tube to allow continuous drainage of the fluid from the middle ear.
A tympanostomy isn't recommended until a child suffers from four ear infections in six months, but the ongoing treatment with antibiotics in the meantime may not be the best route. I haven't resisted the antibiotics for Michael Alexander because I know it works quickly (save for the allergy) and eases his excruciating pain. A paper in the April Journal of Clinical Microbiology found that in most children with chronic otitis media, biofilms laden with Haemophilus influenzae cling to the adenoids, while among a similar population suffering from obstructive sleep apnea, that pathogen is usually absent. Biofilms are resistant to antibiotics. Earlier clinical studies had suggested that adenoids might be reservoirs for middle ear pathogens, and a 1987 study had suggested that adenoidectomy was effective in treating children prone to middle ear infections. But in 2006, Luanne Hall-Stoodley of the Wellcome Trust Clinical Research Facility in Southhampton, England, found that in children undergoing installation of tympanostomy tubes for treatment of chronic otitis media, the culprit bacteria inhabited biofilms attached to the middle ear mucosa, along with other bacteria that cause ear infections. "We therefore wondered if these pathogens might also form biofilms on the adenoid surface," said Hall-Stoodley.
I'll spare you the nitty gritty science behind the Southhampton team's study, but it's important to note that new treatments are likely to be more effective. "I think that scientists have begun to think about chronic otitis media in a new way, and investigation of the pathogenesis of this complex disease will help in the design of novel therapies that do not depend on antibiotic treatment alone," said Hall-Stoodley. "Chronic middle ear infection can cause hearing impairment, which can affect verbal ability and education in children."
In March, the Centers for Disease Control announced that ear infection diagnoses had plunged by nearly 30 percent over the past 15 years. I wish my son wasn't bucking that trend. As the odds narrow, Mike and I are likely to consent to a tympanostomy when Michael Alexander returns to the ENT in three weeks. For now, I just hope this last dose of antibiotics dulls his pain. I can't bear his cries and my inability to console him. My ears are hurting, too, along with my throat. But it's the pain in my heart that's worse. I'm trying to be well-informed without reading too many articles on the risks and arguments against a tympanostomy. Odds are I'll be blinded by science.
"A science is any discipline in which the fool of this generation can go beyond the point reached by the genius of the last generation." _ Max Gluckman, South African-born British social anthropologist
About one in five children with a cold or other respiratory viral infection develops a middle ear infection (acute otitis media) that may range from mild to severe, according to a study published in the February issue of The Pediatric Infectious Disease Journal. Michael Alexander was hit with the first one following a viral infection. When he returned to her office a month later with another ear infection, his pediatrician warned that this could likely become a chronic problem.
According to the study by Dr. Stella U. Kalu and her University of Texas Medical Branch at Galveston colleagues, just 7 percent of the 294 children children ages 6 months to 3 years had inflammation of the eardrum without fluid in the middle ear. In Michael Alexander's case, that fluid is causing hearing loss in both ears. Neither of his eardrums is vibrating at all due to the amount of fluid, said the otolaryngologist, or ear, nose, and throat (ENT) doctor, he saw last week. Among the children studied by Kalu's team, eardrum inflammation was rated mild in 8 percent, moderate in 59 percent and severe in 35 percent. Michael Alexander's infection has been severe in both ears all four times. And now he's got a sinus infection.
The Galveston study said that children with the infection were treated without antibiotics whenever possible. Michael Alexander's case has been so severe, that he's been treated with antibiotics every time. During his last bout we learned he's allergic to Cefdinir, an antibiotic used to treat ear infections, when he broke out in hives on a Sunday afternoon. Now Michael Alexander is a candidate for a tympanostomy, a surgical procedure which involves the insertion of tubes to allow fluid to drain from the middle ear. Mike, who suffered from chronic ear infections as a child, had "the tubes." (Mike also had his adenoids removed, and jokes that's how I could tell him apart from an alien replicant. I explain in the next paragraph why this is no longer a course of action.) A tympanostomy requires a general anesthetic and children typically recover completely within a few hours. The surgeon makes a small incision in the eardrum -- a myringotomy or removal of fluid -- and then inserts a tube to allow continuous drainage of the fluid from the middle ear.
