One of the biggest compliments that I have received as a parent is one from a young colleague and friend of Mark. She has visited us and stayed a couple of times so she has seen the ins and outs of us dealing with parenthood. She says "you guys make it seem so easy". She visited when Zoe was less than three weeks old and she took me aside telling me I looked great and that she was so impressed with how we dealt with things. I broke down in front of her, sobbing (as one does 3 weeks postpartum) and told her that breast feeding was hell and I felt like a bad mother for not being able to nurse my newborn. She hugged me and said if I haven't admitted how hard things really were she would have thought there was something seriously wrong with me. So since then the compliment that keeps me going is her genuine statement that we make it look easy to have a baby.
This compliment was the one I was thinking about as I stood with Zoe in Cafe Nero, having placed her sitting on a high stool, dangling her little legs in the air (obviously holding on to her), while feeding her yogurt and drinking a cappuccino myself. The mother and daughter behind me peeked, especially the daughter, seemingly around 14, kept turning her head towards Zoe in that sweet 'I love babies' way that only girls who want an extra little sibling can do. And right that moment having a calm, cute, babbling 16 month old who gulped down yogurt from a bar stool in one of London's SoHo cafe's definitely was the easiest and most wonderful thing in the whole world. What the 14 year old and our friend couldn't see and didn't know was that 10 minutes prior Zoe had screamed hysterically in her stroller trying to fight her way out because she had rejected her lunch and was now really hungry but I had fed her my last cracker. All while I frantically looked for a place for a snack that was not a pub and not a restaurant.
And what they would never know was that 10 minutes later, I would have to run over to BabyGap to get a new pair of pants for Zoe because she, for the second time that day, had managed to pee through her diaper, soaking first her original pants, then the spare pants I always carried with me. What they wouldn't witness was my struggle to get said pants on Zoe in the world's tiniest bathroom after carrying her down a spiral staircase, leaving the stroller upstairs praying it would still be there when we returned. Yes, it does look easy, especially when you see only fragments of everyday life. But I still dwell in the compliment that we make things seem easy, even if they aren't always.
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Crash and Burn
Last night, Zoe and I flew our 44th flight together coming back to London from a long weekend in Copenhagen. It was a short flight, an hour and a half and I was in such relaxed state beforehand that I forgot to put diapers in her changing kit (I flew hand luggage only so I had some in my roller suitcase) and I didn't think of dinner before we were inside the terminal around 5.30pm. It was one of those journeys that ended up being 'interesting' rather than bland or eventless.
The security guard asked me, for the first time ever in Copenhagen airport, to take Zoe out of my carrier with the logic reason that "If not, they couldn't search me properly if I beeped". It might just be me who is particularly clever and capable of reasoning that in the case I beeped, they could ask me to remove her, but no, that would be to hard to figure out. He then proceeded to ask me if she could walk through the metal detector herself. Zoe is 16 months and if you have ever experienced a 16 month old you would know that 1. they do not like to be far away from their parents, and 2. sometimes they love being away from their parents, so much that they run off in a different direction entirely. "She is not walking through herself", I answered through my teeth. On the other side a security officer offered to get me a hand luggage cart, which I politely declined but applauded him for the help.
I was in perfect time for my flight, not too early and no need to rush. Except when I looked at the screen the flight showed an hour and a half delay. Nice. With a tired toddler in an airport. After consulting with information it turned our that Copenhagen airport has a little known, large play area with toys and seats for adults. We stocked up on dinner (sandwiches) and headed over there. Zoe played with a French boy whom she followed around like a puppy but who didn't think much of her. One hour was easily killed.
Zoe was her usual little happy self when we got to the gate and I let her walk onto the plane herself for the first time. Walking on as the last people, she was charming all the other passengers, waving her little hand as she walked down the aisle to 28A. Little did they know that they were to see and hear much more from her.
She sat in her own seat as we took off, fully occupied by the little stuffed chicken that they crew had given her along side a book that she flicked through. I was the proud mother of a patient, cute, calm little girl as we started out flight towards Heathrow. After take-off I asked for a blanket and a pillow for her because by now it was quite past her bedtime and I could tell she was getting tired. She adorably pulled the blanket over herself and tried to make herself comfortable on the seats (we were given a full row to ourselves because the replacement plane was twice the size of the original one) but she wasn't really able to lie down long enough to drift off. She knew she was tired but she couldn't calm down. I nursed her a bit, trying to help her sleep but she gradually went into her overtired overdrive that I know only too well.
