My father served in Vietnam. He explained that being in war was –- contrary to what we’d think –- about the most tedious thing he’d ever encountered: hours of mind-warping boredom punctuated by moments of sheer animal terror. A friend told me that working in an emergency room is about the same. I’m here to tell you what no one else will — so is motherhood.

There’s the excitement of the first smile, the first little tooth jutting its way out, the first time they roll over, the first time they roll the other way; then when they sit up and, of course, the first steps. All these firsts. They are amazing, I’m not arguing that.

What they don’t tell you about are the not-so-joyous firsts: the first time the kid bites you, the first time they roll over off of the couch, the first time you learn what the ever-so-cute syllables “uh oh” really mean.

Then there’s the millionths. Okay, maybe not millionths, but it seems that way when you’re up at 2 in the morning with a wailing child cutting another tooth. The millionth time you’ve told them not to bite you (eventually, just bite back. But I shouldn’t have that in writing …), the millionth time they unlatch the child-safety lock on the cabinet and help themselves to screwdrivers, scissors, detergent and more, the millionth time they run away from you on their surprisingly speedy little legs (usually with a pair of scissors or bottle of Windex in hand).

Momblog groups like “Moms who Drink and Swear” have gained a certain notoriety on the Internet lately for apparently ‘telling it like it is’. Their aim is to be superlatively offensive, which is sufficiently off-putting for many. I believe that their amped-up candor is merely a response to the centuries of mommy-hood literature that hangs over their heads, dripping with the sentiments of unconditional love and patience with which every mother is, apparently, naturally imbued. It’s classic; it’s Victorian; it’s contemporary; everyone knows that moms are the most patient and loving creatures in the world.

Peruse any book in the “Parenting” section of your local book store and you’ll find it filled with maternal regalia, championing the unconditional, sweetest love that a mother holds in her heart for her child, it being the purest love that exists. American author Joyce Maynard once wrote, “I think of my children’s births –- carry them around with me –- every day of my life.”

If that quote didn’t make you throw up in your mouth a little bit, well, it should have. But at least hear me out. Every day? Each day of your life? I wasn’t even in labor yet and I was already trying to block it out. I look at my son every day, and I even kind of like the kid, but that’s because I don’t think about that one time, that one horrible 24 hour period, when I birthed him.

We have become oversaturated with romanticized and unrealistic prose about pregnancy, birth, and motherhood.

Yes, yes, babies change our lives.

What a wonderful adventure it is — especially for your hormones and your nerves …. No, you never sleep the same. There is the worry that translates into premature crow’s feet and grey hair.

But let’s talk about what babies really do:

Eat. (check).

Sleep. (check). (check again to make sure they’re still breathing).

Poop. (check). (then check your face, hands, body, and surrounding walls and carpeting to make sure there wasn’t any “foul” poop).

Did I mention there’s a lot of crying during and throughout each of these intervals? Crying because they’re hungry; because you didn’t get the food to them fast enough; it’s not what they wanted; it’s too hot; it’s too cold. Crying because they don’t want to take a nap; because they missed their nap; because they overslept and now they’re overtired. Crying because they have to poop; because they just dirtied – no, violated – a diaper (and their pants along with it), and you have the audacity to clean the whole thing up; because they pooped on the floor and stepped in it, and it’s all your fault.

Now that Bambino has become a little dude, and the weather permits a few hours of being outside, I thought that I could finally be free from cabin fever, and we’d have adventures in the backyard. While I coax him towards the toys and activities we’ve set up for him outside, he ignores me. Instead of the buckets, shovels and slide, he’s spotted a puddle. He sees a rock. He picks up the rock, and throws it in the puddle.

Cute, of course, especially with his resounding “wooooow” in response the splash.

Aaaand we’re back to the millionths.

Eventually, he saturated the puddle with the rocks he found from around the yard, and during this time, I have little choice but to join him in the search. For rocks. I thought that, by journeying outside for the first time in months, I’d be in the “combat” zone, so to speak; I was ready for adventure. Instead, I found myself looking for rocks (and, if it was a really good one, he’d permit a stick).

In the end, yes, it was a good day. But books that sap with the abounding discoveries of motherhood obviously haven’t seen my driveway — picked clean of gravel.