A tympanostomy isn't recommended until a child suffers from four ear infections in six months, but the ongoing treatment with antibiotics in the meantime may not be the best route. I haven't resisted the antibiotics for Michael Alexander because I know it works quickly (save for the allergy) and eases his excruciating pain. A paper in the April Journal of Clinical Microbiology found that in most children with chronic otitis media, biofilms laden with Haemophilus influenzae cling to the adenoids, while among a similar population suffering from obstructive sleep apnea, that pathogen is usually absent. Biofilms are resistant to antibiotics. Earlier clinical studies had suggested that adenoids might be reservoirs for middle ear pathogens, and a 1987 study had suggested that adenoidectomy was effective in treating children prone to middle ear infections. But in 2006, Luanne Hall-Stoodley of the Wellcome Trust Clinical Research Facility in Southhampton, England, found that in children undergoing installation of tympanostomy tubes for treatment of chronic otitis media, the culprit bacteria inhabited biofilms attached to the middle ear mucosa, along with other bacteria that cause ear infections. "We therefore wondered if these pathogens might also form biofilms on the adenoid surface," said Hall-Stoodley.
I'll spare you the nitty gritty science behind the Southhampton team's study, but it's important to note that new treatments are likely to be more effective. "I think that scientists have begun to think about chronic otitis media in a new way, and investigation of the pathogenesis of this complex disease will help in the design of novel therapies that do not depend on antibiotic treatment alone," said Hall-Stoodley. "Chronic middle ear infection can cause hearing impairment, which can affect verbal ability and education in children."
In March, the Centers for Disease Control announced that ear infection diagnoses had plunged by nearly 30 percent over the past 15 years. I wish my son wasn't bucking that trend. As the odds narrow, Mike and I are likely to consent to a tympanostomy when Michael Alexander returns to the ENT in three weeks. For now, I just hope this last dose of antibiotics dulls his pain. I can't bear his cries and my inability to console him. My ears are hurting, too, along with my throat. But it's the pain in my heart that's worse. I'm trying to be well-informed without reading too many articles on the risks and arguments against a tympanostomy. Odds are I'll be blinded by science.
"A science is any discipline in which the fool of this generation can go beyond the point reached by the genius of the last generation." _ Max Gluckman, South African-born British social anthropologist
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Weeping for Delight?
It's around this time of year that I am paralyzed by a profound sadness. It's been the same for nearly a decade now, yet each year it's somehow a shock and surprise when it strikes. I suddenly think I'm sinking into a deep depression, charting my failures and dismissing any successes. If I rambled on about my daily dilemmas, any mental health professional would be quick to diagnose me with generalized anxiety. But then, just as I'm reading through articles in The American Journal of Psychiatry and comparing myself to test subjects, I realize why the simplest chore seems like a herculean task, why I can't bear my own reflection, why I loathe my very existence.
Just this morning -- when Michael Alexander and I were stuck for some 10 eternal minutes in an elevator that was being repaired -- it was easy to believe the world was conspiring against me. Then it happens again like it does every year. Just as suddenly as I'm hit with sorrow, I'm struck by the sobering reality: I miss my father. He died June 21, 2002. (He was hospitalized for the first time in his life on Memorial Day weekend two years earlier.) It's not as if I forget that date. Or him. He permeates my every thought and feeling, especially when I think of the grandson her never met. Any bullshit about how it gets better as the years go by just makes me hurt more. I don't want it to "get better." I want my dad.
That month or so leading up to Father's Day is staggering. The cards come out the day after Mother's Day and every ad is urging you to buy for dad or a grad. It's inescapable. At least now I have two fathers-in-law and my son is blessed with two living, loving grandfathers. I start trolling for cards that day after Mother's Day, looking for my father's-in-law while inevitably finding the perfect one for my dad. I remember the last one I gave him on June 16, 2002. I sealed it with tears.
It's a punch in the gut -- twice. First when I enter this stage of intense self-loathing and self-inflicted suffering, and again when I realize it's just a phase of mourning. Perhaps I create pain to mask the real emotions, the immeasurable loss, the regret that I wasn't there the day my father died. The lost days, hours, minutes I could have spent with him. It crushes me to think that I chose work over his death bed. When that regret hits, it's like an avalanche. I regret everything I didn't do for people I love and worry that I continue to make too few sacrifices.
