Get Your Nose Out of My Baby's Ears

Over the weekend, my mother, my MIL, and I took V to get her ears pierced. For the entire week before, V had been pointing to her ears saying "pretty pretty" in anticipation and excitement. And now, she can proudly display her pierced lobes (a fine job done by Claire's at the mall).

This did not seem like a controversial thing to do; lots of babies have pierced ears. But I got a lot of disapproving looks, free advice, and unsolicited opinions from people ranging from my nanny ("she's too young, it's going to hurt her a lot") to my sister-in-law ("it's not right to do that to her when she's not old enough to make an informed decision of whether she really wants it") to random acquaintances ("the ears will definitely get infected - is that what you want to put her through?", "she's going to grow up vain"). Wow.

Thanks everyone for your kind words and obvious concern for my daughter's well-being. I need to clarify that I had her ears pierced; I did not have her labia cut off or her feet bound. I know - fine distinction, slippery slope, blah blah blah. It's just weird to me that people would have such a strong opinion about somebody else's kid's ear lobes. Has anyone encountered the same reaction?

I'm just glad I didn't tell all these people about having E circumcised, that probably would have created a maelstrom of rebukes and dirty looks.

Tales of the High Seas, or the Perils of Cruising with Small Children, Call It What You Want, Just Don't Call It Vacation

There are times when things go so inexplicably awry that there is no point in trying to assign blame or divine the underlying root cause. You just chalk it up to the universe telling you that it is your turn to - in the words of a close friend - serve as a cautionary tale to others.

So it was with our recent holiday vacation cruising in the Caribbean. Now you say, "Shut up! You're on a cruise in the Caribbean. I so do not weep for you." OK, save your tears for the end of this post.

Let us begin by reviewing that darling son E and adorable daughter V are ages three years and nineteen months, respectively. The cruise was my mother's idea, because she had already planned to cruise with my aunts and uncles and she "couldn't bear to be away from the grandchildren on Christmas." So she bought our cruise tickets back in March.

Fast forward to the week before we leave. My cousin, who lives down the street and shall remain nameless, had agreed to dog sit for us back at Thanksgiving. Lo and behold, on the Monday night before we leave, his mother calls to say he can no longer do it. Excuse me? The reason: a much better offer to go snow-boarding with his buddies. I call back and as politely as I can, light into my aunt about responsibility and giving enough notice and what are you teaching your son when you don't even make him call his own cousin back and tell her in person that you are bailing at the last minute. Thus begins the frantic search for dog-sitters. Calls are made to kennels, friends, other relatives. But let's face it, it's the week before Christmas and our friends have plans and the kennels are already booked. Then fate intervenes: a friend from our Furry Friends volunteer group offers to have the dogs stay with her. The day before we leave, we get a Christmas miracle. The dogs ended up having a wonderful time staying with their buddy Rosie.

We are duped into thinking that the dog-sitting miracle and the extremely well-behaved children on the flight out to Florida are signs that the cruise is going to be fun. I even jokingly tell my husband, "The flight out is going to be the highlight of this whole trip." Little did I know...

It would be wrong to say that the whole trip was miserable. We had some really fun moments (zip-lining in Costa Rica, hanging out with my family, shopping in Cozumel) insterspersed between:

E getting a rash over his entire body for the first week of this 12-day adventure. We never figured out what caused it, but he was itchy and grumpy. We had to restrict his diet (due to his numerous food allergies) in a vain attempt to stem the red bumps and the incessant scratching. E looked at me like I was the second coming of Hitler when I had to tell him no more Fruit Loops for breakfast or bread sticks at dinner (due to his mild wheat allergy).

In addition to the rash, E also got a yeast infection. Yes, there. Poor guy. He couldn't even walk in the Grand Cayman because it hurt so much. He strolled around in V's stroller. On Christmas Eve, I took him to the ship's doctor, who prescribed Vagisil and oral antibiotics. Total cost of visit: $100 - the most expensive tube of Vagisil I've ever bought.

E's health issues did not end there. He got food poisoning in Costa Rica (as did I and a few others), and ended up puking that night.

We tried to take E to the ship's children's program, the "Fun Factory", which had craft stations, video games, board games, a wading pool, a ball pit, slides, and a stage and costumes for pretend play. But E, being shy and adverse to trying new things, did not like it. We tried to entice him to go many times the first few days until he finally told me matter-of-factly, "Mommy, I don't like the Fun Factory. It's not fun for me, it's not my kind of fun." Well, how could I make him go back after he told me that? But don't think it wasn't the looming threat every time he acted out. One night, he was throwing a tantrum at dinner. A girl at another table also had a screaming fit, and we saw her father storm out of the dining room with the girl kicking and screaming over his shoulder. "See that? He's taking her to the Fun Factory because she's not listening to her Mommy and Daddy! Maybe we should take you, too!"

Not to be outdone by her big brother, V had issues of her own. Like screaming at the top of her lungs every night at about 3am. Sometimes for a long time. Once, she cried so long that neighboring cabins complained to Guest Services. At 4:30am I got a call from the concierge asking if we could do something about our baby. "Please pick her up or something," the lady on the other end of the phone said. Oh, picking her up? Was that the secret to making her stop? We fed her, changed her, rocked her, walked her, shushed her, sang to her, gave her her monkey buddy and turned on her music box - all we needed to do was pick her up? You can imagine how we received that feedback after dealing with her screaming for 90 minutes.