Despite the massive amounts of eating, sleeping and pooping that factor the largest parts of my day, I can’t necessarily just write off the pre-existing motherhood literature. It’s there for a reason. While I balance extra napkins and silverware at a restaurant, and reach into my purse –- by the cellphone, iPod and lipstick –- to find the sliced apples (now slightly browned) and flashlight that might keep him quiet for the comfort of the other patrons, I realize that I haven’t taken my eyes off of him in fifteen minutes, but I’m not tired of looking at him. I’m discovering his facial expressions and sounds and interests, moment by moment, waiting eagerly for the next new thing to arrive, because if I don’t watch constantly, I’ll miss it.

Leah Lederman lives in Toledo with her husband, their 2-year-old son and a boxer dog. She has 11 nieces and nephews. She can be reached at llederman@toledofreepress.com.

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This entry was posted on Saturday, May 28th, 2011 at 9:45 am and is filed under Arts and Life, Parental Pariah.
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The first time I heard “Someone’s starting the ‘Terrible Twos’ a bit early!” directed towards my bambino, he was hardly a year old. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve heard it since. According to an outside observer, any child aged 1 to 3 who’s having a tantrum must be suffering from the “Terrible Twos.” (If they’re under a year old, it must be colic.)

The terms “Eighteen-Month Angst” or “Throwing-a-Tantrum Threes” just don’t flow off of the tongue as easily. “Terrible Twos” makes for great alliteration, I’ll give it that, but people have overused the clever title so it refers to any behavior in a toddler that can be ruled distasteful.

Don’t be fooled.

The ‘Terrible Twos’ is the ultimate misnomer. Let’s face it. Babies begin the magnum opus of their personalities the moment they are born. The first thing they’re able to express — and they do so quite loudly — is their unhappiness with the world that they’ve been thrust into.

Babies fuss. It’s their specialty. Sometimes babies fuss and we just don’t know why. Any stimulation of the senses is equal stimulation for the tear ducts, apparently.

Usually the origins of fussiness are simple — or at least obvious (I don’t know if I would call some of those diapers “simple.” I’m still traumatized by the second week of July, 2009, when I had three ‘poop-up-to-the-armpits’ fiascoes in one day).

Generally, babies cry when they’re hungry, tired, overtired, over-awake, or (somehow) all of the above. The bottom line is that tantrums begin early. Really early.

I can easily recall a few instances of unbridled rage spewing forth from the lungs of Bambino at 4 months-old, 6 months old and throughout the months until he began to look and act (read: toddle) the part of someone suffering from the ‘Terrible Twos’.

However, the Fuss Department is trickier now that Bambino is a Little Dude — you know, a toddler. His needs are essentially the same as when he was a baby, only now if they’re not met his reaction is a bit more … theatrical (he’s had more time to practice). His fits range from shrieking to feet-stomping to head-butting (yes, head-butting), usually leading to the signature finish: collapsing to the floor, an immovable, screaming puddle.

Let the judgment of strangers begin.

The most helpful thing an onlooker can do is offer a sympathetic smile or hold the door open (so we can leave everyone in peace). It’s not that I resent your advice; it’s just that I can’t ingest even the greatest wisdom when my kid’s screams are setting off car alarms.

And, if you have nothing nice to say, look the other way. Or look at it this way: the situation is not nearly as hard on you as it is on me. (Thankfully, the kid won’t remember any of it.)

Based on my observations, I’ve concluded that Little Dude’s potbellied, toddler body is overwhelmed with emotions and hormones, and there’s no way he can funnel any of them properly. Think of it this way: if his intellect is a computer, skyrocketing at the rate of Moore’s law (which, paraphrased loosely, predicts that computing power doubles every 18 months), then his ability to communicate is still in the floppy disc era.

It has to be frustrating to realize that a.) Most people don’t understand them and b.) Most people can do things that they can’t (like get onto the couch unassisted). As a result, toddlers perfect the art of the tantrum (some sooner than others) — but can we really blame them?

The ‘Terrible Twos’ has become a catch-all term to encompass the rage and angst of little children as they attempt to understand their world. Perhaps it’s just a placeholder until they’re old enough for the label “pre-teen.”

Ah yes, pre-teens and teenagers, the sister phase to the ‘Terrible Twos’. The issues surrounding these two developmental stages are nearly identical in their foundations — members of both age groups are filled with hormones and the absolute inability to express themselves. No one seems to understand them, even when they do communicate, certainly aggravates the situation.

At least in 10 years we can blame their friends, or society, or the music they listen to (That’s what I’m planning to do, anyway). Here, in the throes of the toddler fiasco, however, it’s all on the parents.