I'm cutting this short for fear I will wallow to deeply in my mourning. My father wouldn't want me to cry. "Be strong, Tash," is what he'd say, even as he fought back his own tears. He was a tough guy and he taught me to be one, too. That makes this even tougher. Brother Mike gave me many books to read for many different reasons. Some he called "life texts." Khalil Gibran's The Prophet was one of those. Maybe it's time I re-read it.
"When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight." _ Khalil Gibran
Just this morning -- when Michael Alexander and I were stuck for some 10 eternal minutes in an elevator that was being repaired -- it was easy to believe the world was conspiring against me. Then it happens again like it does every year. Just as suddenly as I'm hit with sorrow, I'm struck by the sobering reality: I miss my father. He died June 21, 2002. (He was hospitalized for the first time in his life on Memorial Day weekend two years earlier.) It's not as if I forget that date. Or him. He permeates my every thought and feeling, especially when I think of the grandson her never met. Any bullshit about how it gets better as the years go by just makes me hurt more. I don't want it to "get better." I want my dad.
That month or so leading up to Father's Day is staggering. The cards come out the day after Mother's Day and every ad is urging you to buy for dad or a grad. It's inescapable. At least now I have two fathers-in-law and my son is blessed with two living, loving grandfathers. I start trolling for cards that day after Mother's Day, looking for my father's-in-law while inevitably finding the perfect one for my dad. I remember the last one I gave him on June 16, 2002. I sealed it with tears.
It's a punch in the gut -- twice. First when I enter this stage of intense self-loathing and self-inflicted suffering, and again when I realize it's just a phase of mourning. Perhaps I create pain to mask the real emotions, the immeasurable loss, the regret that I wasn't there the day my father died. The lost days, hours, minutes I could have spent with him. It crushes me to think that I chose work over his death bed. When that regret hits, it's like an avalanche. I regret everything I didn't do for people I love and worry that I continue to make too few sacrifices.
I'm cutting this short for fear I will wallow to deeply in my mourning. My father wouldn't want me to cry. "Be strong, Tash," is what he'd say, even as he fought back his own tears. He was a tough guy and he taught me to be one, too. That makes this even tougher. Brother Mike gave me many books to read for many different reasons. Some he called "life texts." Khalil Gibran's The Prophet was one of those. Maybe it's time I re-read it.
"When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight." _ Khalil Gibran
Monday, May 2, 2011
Sleeping through History
We put Michael Alexander to sleep at 9 last night. He fell asleep about a half hour later and slept until about 6 this morning, just after Mike left for the gym.
Mike and I went to bed about two hours after our son and slept through the news alerts and press conference.
Ingrained superstition (my mother and her parents were born in Russia) makes it tough to write this, but I think we've solved the sleep problem. (Gasp.) Most nights, Michael Alexander had been waking at 11 or midnight, then again around 3 and again around 5 and 6. It might have been our fault. He had been sleeping in our room and we comforted, even fed (a practice his doctor condemns) him each time he woke, bringing him in our bed to snuggle. Often we'd just stare at him, admiring the way he pushes each of us closer to each edge of our queen size bed. Other times, we'd wake him with the slightest movement. As much as Mike and I love to cuddle with our son in the middle of the night, I knew we needed to make a big, grown-up step. Last night we moved his bed into the "living area" of our one-bedroom apartment.
So far, it's been a perfect morning. I slept (or at least rested, uninterrupted aside from the few trips I made to the living area to check on my slumbering son) a solid 7 hours! Michael Alexander rejected the cereal I tried to feed him, but shared my eggs and salsa, eating a real breakfast without protest. Now he's been playing on his own, allowing me a few precious morning minutes to write.
If things go well, it could be a William Blake day: "Think in the morning. Act in the noon. Eat in the evening. Sleep in the night."
Most days I can't write because I am so tired and all my daytime energy is focused on getting Michael Alexander to eat something besides crackers and keeping him away from household hazards like the stove and toilet. Today I am finding it hard to write because my mind is so clear I can't focus on any single idea. A good problem to have, but one that makes me worry I am just babbling in a state of unexpected energy.
