In a decade long, long ago….at the end of a family road trip, we kids thought it would be hilarious to hide my cousin in the back seat of the family Dodge Rambler by making him lie on the floor and covering him with a blanket. Then, we let my dad drive towards home almost 3 hours and across a couple of state lines before we uncovered him and yelled, “Surprise!” My poor dad had to turn the car around and drive back (I think my uncle met us half-way, but still…) to return him home. I’m not sure many parents would own up to this one today, having a child’s whereabouts unknown for that length of time, but there was a time when kids went out from sunrise to sunset pretty much on their own without any hovering or helicoptering. I bet while those kids were out, they fell, got stung by bees, ate junk food, drank large sodas, ran really really fast, and god only knows what other horrors.

So what’s my point? As usual, I really have no idea. Maybe it’s that being raised in the 60s and 70s should make it easier for me to admit I’m not so perfect, but that’s not it. I’m worried that on top of the standard criticism most parents get, there will be the added “Well what did she expect having a baby at her age” shit thrown in too.

A few weeks ago, I took the little guy to the Hippo Park playground to let him burn off some energy. We have a runner on our hands. It’s not just D and I who think so, other people make comments all the time. That day in Hippo, I looked around at the hundreds of other kids, and I swear mine was the only one running around the perimeter of the fence non-stop like a mad man. He does the same thing to us in the country. We put him down in the middle of a big empty field and he takes off flying, towards the road of course. My sweet friend Darci, who has a nearly one-year-old boy and whose career it is to understand movement in the brain development of children reassures me that it’s totally cool that he loves to run non-stop like a mad man in the park or at the Mommy and Me class that she runs. My pediatrician has no problem with it either.

But then things like this happen: At Hippo that day, he ran and I chased as closely as I could. He is fast and has the advantage of being low to the ground and able to duck under slides and jungle gyms. Plus, the playground was packed with hundreds of kids most of whom I was trying to avoid trampling and their adult caregivers who were standing around forming a giant obstacle course. So, for like ten seconds, he got so far out in front of me that I lost sight of him. And then I heard the sound I had been dreading, SPLAT, followed by the collective gasp from all the obstructive adults, then a deafening silence, and finally of course, the blood-curdling scream of pain. I got there just in time to see my baby, flat out on the concrete, raise his bloody face. There was a circle of adults around him and they all turned to look at me as I ran to him and I projected the same thought on everyone of them: “Thank god she’s not OUR nanny.”

Now usually, I’m prepared. My diaper bag has matches in it, because you never know when you’ll get lost in Central Park and have to start a camp fire to cook some rat and squirrel stew for dinner. I have bee-sting medicine and pain killers, a thermometer, nail clippers, all the diapering gear and ointments, cookies, bottles, water and sippy cups. I never leave this apartment without enough stuff in my diaper bag to keep us dry, fed, and medicated for days. Except, you guessed it, THAT effing day. I had just fed him and changed his diaper and I thought maybe I could manage a quick trip to the park without carrying his 30-pound diaper bag down the 4 flights. Fool. 

So, I had nothing to clean up my bleeding baby. A bunch of other parents stepped right up to help me, though, offering tissues and wipes and even a consult from a woman who I’m guessing is a pediatrician or nurse. She took a quick look from an arm’s length at his gashed lip and said, “I think some ice should do it for him.” I got him cleaned up as best I could and back in his stroller. I did the walk of shame out of the park that day and back to the apartment with my bloody little boy who had stopped crying after 5 minutes, but who had a big boo-boo on his lip for a week. For him, a badge of courage, for me, a reminder of my failure to keep him safe.

In the end, it was just a boo-boo, one of hundreds I’m sure this little bundle of energy is going to have throughout his childhood. It shouldn’t be any other way, right? But instead of Hippo park today, we are going to NY Kid’s Club, where the toddler gym has the thickest wall-to-wall carpeting I’ve ever stepped barefoot upon. Just in case….

Next time: Any suggestions?

© copyright 2013 grayhairedmom.com

Usually I would jump up and run over to him, guilt dripping out every one of my mommy pores. Instead, I had to following conversation in my head:

Good Mommy: “Oh my god, what is he putting in his mouth! Get up get up get up, get it away from him before he eats it!”

Bad Mommy: “Just how bad could it be? I mean, I feed him mostly organic stuff. Whatever is coming off my floor is probably better for him than anything from McDonalds…..”