A toddler’s entire life has only been about 1,000 days, so it’s only fair that their perspective on things might be a little different. Each day brings new discoveries, personal broadening … and battles. A toddler, experimenting with the world around him, learns to express himself and gauge the reaction of others:

“What will my parents do if I give myself a magic marker moustache?”

“Why does Mom get so mad when I help her unload the laundry basket?”

Some days the real miracle in parenting is that we all make it through the day. On good days, we can be there right along with them, discovering the world and broadening ourselves.

Leah Lederman lives in Toledo with her husband, their 2-year-old son and a boxer dog. She has 11 nieces and nephews. She can be reached at llederman@toledofreepress.com.

Tags: Leah Lederman, Parental Pariah

This entry was posted on Monday, February 21st, 2011 at 3:57 pm and is filed under Arts and Life, Parental Pariah.
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Some people might say that the time of the mixed tape has passed; it’s gone. But here’s talking the only person in the tri-state area who giggled with glee when she discovered the used car she was buying was still equipped with a tape deck. I’ve got tapes from seventh grade that I still listen to, and guess what? They don’t skip. Sure, the sound isn’t HD, or whatever the high quality sound is, but the music is there.

Hopefully I have demonstrated with that introduction that I’m no music electronics snob. That’s why it carries a certain weight that even I cannot stomach the tin-can-inside-a-cardboard-box sound of most baby lullaby players. I don’t care if it’s a wind-up, swaying stuffed animal or a latch-on crib music box. The sound–and often the song–is abysmal. So when you’re trying to comfort your baby at two in the morning after managing a whopping sic hours of sleep in that given 24-hour period, the temptation to chuck the metallic melody maker out the window is warranted.

And you know, the sub par tinker-belling lullaby doesn’t do much for your kid, either. I’m still amazed that there are whole baby franchises that make their money off of “babyfying” the likes of Mozart and Beethoven. As if infants and young children will be traumatized or overwhelmed by an orchestral demonstration of superb music. Why do people seem to think that the masterpieces of these great composers need to be translated into xylophones and hand bells? Is a symphony too much for the delicate composition of an infant’s eardrum?

Not at all. In fact, babies even just three months old can appreciate and recognize the complexities of Classical and Romantic music. I encourage you to use this time in your life to broaden your own musical appreciation. Beethoven’s “Pathetique” is not as well known as “Fur Elise” or the “Moonlight Sonata,” but equally soothing, and a great way to have a Beethoven hat-trick end the evening. If you’re interested in Mozart, a simple Google or Amazon search will turn up dozens of samples of his vast repertoire. Then of course, there’s Debussy, Chopin and Schubert. My advice? Get yourself a sample Romantic Piano collection. I’m a piano lover, though. Whatever your instrument of choice, there’s a CD out there waiting to croon to you in the wee hours.

But maybe Classical and Romantic is not the way to go for you. I respect that (although I solemnly urge you to at least give it a YouTube sampling before you say no forever). In the meantime, go through your music collection and find those songs that were always able to calm you. Norah Jones and The Cure are chock-full of relaxing goodness and, of course, the Cranberries. But that’s me. Nirvana and Eric Clapton (Unplugged, of course) have also made a few evenings with baby more bearable. Stick to songs or groups that invite swaying more than foot-tapping, and you’re on the right track. Save the steady beats for the hip-shaking and twirling you’ll do once you’re all well rested. Tomorrow.

It helps to be familiar with the music you listen to with your baby. You can sing, hum or sway along more easily. Of course, be sure that your familiarity is a friendly one. Do you really want to rock your baby to sleep listening to the song from your sophomore year Homecoming—the one where Bobby mentioned casually that he might be more into Jill than he is into you? (No, you don’t. Trust me on this one). Play relaxing music and, if it invokes memories, make sure that they are fond ones. Recall, if you can, the songs that your parents sang to you. An old yoga CD can offer profound relaxation. Who’d have thought?

Then again, repeated night-time routines might be a good time to run the gamut on your musical experience, literally. Let’s face it, when you’re not oohing and aahing at baby’s latest laughter, faces and discoveries, the baby-raising process can be mundane—intellectually, at least. Use your time wisely. Introduce yourself to new sounds, if nothing else. I’ve discovered artists like Amos Lee and Theresa Andersson using this method, and found a new appreciation for some of the sweet Irish lullabies of my heritage. Always be sure, however, to sample your new musical choices before using them as lullabies, or you might not realize that the song is a bit too intense for anyone to sleep to (I learned that with Mozart’s “Requiem”).