I am forced to focus, though, as Michael Alexander is eager for me to join in his solo play session.
It's fascinating to read today's Facebook posts, some so stupid or self-absorbed I'm inclined to de-friend those posters. Others are funny, pithy or thoughtful, and many reflect on the poster's 9/11 moment.
The decade that's passed since Sept. 11, 2001, has been one of tremendous personal change. It's included the worst of times (the death of my father) and the best of times (my marriage and the birth of my son.)
Only one thing unites these two moments in history -- I slept through both.
On 9/11, I was single and living on the top floor of a walkup on Thompson Street in the Village. My father was in my native Massachusetts, dying of cancer. I was an editor on national desk at AP, working the overnight shift and it was my scheduled night off. I heard the first plane, but ignored it since you hear a lot from the top floor of a walkup. My landline (remember those?) rang and my best friend, Erica, blurted out, "Oh my God, sweetheart! You're OK!" Seconds after I turned on my tiny console TV, the power went out and I quickly threw on the jeans and tank top I was wearing before I went to bed. I was headed east on Houston as the horror became apparent. Survivors covered in soot were running past me, some screaming, some stunned silent, and all looking like statues. I joined the queue for a payphone (remember those?) and waited anxiously for my chance to reach an operator. Most people ahead of me failed, but using a toll-free number I recalled from an ad, I was able to make a collect call to my mother.
I recall the anger, the fear, the rage, the myriad emotions of that moment. My father was dying and now somebody was threatening my right as a (first-generation, on my mother's side) American to live in a country where I was safe from the type of unspeakable violence that wiped out most of my mother's family.
It's strange to revisit those emotions on a day like this, while reveling in the wake of my son's 9-hour rest.
Michael Alexander is calling for "mom-mom." I'm going to try to keep my brain working as I entertain him. My work is play. I don't have to go sit in a cubicle and shut it off.
"The brain is a wonderful organ; it starts working the moment you get up in the morning and does not stop until you get into the office." Robert Frost
Mike and I went to bed about two hours after our son and slept through the news alerts and press conference.
Ingrained superstition (my mother and her parents were born in Russia) makes it tough to write this, but I think we've solved the sleep problem. (Gasp.) Most nights, Michael Alexander had been waking at 11 or midnight, then again around 3 and again around 5 and 6. It might have been our fault. He had been sleeping in our room and we comforted, even fed (a practice his doctor condemns) him each time he woke, bringing him in our bed to snuggle. Often we'd just stare at him, admiring the way he pushes each of us closer to each edge of our queen size bed. Other times, we'd wake him with the slightest movement. As much as Mike and I love to cuddle with our son in the middle of the night, I knew we needed to make a big, grown-up step. Last night we moved his bed into the "living area" of our one-bedroom apartment.
So far, it's been a perfect morning. I slept (or at least rested, uninterrupted aside from the few trips I made to the living area to check on my slumbering son) a solid 7 hours! Michael Alexander rejected the cereal I tried to feed him, but shared my eggs and salsa, eating a real breakfast without protest. Now he's been playing on his own, allowing me a few precious morning minutes to write.
If things go well, it could be a William Blake day: "Think in the morning. Act in the noon. Eat in the evening. Sleep in the night."
Most days I can't write because I am so tired and all my daytime energy is focused on getting Michael Alexander to eat something besides crackers and keeping him away from household hazards like the stove and toilet. Today I am finding it hard to write because my mind is so clear I can't focus on any single idea. A good problem to have, but one that makes me worry I am just babbling in a state of unexpected energy.
I am forced to focus, though, as Michael Alexander is eager for me to join in his solo play session.
It's fascinating to read today's Facebook posts, some so stupid or self-absorbed I'm inclined to de-friend those posters. Others are funny, pithy or thoughtful, and many reflect on the poster's 9/11 moment.
The decade that's passed since Sept. 11, 2001, has been one of tremendous personal change. It's included the worst of times (the death of my father) and the best of times (my marriage and the birth of my son.)
Only one thing unites these two moments in history -- I slept through both.