I finally let her go into the aisle where she quickly looked around and then took off towards the front. I ran after and took her hand, explaining that she had to hold mommy's hand. We then walked up to business class where a flight attendant and I exchanged looks, me expressing that I knew she wasn't allowed her and her expressing that she had to ask us to turn around. I was mostly worried about Zoe turning her attention to passengers who did not want her attention because she waved and pointed and said hi (Bah? Da? Gaga) to most of the people she passed. After a few trips up and down, the most childfriendly of the flight attendants came down and asked if Zoe wanted a ride. We looked up and the stewardess lifted her onto the now empty drinks cart. "Hold on to the side", she demanded and Zoe did as she was told. The flight attendants then proceeded to push the cart up and down the aisle to Zoe's clear joy and amazement. When they finally came back, Zoe was certainly not done but I had to take her and thank them. She was now not just overtired but also set on getting another ride so she started crying when I held her close and tried keeping her in her seat. I explained to her she had to stay there, I tried with snacks, I kissed her and I tried holding her loosely, knowing we were about to land. At one point the stewardess from business came down and asked if her ears were hurting. I almost snapped. "Her ears are not hurting, she if completely overtired". "Is there anything I can help with", she said but I declined and this was probably my mistake. As she left, I almost lost my temper and I squeezed my hysterically screaming toddler so hard that I know I should't and hissed at her. I wanted to hit her, I wanted to pinch her. I took a bottle with rice milk and stuffed it into her mouth. She spat it out, still arching her back. I took it and stuffed it in again, now holding it more firmly. After three tries, Zoe finally started sucking and before she had sucked the 3 ounces down, she was fast asleep in my arms. Now I was the only one crying.
So after 43 flights with her, 1/3 of them by myself, I still have lots to learn. One of them is that sleepy toddlers need a bit more help sleeping because crash and burn is UGLY. Another one is that stuffing a bottle (as much as I hate her still having it) in her mouth sometimes works (there was no way I could have stuffed a nipple in the same way, that requires two hands). And the last one is of course to accept help when you need it and not try to be such a supermom. This is the closest I have ever been to hurting her our of anger, because of the frustration of the situation, one that is public (I know for a fact that her 5 minute screaming woke up several sleeping passengers) and one where there a limited remedies (like a bed where you can put your hysterical baby while you cool off yourself). Let's hope I will remember this for her next 40 odd flights.
The security guard asked me, for the first time ever in Copenhagen airport, to take Zoe out of my carrier with the logic reason that "If not, they couldn't search me properly if I beeped". It might just be me who is particularly clever and capable of reasoning that in the case I beeped, they could ask me to remove her, but no, that would be to hard to figure out. He then proceeded to ask me if she could walk through the metal detector herself. Zoe is 16 months and if you have ever experienced a 16 month old you would know that 1. they do not like to be far away from their parents, and 2. sometimes they love being away from their parents, so much that they run off in a different direction entirely. "She is not walking through herself", I answered through my teeth. On the other side a security officer offered to get me a hand luggage cart, which I politely declined but applauded him for the help.
I was in perfect time for my flight, not too early and no need to rush. Except when I looked at the screen the flight showed an hour and a half delay. Nice. With a tired toddler in an airport. After consulting with information it turned our that Copenhagen airport has a little known, large play area with toys and seats for adults. We stocked up on dinner (sandwiches) and headed over there. Zoe played with a French boy whom she followed around like a puppy but who didn't think much of her. One hour was easily killed.
Zoe was her usual little happy self when we got to the gate and I let her walk onto the plane herself for the first time. Walking on as the last people, she was charming all the other passengers, waving her little hand as she walked down the aisle to 28A. Little did they know that they were to see and hear much more from her.
She sat in her own seat as we took off, fully occupied by the little stuffed chicken that they crew had given her along side a book that she flicked through. I was the proud mother of a patient, cute, calm little girl as we started out flight towards Heathrow. After take-off I asked for a blanket and a pillow for her because by now it was quite past her bedtime and I could tell she was getting tired. She adorably pulled the blanket over herself and tried to make herself comfortable on the seats (we were given a full row to ourselves because the replacement plane was twice the size of the original one) but she wasn't really able to lie down long enough to drift off. She knew she was tired but she couldn't calm down. I nursed her a bit, trying to help her sleep but she gradually went into her overtired overdrive that I know only too well.