Good Mommy: “What if it’s a ROACH!” (I don’t have roaches, but it is NYC and that’s been known to happen…)

Bad Mommy: “It’s not a roach. It’s probably a raisin. And it’s snack time anyway….”

Good mommy won. I got my tired self up off the couch and wrestled what was indeed a raisin out of his little fingers and got dinner for him. But there was a split second there when I almost closed my eyes.

Little Guy was fed, bathed, and asleep and I was almost comatose by the time D got home last Friday night. Saturday morning, D got up with him at dawn and after breakfast, took him to the baby gym class and then to the park. I didn’t get out of bed until 11 a.m. We had a great day and evening, and Sunday morning, I slept in again while the boys hung out. I used to wonder why stay-at-home parents looked forward to the weekends and now I know!

Next time: Speaking of running….we’ve got a runner on our hands

© copyright 2013 grayhairedmom.com

After about three days of the feverish little guy’s whining, sniffling, and waking up screaming every hour from midnight until 6 a.m., I was dreaming of a sweet, restful, pampered stretch in a minimum-security prison…a cot all to myself, hot meals served to me, the stretches of outdoor time in the “yard” walking dreamily around in the sun…pure bliss…

Along with the little guy’s cold, I’m admittedly having a little trouble transitioning back to life as a city mom. I have so much help when I’m in PA. My BFF’s beautiful daughter, Kerri, has been my mommy’s helper.

She is wonderful with the little guy and he loves her. Last summer, she watched him for me a few times a week so that I could get a little whiff of freedom–a trip to K-Mart or ShopRite…woo hoo.

I thought I’d be thrilled to be back in NYC after a LONG winter in Pennsylvania. Yes, it snows in NYC, but as long as Mayor Bloomberg isn’t in the Caribbean, plows come along every hour or so and clear it up. Someone else digs out the steps and sidewalks. It’s magical for about 12 hours, and then it’s just dirty for a day or two after that, and then it’s spring.

I’m usually OK at handling boredom. About a decade ago, I got trapped for a week in the Poconos by a snow storm. I took that time to teach my cat to fetch. Seriously. But there is something different about being trapped inside with a sick baby in the city. There’s no way to get a breath of fresh air. Even when he goes down for a nap, I can’t just walk down 4 flights to the stoop. I’ve never been claustrophobic, but the walls were starting to close in on me.

Then I had to get him to the pediatrician 24 blocks away. I didn’t want to take him the whole way in his stroller, so I had a brain wave and thought, “How hard can it be to get him, myself, the stroller, and his diaper bag on the city bus?” Harder than I ever imagined…I looked like such a dorky clod that three different ladies on the bus took pity on me and jumped up to help. He did love the bus, though. So much so that this weekend, D and I are taking him for a round-trip bus ride to nowhere, just for fun. Who says NYC isn’t fun for kids!

Next time: My holy terror tears up “Musical Tots” class

Congrats to Nay, Trey, Merdi, and the latest arrival, Laurel!!

I wasn’t even a smoker when the ban went into effect in NYC. I had just quit, so the ban was good for me personally because I could go out for drinks with friends and not be tempted by smokers happily puffing all around me. But I still thought it was over-reaching and wrong.

Smokers are justifiably banned from smoking in most public places (offices, hospitals, churches, airplanes, buses, subways, trains, schools, dorms, prisons, libraries, hotels, restaurants, parks, beaches, a lot of sidewalks, a lot of apartments buildings, theaters, and in cars in which children are riding) so shouldn’t there be one single place where a smoker can light up? And I totally get that workers who are not smokers are exposed to second-hand smoke, and yes, that sucks. But I always thought there could be some sort of compromise worked out—like maybe a bar could choose to be a smoking or non-smoking bar, and then workers could choose where to work.

Anyway, it’s done; the ban will never be lifted. But one of the unintended consequences of the ban has turned out to be a baby boom in bars. Since there’s no smoke, parents take their babies with them.

My friends the Gallagher sisters, Annie and Bernadette, were out in Park Slope, Brooklyn last weekend. Park Slope is close to Manhattan, and the apartments are bigger and just ever-so-slightly more affordable than Manhattan. It’s not quite moving to the suburbs, so a lot of new parents move there. And then they go out and meet their friends who also have babies out at bars. Annie said there were so many babies in the bar that day that she bought 4 beers and the bartender threw in a baby for free.

This has been happening all over NYC for a while now. The first time I walked into a bar and saw baby strollers, I was shocked. I met Bernadette that afternoon, and she put it quite succinctly: “If your baby is going to buy me a drink, O.K. Otherwise, leave him at home.” And I have to say I tended to agree with Bernadette then.