On 9/11, I was single and living on the top floor of a walkup on Thompson Street in the Village. My father was in my native Massachusetts, dying of cancer. I was an editor on national desk at AP, working the overnight shift and it was my scheduled night off. I heard the first plane, but ignored it since you hear a lot from the top floor of a walkup. My landline (remember those?) rang and my best friend, Erica, blurted out, "Oh my God, sweetheart! You're OK!" Seconds after I turned on my tiny console TV, the power went out and I quickly threw on the jeans and tank top I was wearing before I went to bed. I was headed east on Houston as the horror became apparent. Survivors covered in soot were running past me, some screaming, some stunned silent, and all looking like statues. I joined the queue for a payphone (remember those?) and waited anxiously for my chance to reach an operator. Most people ahead of me failed, but using a toll-free number I recalled from an ad, I was able to make a collect call to my mother.
I recall the anger, the fear, the rage, the myriad emotions of that moment. My father was dying and now somebody was threatening my right as a (first-generation, on my mother's side) American to live in a country where I was safe from the type of unspeakable violence that wiped out most of my mother's family.
It's strange to revisit those emotions on a day like this, while reveling in the wake of my son's 9-hour rest.
Michael Alexander is calling for "mom-mom." I'm going to try to keep my brain working as I entertain him. My work is play. I don't have to go sit in a cubicle and shut it off.
"The brain is a wonderful organ; it starts working the moment you get up in the morning and does not stop until you get into the office." Robert Frost
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
My Invisible Paycheck
Michael Alexander was up from 11 p.m. until 4 a.m., teeming with boundless energy. I was fighting back the tears, struggling to smile while trying to soothe him into a sleeplike state. He finally fell asleep around 4:30, after a crying fit as passionate as his five-hour overnight playfest. He was back up as soon as Mike left for work after returning from his uber-early gym shift. Mike works out and goes to work even earlier on Wednesdays so I can get to the gym on time to secure my spot in favorite abs class that starts at 6:15 p.m.
Michael Alexander appears well-rested, smiling and playing without any apparent interest in a nap. I have devoured a pot of very strong coffee just to keep up with him. I put him in the Jumperoo so I could scribble my barely coherent thoughts. He's learning as he bounces, smiling at me for approval as he meticulously places plastic fruits into the corresponding spots in exchange for a light. That smile is the only thing that's keeping me from crumbling.
My dear friend Kate suggested that maybe he's not sleeping because of a developmental milestone. That's quite possible, as he learned to clap properly during storytime Monday, and was up in the middle of the night flaunting his newly perfected skill. He's also taking more solo steps without wobbling. It is so exciting to witness his rapid progress as he quickly approaches his first birthday. I just wish I could get enough rest to match his exuberance.
Mindy Greenstein, a psycho-oncologist and consultant at Memorial Sloan-Kettering Cancer Center, last week blogged about motherhood. She calls it "the most invisible, undervalued job that I have ever had." No doubt Greenstein commands a fat salary for her work at Memorial. It is probably even more than the estimated (and of course, hypothetical) *salary* for a stay-at-home mom in Manhattan. According to salary.com, the local median for a SAHM in my zip code is $139,888, in a range of $117,583 to $169,794. Even at the low end, that's more than most executive editor jobs I'm qualified for pay. And those figures are for last year, in a report that posts increases every year.
I don't expect a paycheck for my labor of love, but even the most grueling day at the office ends. Here I am, brought to you exclusively by the power of caffeine, focusing purely on my sweet son's smile. I have so much to do around the house, which quickly transforms into a disaster zone after two mostly sleepless nights, but I am expending every ounce of energy to keep Michael Alexander entertained.
I am actively applying for full-time jobs. I've had a few interviews, all positive, until the topic of salary arises. None match the low end of my "typical" SAHM compensation. The most interesting job I interviewed for this week pays a pittance which is less than half of my average salary of the last five years. I just received an email follow up to an interview last week. I wasn't expecting to hear back, as I thought I was out of the game once I'd mentioned at the end of a lengthy interview that I have a nearly year-old son. The job requires the editor to be on call 24/7. I'm already on call 24/7.
I'm grappling with how to reply to this email. Of course I am flattered to emerge as the top contender in a hyper-competitive market. This job doesn't pay the "typical" SAHM rate, but it's enough to offset the cost of childcare. I am tempted, as I struggle with a job title that makes me "invisible," but I shudder to think that reclaiming visibility requires me to be on call when my son needs me most. I am crafting my response now, negotiating for a slightly higher salary and some flexibility over being on call 24/7.