Since the day I said, “Enough with baby Muzak,” and concocted myself an alternative in the form of a home-made audiocassette, bedtime (and those times between bedtime and daylight) has been a much more tolerable affair. Go back to the mixed tape. Okay, Okay, make it an iPod selection or an MP3 compilation (whatever the kids are calling it these days). Instead of relying on the computerized, mechanized, groan-inducing-ized lullaby machine, trust yourself to know what soothes you. What soothes you, surprisingly enough, will likely sooth your baby.

Leah Lederman lives in Toledo with her husband, their 20-month-old son and a boxer puppy. She has 11 nieces and nephews.

Tags: Leah Lederman, Parental Pariah

This entry was posted on Saturday, February 5th, 2011 at 8:05 pm and is filed under Arts and Life, Parental Pariah.
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My dad always hated Peter Pan. We’d watch the movie, as kids, and he’d warn us, “Peter Pan is a monster.”

Hear me out.

My dad’s argument, as I’ve fleshed it out over the years, is that there is something fundamentally wrong with someone who deliberately refuses to grow up and obstinately insists on residing in a “never-never land” of their own making. Think: sociopath.

Sure, it’s important to be imaginative, creative and the like. It’s also important to grow up. There’s something inherently dangerous about consciously choosing not to advance through proper developmental stages (at least those that are within that individual’s personal capacity). It’s even more dangerous when that person aims to recruit.

When I’m with my son anywhere, be it family gatherings, the grocery store or the park, I hear, “Enjoy it now — they grow up so fast!” Yes, life does go by quickly. For this reason, my father encouraged me to keep a journal and scrapbook things like ticket stubs, concert programs and Polaroid pictures. After all, we can never get enough of the things we enjoy.

And I enjoy my child. There is a natural and organic love in me that I never knew myself capable of (dare I call it “maternal?”). He presents me with a book and sits down on my lap with a perfunctory, diapery crunch. I read B is for Books for the third time that hour, making all the voices and counting every shape and object on each page — if I don’t, he blinks at me and emits a questioning syllabic note. When I do it just right, he unplugs the pacifier with a decided “smoock” sound and plants a kiss (with equal suction) on my face. Like many of you, my child is the backdrop against which every thought I have in a day plays out.

Did I bronze his first solid poop? Not exactly. His first pair of shoes? Even if it were an idea that appealed to me, it’d be impossible because instead of being bronzed, they are embedded in the mud in the backyard, forever a fossil testifying to future generations that sometimes little children play in the mud, lose their shoes, and delightedly discover the feel of the squish between their toes. He donated a pair of sandals to the Atlantic, too.

But not every aspect of parenthood is so enjoyable. The nagging refrain “they grow up too fast” is merely an addition to the innately guilty consciences of parents of young children; parents who have not slept through the night in months; parents who have to work to afford a future for their children, whose a child who may not be with them for waking hours, who are desperately clinging to each waking moment.

Do people really wish their children were babies again? Have they forgotten the sleepless nights, having to change eight different onesies a day due to poop explosions, spit-up explosions, mud puddles and more? Remember the fecal finger-paint? The detonation of the baby-powder tub? It’s funny now, for many of you reading this, but only because time has gone by.

I’m glad my son doesn’t poop eight times a day anymore (at least, on a good day). I’m glad he understands when I talk to him, and that he can run and stumble in the backyard. Pretty soon he’ll add some talk to that walk and as he gets older there will be some tang to that talk. But through it all, whether it’s Sesame Street, motorcycles, love or Shakespeare, I look forward to seeing what time will bring. If time moves as quickly as we all know it does, then there’s certainly not enough time for dwelling on things already come by, and kicking ourselves for time not yet lost.

Chiding children at social events or in public places that they are “growing up too fast” does nothing to relieve their parents’ sense of frustration as their young children, naturally, encroach upon mom and dad’s livelihoods. And by livelihood I mean the ability to sit through a 22 minute sitcom uninterrupted. Read a non Muppet-themed book that isn’t covered in crayon, uninterrupted. Take a shower, uninterrupted. Use the restroom, uninterrupted — you get my point.