I finally let her go into the aisle where she quickly looked around and then took off towards the front. I ran after and took her hand, explaining that she had to hold mommy's hand. We then walked up to business class where a flight attendant and I exchanged looks, me expressing that I knew she wasn't allowed her and her expressing that she had to ask us to turn around. I was mostly worried about Zoe turning her attention to passengers who did not want her attention because she waved and pointed and said hi (Bah? Da? Gaga) to most of the people she passed. After a few trips up and down, the most childfriendly of the flight attendants came down and asked if Zoe wanted a ride. We looked up and the stewardess lifted her onto the now empty drinks cart. "Hold on to the side", she demanded and Zoe did as she was told. The flight attendants then proceeded to push the cart up and down the aisle to Zoe's clear joy and amazement. When they finally came back, Zoe was certainly not done but I had to take her and thank them. She was now not just overtired but also set on getting another ride so she started crying when I held her close and tried keeping her in her seat. I explained to her she had to stay there, I tried with snacks, I kissed her and I tried holding her loosely, knowing we were about to land. At one point the stewardess from business came down and asked if her ears were hurting. I almost snapped. "Her ears are not hurting, she if completely overtired". "Is there anything I can help with", she said but I declined and this was probably my mistake. As she left, I almost lost my temper and I squeezed my hysterically screaming toddler so hard that I know I should't and hissed at her. I wanted to hit her, I wanted to pinch her. I took a bottle with rice milk and stuffed it into her mouth. She spat it out, still arching her back. I took it and stuffed it in again, now holding it more firmly. After three tries, Zoe finally started sucking and before she had sucked the 3 ounces down, she was fast asleep in my arms. Now I was the only one crying.
So after 43 flights with her, 1/3 of them by myself, I still have lots to learn. One of them is that sleepy toddlers need a bit more help sleeping because crash and burn is UGLY. Another one is that stuffing a bottle (as much as I hate her still having it) in her mouth sometimes works (there was no way I could have stuffed a nipple in the same way, that requires two hands). And the last one is of course to accept help when you need it and not try to be such a supermom. This is the closest I have ever been to hurting her our of anger, because of the frustration of the situation, one that is public (I know for a fact that her 5 minute screaming woke up several sleeping passengers) and one where there a limited remedies (like a bed where you can put your hysterical baby while you cool off yourself). Let's hope I will remember this for her next 40 odd flights.
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Full Time Working Mother
Living in the US has made me aware that I am a full time working mother. I never thought much about that term before, even living in the US for years without kids, because growing up in Denmark, the concept simply did not exist; you were a mother and you worked. Like everybody else. But now, even though I could not imagine my life with a baby any other way, I have to relate to that concept and define myself as such. It makes me think about myself and motherhood in a different way. I feel I have to defend myself in my everyday interactions. When I am trying to get onto a full bus at 5.45pm with a stroller and a crying (because she is hungry and tired) toddler I am ready to defend myself: "sorry but she needed a haircut, she couldn't see out through her bangs anymore and the only appointment I could make after work was the 5 pm one". Why didn't I just go on the weekend? "Sorry but I have so many other things to do on weekends, like cleaning and grocery shopping and I also like to take my daughter to the play ground". Okay, I lose on this one, I should really have taken her on the weekend where she wouldn't have been so tired and hungry that she screamed even before the hairdresser got to the bangs (why did she start off so slowly, even pinning Zoe's hair up with hair clips? (which Zoe obviously took out)). And then perhaps Zoe wouldn't have run away from me as I tried to pay the hairdresser, galloping all the way out on the pavement of the busy street, sending my heart racing and me almost pinching Zoe out of frustration and fright. And I feel the need to defend myself when I take Zoe to the indoor play gym on Friday mornings and let her roam around amongst the other kids while I frantically try to catch up with a bit of email on my iPhone. I really should play with her myself, but the reason I can take a Friday morning with her is because I know I am able to coordinate some work while we are away.
What I don't feel guilty about or have any need to defend is that I am a full time working mother. I love my job and have never imagined doing anything else after having children. I could maybe organize things differently sometimes but I really do try my best. My last line of defense is always imaging myself screaming at strangers who give me the side eye: "Yeah, why should we mothers need to go out at all, why don't we just stay home, chained to the stove where we belong". Because that would surely make them see the ridiculousness of judging me for trying to get in to an overflowing bus at 5.45pm on a Wednesday.
What I don't feel guilty about or have any need to defend is that I am a full time working mother. I love my job and have never imagined doing anything else after having children. I could maybe organize things differently sometimes but I really do try my best. My last line of defense is always imaging myself screaming at strangers who give me the side eye: "Yeah, why should we mothers need to go out at all, why don't we just stay home, chained to the stove where we belong". Because that would surely make them see the ridiculousness of judging me for trying to get in to an overflowing bus at 5.45pm on a Wednesday.
Monday, September 19, 2011
Worst plane travel memory
Of all my air travel experiences one moment stand out as one of those moments that you never ever want to relive, one of those situations you think back to and swear never to get into again. Because I have traveled roughly 1/3 of my flights, train journeys and even ferry journeys with Zoe on my own, without the help from Mark, I feel I got most of the single mom organization down. Plus, I have mastered a special look that just hints at a bit of helplessness, without seeming too pathetic, which always works in attracting a helping hand. For example from the mother who helped me assemble my stroller one late night in an airport when everyone else had left and I literally would not have been able to do it with my 4 month old strapped to my chest. Or for example from a woman who resolutely told me not to worry about getting my stroller out the train with 4 steep steps because her husband was going to help me. But my worst travel memory is not one of these situations where I got immediate help. It is all but.