I'm not sure what it will take for me to trade my invisible paycheck for a living wage.
Michael Alexander appears well-rested, smiling and playing without any apparent interest in a nap. I have devoured a pot of very strong coffee just to keep up with him. I put him in the Jumperoo so I could scribble my barely coherent thoughts. He's learning as he bounces, smiling at me for approval as he meticulously places plastic fruits into the corresponding spots in exchange for a light. That smile is the only thing that's keeping me from crumbling.
My dear friend Kate suggested that maybe he's not sleeping because of a developmental milestone. That's quite possible, as he learned to clap properly during storytime Monday, and was up in the middle of the night flaunting his newly perfected skill. He's also taking more solo steps without wobbling. It is so exciting to witness his rapid progress as he quickly approaches his first birthday. I just wish I could get enough rest to match his exuberance.
Mindy Greenstein, a psycho-oncologist and consultant at Memorial Sloan-Kettering Cancer Center, last week blogged about motherhood. She calls it "the most invisible, undervalued job that I have ever had." No doubt Greenstein commands a fat salary for her work at Memorial. It is probably even more than the estimated (and of course, hypothetical) *salary* for a stay-at-home mom in Manhattan. According to salary.com, the local median for a SAHM in my zip code is $139,888, in a range of $117,583 to $169,794. Even at the low end, that's more than most executive editor jobs I'm qualified for pay. And those figures are for last year, in a report that posts increases every year.
I don't expect a paycheck for my labor of love, but even the most grueling day at the office ends. Here I am, brought to you exclusively by the power of caffeine, focusing purely on my sweet son's smile. I have so much to do around the house, which quickly transforms into a disaster zone after two mostly sleepless nights, but I am expending every ounce of energy to keep Michael Alexander entertained.
I am actively applying for full-time jobs. I've had a few interviews, all positive, until the topic of salary arises. None match the low end of my "typical" SAHM compensation. The most interesting job I interviewed for this week pays a pittance which is less than half of my average salary of the last five years. I just received an email follow up to an interview last week. I wasn't expecting to hear back, as I thought I was out of the game once I'd mentioned at the end of a lengthy interview that I have a nearly year-old son. The job requires the editor to be on call 24/7. I'm already on call 24/7.
I'm grappling with how to reply to this email. Of course I am flattered to emerge as the top contender in a hyper-competitive market. This job doesn't pay the "typical" SAHM rate, but it's enough to offset the cost of childcare. I am tempted, as I struggle with a job title that makes me "invisible," but I shudder to think that reclaiming visibility requires me to be on call when my son needs me most. I am crafting my response now, negotiating for a slightly higher salary and some flexibility over being on call 24/7.
I'm not sure what it will take for me to trade my invisible paycheck for a living wage.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day
I didn't wake up with gum in my hair, but it turned out to be a Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day for (Michael) Alexander('s Mom).
Michael Alexander has been battling a cold for a couple days. Mike and I also have been stricken with a stomach flu of some sort, but I will spare you the details. Suffice it to say, it's been a tough few days, the last two with practically no sleep. Our normally happy son couldn't be consoled the last two nights, crying from pain that was clearly beyond the obvious sniffles and cough. I suspected an ear infection and called his doctor's office yesterday. It was booked solid all day, but the nurse offered me the last appointment for today.
I muster enough ambition to drag myself downstairs, lugging laundry, ahead of the appointment. It will be quick, I think, since we have a real appointment and aren't just walking in during the daily sick hour. We'll be back just in time to transfer the loads to dryers. Running through the torrential rain, we arrive at the doctor's office a few minutes early. Michael Alexander is dry thanks to his stroller rain cover. I am drenched, my trench coat rendered useless other than soaking up about five pounds from the deluge. My eyes irritated from the congestion and sinus pressure, I wear my glasses out -- a very rare, and very bad choice. I lock up the stroller and attempt to carry Michael Alexander inside without getting him soggy from my coat.