I enjoy my child every day. I also enjoy my job, thoroughly, and I’m thankful for the moments I receive a chance to be “me” again. This “me” is forever changed, of course, since my son was born, and it changes every day that we create new memories together. I know that on his first day of school, at his high school graduation, and on his wedding day, I’ll think about B is for Books and I’ll smile. But let’s not mistake nostalgia for sadness or regret; and let’s not allow my son to feel guilty for growing up, or myself to feel guilty for “lost time.”

While I’m not going to forbid my children to watch or read Peter Pan (and I won’t make it a “monster” story), I’ll certainly encourage them to take the Wendy approach. Grow up at your own pace, pick up as many wonderful memories as possible, and cherish them. Never-never land is a nice place to visit, it’s a nice place to remember, but it’s never a place to stay forever.

Leah Lederman lives in Toledo with her husband, their 19-month-old son and a boxer puppy. She has 11 nieces and nephews.

Tags: Leah Lederman, Parental Pariah

This entry was posted on Saturday, January 22nd, 2011 at 4:37 pm and is filed under Arts and Life, Parental Pariah.
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To binky or not to binky, that is the question. Or perhaps some of you are more familiar with the other Shakespearean allusion: “Do you suck your thumb at us, sir? No sir, I do not suck my thumb at you, sir, but I do suck my thumb, sir!” Either way you look at it, many of us have children who are stuck on thumbs or stuck on pacifiers and, for as many kids out there sucking thumbs, pinkies, fingers, bobos, binkies and nuks, there are just as many relatives and strangers clicking their tongues and shaking their heads. Beware the pacifier! Beware the thumb! Nipple confusion! Loss of appetite! You will pay thousands in orthodontist’s bills! Your child will be ridiculed in school! Germs abound!

And let’s not even get into what the psychoanalysts have to say about sucking thumbs and pacifiers.

Babies suck. It’s what they do, even in the womb. Based on this, I’d say it’s a perfectly natural behavior, and one that should not be condemned. Sometimes we ought to believe that our babies know what they need. Certainly they know better than well-meaning relatives and strangers, whose fears and aversions to infantile oral fixations are typically borne from old wives’ tales and other superstitions (even those grounded, at some point, in medical opinion).

This is as much a defense of the pacifier and the thumb as it is a comparison between the two. How are they different? Is one better than the other? Having weighed the two, I admit I’ve not reached a discernible conclusion. I suppose that whichever option your child has chosen is the best one. As usual with children, their habits and methods are as unique as they are.

The thumb has the notable advantage of being attached, though this can make the habit a harder one to break. You can’t really take a kid’s thumbs from him — and taping a kid’s thumbs to his hands is (apparently) inhumane. The binky/bobo/nuk/insert your own nickname here/pacifier is a “controlled” substance, so to speak, which can be useful in weaning the child. However, they are easy to lose. Not only are they not necessarily a cheap purchase, the lost-binky-induced screaming at 2 in the morning costs an unknown price against your soul. The thumb comes free with the kid.

While thumb-sucking may potentially complicate hands-on activities, you might notice that your child becomes adept at completing tasks one-handed. I was a thumb-sucker myself, and I am an ace when it comes to picking objects off of the floor with my toes. This skill, perhaps ironically, became most useful after having a baby.

My son had some difficulty when it came to selecting his oral fixation. There were a few nights, early on, of solid four-hour blocks of sleep when he first discovered his thumb. He must have sensed that that made it too easy on Mom and Dad, though, because the luxury was short-lived. It was several months later when he finally succumbed to the pacifier. And guess what? The volume level at my house plummetted. The fussing stopped. He was soothed. You might even say he was … pacified. Moreover, it made a handy barrier against the spoonfuls of dirt he wanted to put in his mouth.

On the other — er, thumb … too much of a good thing is just that — too much. Prolonged sucking, be it thumb or pacifier, can land you some decent bills from the dentist’s office. That’s generally when the habit continues into kindergarten. So I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it. With my son. He and I (though mostly I) will make the decision together when it’s time to say goodbye to the pacifier. Until then, I am happy to ignore uninvited commentary regarding the binky. My son’s comfort is more important than anyone else’s standards or superstitions.

Leah Lederman lives in Toledo with her husband, their 18-month-old son and a boxer puppy. She has 11 nieces and nephews.

Tags: Leah Lederman, Parental Pariah

This entry was posted on Sunday, December 19th, 2010 at 6:29 pm and is filed under Arts and Life, Parental Pariah.
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