Now that I’m a mom, I’m not sure how I feel anymore. On the one hand, why not take your baby with you to meet friends? If you go to a restaurant and sit at a table while having a cocktail with friends, then is it really any different if you sit at the bar instead of a table and have your drink? Then again, it’s a bar. Fights have been known to break out. Drunks have been known to fall off bar stools, not that I have any personal experience of that happening, but thank goodness I was wearing underwear that night is all I’m going to say on that subject. Should babies really be exposed to this sort of stuff?

I’m talking about afternoons here, by the way. I haven’t heard of anyone taking a baby out at night to a bar or club. Now granted, the last time I was in a club, people were doing The Vogue, and not in an ironic or fun-retro kind of way, either, so I really have no idea what goes on in clubs anymore.

I can’t imagine that the mayor called a strategy session and said, “How can we make bars more baby friendly?” and yet, that’s what he did. I think it’s hilarious, to be honest. Mayor Mike has also been trying to ban the sale of large sugary drinks. I do agree with him on one thing: sugar is almost as dangerous to one’s health as tobacco. But banning large sodas? Never going to work. At least not in the way he intends. Maybe this will just lead to babies drinking beer in bars when they are out with their parents instead of soda?

So far, I have not taken the little guy* out to a bar. In fact, I haven’t been out with friends at a bar since he came along, a situation that I intend to remedy soon. I have met friends for lunch and brunch at cafes and restaurants, sat at a table, and even had a glass of wine I think, with him along in his stroller.

I’m still not sure how I feel about putting him in his stroller and heading out the a bar. Thoughts? Comments?

*By “little guy” I mean my son, not the mayor.

Next time: A Quiz About Working Moms

© Copyright 2013 grayhairedmom.com

Natural methods are often successfully used to help eliminate candida overgrowth, a fungal infection that manifests itself in many ways. Although candida, aka candidiasis, is not frequently diagnosed by most traditional doctors, some western medicines, both prescription and over the counter (OTC), do offer relief from the condition. By combining naturopathic and conventional treatments, you may be doubly successful at curing fungal infections.

Various Types of Candida

Candida, the overgrowth of a specific microorganism that lives in human bodies, is like a chameleon and takes on many different identities. Here are some common infections caused by candidiasis:

• Vaginal (Candida Vaginitis) or penile(Candida Balanitus) yeast infections
• Oral thrush
• Diaper rash
• Athlete’s foot
• Nail fungus, causing thick, brittle toenails and fingernails that may protrude from the nail beds
• Cutaneous Candidiasis (Skin rashes, particularly in moist areas such as skin folds or under large breasts)
• Systemic candida – This is a serious condition where the candida invades the blood stream and can have damaging effects on every system in the body. Systemic candida is often found amongst people with compromised immune systems such as HIV patients or those undergoing chemotherapy. It can damage organs like the liver, eyes, heart, kidneys, and others.

Some forms of candida are external, others are internal or emotional, instigating such difficulties as irritable bowel syndrome (IBS), migraine headaches, chronic fatigue, arthritis, allergies, asthma, PMS, memory loss, depression, mood swings, and many others.

Because it takes so many forms, candida can be tricky to treat. Some types react well to conventional medical treatments, others may respond best to homeopathic treatment, and a combination of the two treatments may be most successful for others.

Conventional Candida Treatments

Traditional doctors tend to treat symptoms rather than candida itself. For problems like yeast infections or athlete’s foot, they will normally prescribe an antifungal medication in either a pill or topical cream form or possibly a suppository for vaginal yeast infections. They may also recommend over the counter medications.

Some of the common drugs used include:

• Butoconazole (available OTC as Femstat, Gynazole-1)
• Clotrimazole (aka Gyne-Lotrimin, Mycelex)
• Miconazole (popular OTC cream Monistat
• Terconazole (Terazol)
• Tioconazole (Vagistat-1)
• Fluconazole (Diflucan), the newest antifungal on the market, also treats vaginal candidiasis.

Although these medications can be quite effective in eliminating symptoms, unfortunately, if the candida is not controlled long term, the likelihood of reoccurrence is strong. One of the most exasperating parts about candida is that just when you think you’ve got it cured, you get another infection.

The Two-Prong Approach to Treating Candida

Many people are discovering that a combination of western medicine and natural treatments is the best way to keep candida from reestablishing itself in your body. Western medicine can help cure the initial symptoms while naturopathic treatments keep the candida from returning.  For instance, you may take the prescribed antifungal medications but also choose to follow a low sugar, yeast free diet. This combination of treatment methods often works to reduce the initial overgrowth and regulates the delicate balance of intestinal flora for long term relief.