The office is busy, as expected, and the waiting room is especially cramped as I am the only solo parent to accompany a child. How do these people always get time off? My frustration is compounded when two families arrive with a nanny to assist the couple. What I wouldn't have given to have someone help me haul the car seat and take a taxi, or at least run in for the stroller lock while I watch Michael Alexander. My wet hair plastered to my face, my jeans and sneakers slick, I sit downstairs, feeling inferior among the cabbing couples. We wait nearly two hours. So much for getting back in time for the laundry. My success keeping Michael Alexander dry as I carried him into the office and back to the stroller is squashed when I find someone had removed the rain cover. It was a little windy, but not windy enough to topple the cover. Someone clearly unfastened the Velcro. I cry as I compose my rage.
Michael Alexander is diagnosed with a double ear infection and a slight bronchial infection. We use a nebulizer at the office, and the doctor prescribes one for home, along with Albuterol (a stimulant) and Amoxicillin. The doctor calls the trinity of treatment into Bigelow and I expect to pick up and pay upon arrival. "We got the call, yes," the pharmacist says. "We will fill it now." OK. I'm not sure why it hadn't already been filled, but I am assured it was now being filled "now." A half hour later, I am still soaked, my sore throat raw, my nose running and my head about to implode from the sinus pressure. I am struggling to soothe my son, who now needs a change and more milk. I ask about the order. "Oh, it will be a half hour." Another half hour? I was told it would be filled "now!" Bigelow, by the way, doesn't accept our insurance card, so it's an out-of-pocket payment for a wait that makes the chain stores seem charming. (Well, not really.) At this point, the only thing that keeps me from committing myself to Bellevue is my suffering son. I nearly storm out of the tony landmark chemist, but compose myself enough to raise my voice just enough to speed the process.
Michael Alexander smiles as soon I give him his first dose of antibiotics while I am instructed on how to assemble the nebulizer's tubes and dispense the medication. My son is easily comforted, as the fast-acting antibiotics take nearly immediate effect. It takes me a little longer to regain any semblance of sanity. I'm not quite there yet. More than three hours later, we hustle home, again pounded by rain. The rain, of course, started just before we left in the morning and stopped shortly after we returned home. The trip home seems to take twice as long, as the water-fearing masses huddled under obnoxious oversized umbrellas seem completely oblivious to my need to get home quickly. The slow-walkers, who have no business in a city like New York, are especially loathsome in inclement weather. Those who lurk under awnings and construction canopies are the worst. How pathetic is one's existence if s/he has time to wait for the rain to taper? I am disgusted by this always, and annoyed on a day like today.
I barrel into our building and try to distract Michael Alexander as we head to the basement. I adamantly abhor the practice of leaving loads in the washers and dryers, and I often fantasize about dumping the dissenters' duds onto the floor, but I have only ever carefully placed an abuser's clothes into a cart. (Of course, I curse them under my breath, but I have never taken it out on their washables.) I am more upset than outraged to find one of my wet loads dumped onto the filthy floor. The machine from which they were ejected was not in use, so at least I am able to *quickly* rewash our sheets and towels.
Michael Alexander went down for a nap about 15 minuets ago, but already is tossing and turning. I feel guilty for stealing this time to write, but it might be my only respite in the next few days. Did I mention that Albuterol is a stimulant? I need to administer it three times a day, sanitizing the mouthpiece ahead of every use. He's waking. My 15 minutes are up. The way today's been going, putting away laundry will be my break. At least it's dry.
Michael Alexander's on the mend, albeit slowly, thanks to modern medicine. I just hope this Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day ends with a relaxing evening. And maybe even some sleep! And maybe I'll order Judith Viorst's children's classic. Even the worst days can spur the best literary memories.
Michael Alexander has been battling a cold for a couple days. Mike and I also have been stricken with a stomach flu of some sort, but I will spare you the details. Suffice it to say, it's been a tough few days, the last two with practically no sleep. Our normally happy son couldn't be consoled the last two nights, crying from pain that was clearly beyond the obvious sniffles and cough. I suspected an ear infection and called his doctor's office yesterday. It was booked solid all day, but the nurse offered me the last appointment for today.