Last summer I was traveling from Stockholm to Copenhagen for a last weekend with my parents before going back to California and although I could probably just have carried 4 months old Zoe in the carrier, I had decided to bring the (fairly big but collapsable) stroller. I guess this came down to my inexperience with carriers and that I hadn't discovered the Beco Gemini yet. I arrived in Stockholm airport ready to buy my plastic bag for 40 Skr (which SAS charge according to their website) for the stroller, put it in and get on my marry way through security. The queue for dropping off luggage turned out to be 70 yards long, possibly because this was a Friday, possibly because they were short on staff. I go in line like everybody else, knowing very well that my flight will leave before I would be half way through the queue. But I have no choice. 10 minutes in a checkin woman comes over and picks me and couple of other people with kids out of the queue and take us over to another counter. She checks me in but she does not have any plastic bags for the stroller and therefore can not check that in. I have to go to the business class queue and get a plastic bag. I go back (this is not an insignificant walk, back and forth) and queue for the business class counter. When I get to the front this lady proclaims that she is out of plastic bags but I can go to the 'special luggage' counter and get one. I walk over there (remember, I still have Zoe on my chest and a bag on the stroller which I am pushing) and see yet another 10 person queue. Having now less than 40 minutes before my flight I skip to the front and ask for a plastic bag, which the guy reluctantly gives me, stating that since his card reader is out of order he cannot charge me. I frantically start taking the stroller apart, first the top, then collapsing the chassis, then taking off the wheels but for some reason the parts won't fit in the plastic bag. The chassis goes in and the wheels but it isn't big enough for the bassinet part. I try to take it out and reverse the packing order but to no avail.
This is the moment I start crying. I am going to miss my plane and I won't see my parents for 6 months. What is more sad is that they won't see Zoe for 6 months. I am trying not to hit Zoe's little head with the stroller parts, which makes it really difficult to shift things around in the bag but I must get it in there. I am sitting on the floor in front of the 'special baggage' checkin with 20 people staring at me trying to get a stroller into a plastic bag. In between sobbing and cursing I am trying to keep Zoe calm by talking softly to her. "It will all be okay, sweetypie". Finally, a British guy comes to my rescue. "Let me help you out", he says "I have a baby of my own at home". And then the stroller parts gets packed and the stroller bag checked in and I venture through security and catch my flight. As the last person entering the plane.
And then I stopped traveling with strollers except for very small light ones.
Last summer I was traveling from Stockholm to Copenhagen for a last weekend with my parents before going back to California and although I could probably just have carried 4 months old Zoe in the carrier, I had decided to bring the (fairly big but collapsable) stroller. I guess this came down to my inexperience with carriers and that I hadn't discovered the Beco Gemini yet. I arrived in Stockholm airport ready to buy my plastic bag for 40 Skr (which SAS charge according to their website) for the stroller, put it in and get on my marry way through security. The queue for dropping off luggage turned out to be 70 yards long, possibly because this was a Friday, possibly because they were short on staff. I go in line like everybody else, knowing very well that my flight will leave before I would be half way through the queue. But I have no choice. 10 minutes in a checkin woman comes over and picks me and couple of other people with kids out of the queue and take us over to another counter. She checks me in but she does not have any plastic bags for the stroller and therefore can not check that in. I have to go to the business class queue and get a plastic bag. I go back (this is not an insignificant walk, back and forth) and queue for the business class counter. When I get to the front this lady proclaims that she is out of plastic bags but I can go to the 'special luggage' counter and get one. I walk over there (remember, I still have Zoe on my chest and a bag on the stroller which I am pushing) and see yet another 10 person queue. Having now less than 40 minutes before my flight I skip to the front and ask for a plastic bag, which the guy reluctantly gives me, stating that since his card reader is out of order he cannot charge me. I frantically start taking the stroller apart, first the top, then collapsing the chassis, then taking off the wheels but for some reason the parts won't fit in the plastic bag. The chassis goes in and the wheels but it isn't big enough for the bassinet part. I try to take it out and reverse the packing order but to no avail.
This is the moment I start crying. I am going to miss my plane and I won't see my parents for 6 months. What is more sad is that they won't see Zoe for 6 months. I am trying not to hit Zoe's little head with the stroller parts, which makes it really difficult to shift things around in the bag but I must get it in there. I am sitting on the floor in front of the 'special baggage' checkin with 20 people staring at me trying to get a stroller into a plastic bag. In between sobbing and cursing I am trying to keep Zoe calm by talking softly to her. "It will all be okay, sweetypie". Finally, a British guy comes to my rescue. "Let me help you out", he says "I have a baby of my own at home". And then the stroller parts gets packed and the stroller bag checked in and I venture through security and catch my flight. As the last person entering the plane.
And then I stopped traveling with strollers except for very small light ones.
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