V also refused to sit in her high chair at meal times. She would take all that fancy silverware and fling it. Or scream. She's good at screaming because she gets lots of practice. My husband and I ended up having to take turns eating while the other held darling daughter, lest she throw a colossal tantrum. (The Fun Factory threat did not work on her, as they do not take kids who are not potty-trained.)

Among the things both children protested: being forced to dress up for dinner; having to eat dinner at 6:00pm, at which time they are not actually hungry; having fruit juice restricted from their diet after day 8, when we realized that the crash from a sugar high made all the aforementioned worse; having only one channel to watch on the stateroom TV (Cartoon Network - en Espanol! "Mommy, what are they saying?!"); having to wake up by a certain time to get to breakfast; and generally, having to spend all day and night with Mommy and Daddy (I heard, "Mommy, I don't love you. Go away! I want Grandma!" more times than any mother should have to hear in her life). Actually, I'm with you on that one, kids!

Where was Grandma in all of this, you may ask? The mastermind behind all of this was there, caving in to every request (candy canes and ice cream for dinner? Why not - it's Christmas time!) and winding the kids up to a frenzy so that they could be returned to us in a hyper and truculent state. She did baby sit for us, for which we were very grateful, but most of the time, she was hanging with my family (Mah Jong rules!) or going out on excursions.

Ironically, on Christmas day, my parents booked dinner at the specialty (read: fancy-pants and not suitable for kids) restaurant on-board, and we spent Christmas dinner on our own. It was a formal dinner, which the kids hated being dressed for, and I can't say that I was thrilled with dressing up either, seeing as how the clasp on V's shoes got caught on my cocktail dress and ruined it.

But I can't even blame my mom, because she really thought we would all have fun. And she paid for the tickets. I just have to look back on it and try to laugh. We laugh because if we don't, we'll cry.

So if you are thinking of going on a cruise with children under four, you may want to think twice. As for us, no more cruising until the kids are at least five. I think next time, I'd rather go stay with Rosie and the dogs. That sounds more relaxing.

Grandma's Hip

Do you remember when you used to diss your mom for not "getting" your music? My mom used to tell me to turn down my music and ask my why I would listen to all that noise. (Admittedly, my love for euro-pop confections like a-ha and Erasure wasn't all that cool to my peers, either.) I, in turn, questioned why my mom tortured me on the drive to school with her AM-Gold 70's nuggets like Air Supply and Leo Sayer.

So it came as a shock to me when I heard my mom's new cell phone ringtone today: Rihanna's "Please Don't Stop the Music". How could she be such a square when I was growing up and be so hip now? When I relayed this to my friends at a baby shower, half of them replied, "Who's Rihanna?" I see the square is on the other foot now.

It turns out that no longer being consumed with school functions and extra-curricular chauffeuring has allowed my mother the time to catch up on all her People magazines and learn to use her iPod, while my friends are all becoming pop culture misfits. I guess being a mom really does make you "lame".

I'm going to fight the dorkiness of being a mommy to the end. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go get me some Applebottom jeans and them boots with the fur....

OMG, I think that last line officially makes me a dork.

Whose Boobs Are They Anyway?

Breastfeeding mothers today face many challenges. In addition to the ordeals that can come with both mommy and baby learning how to breastfeed, what should be a normal way of feeding is still considered taboo in a lot of public places and situations. But many mothers expect this and understand that strangers may feel uncomfortable when one whips a boob out in a public place.

What this mother did not expect is to encounter so much resistance to breastfeeding from her own mother. I was born in the 1970's, when the prevailing medical opinion was that formula was better than breast milk. "Fortified with all the nutrients science has proven your baby needs!" "Know exactly how much your baby is eating!" "Easy and convenient!" "Liberate the mom from feeding duty!"

Of course, today's doctors recommend breastfeeding when possible. But that didn't change my mother's opinion. Whenever my son was sick or fussy in his first few months of life, my mother would say, "Maybe there is something wrong with your milk," or "maybe you're not making enough". In truth, I think my decision to breastfeed, first and foremost, shattered my mother's ideas of what it meant to be a grandma: she had always pictured herself sitting in a glider, cradling her grandson in her arms, and feeding him a bottle of milk. If I were to breastfeed, she thought that she would never get the satisfaction of feeding her grand-baby. But I think she also may have felt a pang of guilt over not breastfeeding me, even though at the time, it was what the doctors recommended.

When she realized that I could, and would, pump when I went to work, she was a little more supportive, if not more informed. "Why don't you just pump like a quart of breastmilk in the morning before you go to work instead of pumping all day? If there is any left over, you can go out for dinner and I can babysit."

It took a LOT of educating and forwarding of articles and web pages on my part before she came around. And I learned that what she wanted most was to be involved in the process. When I would breastfeed, if my mother was around, she would often accompany me and watch in wonder. If my son fussed at the nipple, she would gently cheer him on, "Come on, baby, it's OK. Your mommy has milky for you."

However, it did eventually get a little ridiculous. At one point, she felt comfortable enough not only to cheer him on, but she would actually jiggle my boob around to help him find the nipple (think Diana Ross's fondling of L'il Kim's jugs at the MTV Video Awards). Mom, really, do you have to grab my boob? This is really embarrassing, the waiter will be back with our order any minute now! If people are uncomfortable seeing a woman whip out her boob in public, I can only imagine how uncomfortable they are seeing that woman's mother bouncing her boob around, too.

So the moral of the story is: When it comes to breastfeeding, if your parents are part of the 'formula generation', education is crucial in getting their support, and don't let them touch your boobs.