I muster enough ambition to drag myself downstairs, lugging laundry, ahead of the appointment. It will be quick, I think, since we have a real appointment and aren't just walking in during the daily sick hour. We'll be back just in time to transfer the loads to dryers. Running through the torrential rain, we arrive at the doctor's office a few minutes early. Michael Alexander is dry thanks to his stroller rain cover. I am drenched, my trench coat rendered useless other than soaking up about five pounds from the deluge. My eyes irritated from the congestion and sinus pressure, I wear my glasses out -- a very rare, and very bad choice. I lock up the stroller and attempt to carry Michael Alexander inside without getting him soggy from my coat.
The office is busy, as expected, and the waiting room is especially cramped as I am the only solo parent to accompany a child. How do these people always get time off? My frustration is compounded when two families arrive with a nanny to assist the couple. What I wouldn't have given to have someone help me haul the car seat and take a taxi, or at least run in for the stroller lock while I watch Michael Alexander. My wet hair plastered to my face, my jeans and sneakers slick, I sit downstairs, feeling inferior among the cabbing couples. We wait nearly two hours. So much for getting back in time for the laundry. My success keeping Michael Alexander dry as I carried him into the office and back to the stroller is squashed when I find someone had removed the rain cover. It was a little windy, but not windy enough to topple the cover. Someone clearly unfastened the Velcro. I cry as I compose my rage.
Michael Alexander is diagnosed with a double ear infection and a slight bronchial infection. We use a nebulizer at the office, and the doctor prescribes one for home, along with Albuterol (a stimulant) and Amoxicillin. The doctor calls the trinity of treatment into Bigelow and I expect to pick up and pay upon arrival. "We got the call, yes," the pharmacist says. "We will fill it now." OK. I'm not sure why it hadn't already been filled, but I am assured it was now being filled "now." A half hour later, I am still soaked, my sore throat raw, my nose running and my head about to implode from the sinus pressure. I am struggling to soothe my son, who now needs a change and more milk. I ask about the order. "Oh, it will be a half hour." Another half hour? I was told it would be filled "now!" Bigelow, by the way, doesn't accept our insurance card, so it's an out-of-pocket payment for a wait that makes the chain stores seem charming. (Well, not really.) At this point, the only thing that keeps me from committing myself to Bellevue is my suffering son. I nearly storm out of the tony landmark chemist, but compose myself enough to raise my voice just enough to speed the process.
Michael Alexander smiles as soon I give him his first dose of antibiotics while I am instructed on how to assemble the nebulizer's tubes and dispense the medication. My son is easily comforted, as the fast-acting antibiotics take nearly immediate effect. It takes me a little longer to regain any semblance of sanity. I'm not quite there yet. More than three hours later, we hustle home, again pounded by rain. The rain, of course, started just before we left in the morning and stopped shortly after we returned home. The trip home seems to take twice as long, as the water-fearing masses huddled under obnoxious oversized umbrellas seem completely oblivious to my need to get home quickly. The slow-walkers, who have no business in a city like New York, are especially loathsome in inclement weather. Those who lurk under awnings and construction canopies are the worst. How pathetic is one's existence if s/he has time to wait for the rain to taper? I am disgusted by this always, and annoyed on a day like today.
I barrel into our building and try to distract Michael Alexander as we head to the basement. I adamantly abhor the practice of leaving loads in the washers and dryers, and I often fantasize about dumping the dissenters' duds onto the floor, but I have only ever carefully placed an abuser's clothes into a cart. (Of course, I curse them under my breath, but I have never taken it out on their washables.) I am more upset than outraged to find one of my wet loads dumped onto the filthy floor. The machine from which they were ejected was not in use, so at least I am able to *quickly* rewash our sheets and towels.
Michael Alexander went down for a nap about 15 minuets ago, but already is tossing and turning. I feel guilty for stealing this time to write, but it might be my only respite in the next few days. Did I mention that Albuterol is a stimulant? I need to administer it three times a day, sanitizing the mouthpiece ahead of every use. He's waking. My 15 minutes are up. The way today's been going, putting away laundry will be my break. At least it's dry.
Michael Alexander's on the mend, albeit slowly, thanks to modern medicine. I just hope this Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day ends with a relaxing evening. And maybe even some sleep! And maybe I'll order Judith Viorst's children's classic. Even the worst days can spur the best literary memories.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)