Natural Candida Remedies

It is often our fast-paced, fast food 21^st century way of life that encourages candidiasis in the first place. That is why natural candida remedies involve making lifestyle changes, including what you eat. In fact, following the proper diet is vital to recovery from candida.

The goal of the candida diet is to starve the candida albicans. To do that, you must refrain from eating the foods they feed on. Those include foods that contain sugars, glutens, and yeasts. That means the consumption of most fruits, breads, chocolate, aged cheeses, processed meats and foods, alcohol, fermented beverages, black tea, mushrooms, and more is severely restricted. Starchy vegetables such as peas, corn, and others should also be avoided.

This may sound like a difficult régime to follow, but after a few weeks you can begin to add a few of your favorite foods back into your diet. If you remain free of candida symptoms, you can indulge yourself occasionally.

Other Natural Candida Treatments

There are other steps you can take to help you banish candida from your life. Numerous herbs and supplements can be used to treat and prevent candida. Oil of oregano is a popular remedy, as are garlic, thyme, ginger, rosemary, and clove. You also need to take a multivitamin tablet daily to support your immune system.

Unrefined coconut oil is a great choice for treating both internal and external candida. This delicious, fragrant oil is rich with three types of saturated fatty acids that team up and destroy the candida cells. You may consume three tablespoons of the oil daily. You may also apply coconut oil directly to the skin, using it to treat athlete’s foot and other cutaneous candida conditions such as psoriasis. Pure coconut oil is also a great moisturizer and protects aging skin.

Although you may prefer holistic treatment methods, don’t rule out conventional treatments completely. By combining both approaches, you can be confident that you are doing everything possible to control candida and eliminate the chronic problem from your life.

Next time: Betcha never thought this would happen, Mayor Bloomberg!

© Copyright 2013 grayhairedmom.com

Here’s a partial list:

Georgia-Pacific Products 

• Angel Soft®
• Brawny®
• Coronet®
• Dixie®
• Mardi Gras®
• MD Bathroom Tissue
• Quilted Northern®
• Soft ‘n Gentle®
• Sparkle®
• Vanity Fair®
• Zee®

No problem for us, here. We usually try to use more eco-friendly (partially recycled) paper products and avoid single-use products like paper napkins and paper plates. I was feeling pretty happy with myself (sanctimonious, much?) until I came upon this horrifying fact: The Koch Brothers manufacture SPANDEX!

S P A N – effing – D E X!

Like in my YOGA PANTS!

Yoga pants…otherwise known as the bottoms in the official “Mommy Uniform.” The same uniform that I donned with such pride about 2 years ago now. I didn’t even know spandex was manufactured! I thought it was some gift of nature.

So in the style of dearest Sylvia (without the whole oven thing of course), I offer this lament:

Stretchy

You do not do, you do not do
Any more, spandex– Booooo!
In which I have lived like a fool
For two years, fat and white,
but at least managing to breathe or Achoo….

Spandex, spandex, you bastards, I’m through!

But to be honest, I’m not sure I can give up spandex. Not just yoga pants, but anything and everything stretchy? Spanx, pantyhose and tights, bathing suits, and bras. I think the only non-spandex bottoms look like this:

What’s a middle-aged mom to do? Thoughts, anyone?

Next time: A guest blogger in Healthy Living

© Copyright 2013 grayhairedmom.com

Anyway, my friend Laura told me that in Manhattan the new “status symbol” is a third baby. Couples who really want to show the Joneses that they’ve made it go for that third baby, because it supposedly shows that they can afford an extra bedroom. With 2 children, you can still slide by with a two-bedroom apartment. But the third child bumps you up into the next stratum of real estate showy-offishness. In the suburbs, I guess it’s cars and big houses; in Manhattan, it’s having 3 kids. The rule of thumb about the number of bedrooms and the price of Manhattan apartments was something like add half a million to the price per bedroom. I don’t know if that is still the case, but I do know that a two-bedroom apartment in a no elevator, no doorman building starts at around 700K. Add another bedroom, and I don’t think you are going to find anything under 1 million.

I’m only talking about the Upper West Side of Manhattan. I have no idea what goes on in other neighborhoods as far as real estate prices. Our apartment is categorized as “pre-war.” I think that generally means pre-World War II for most buildings, but sometimes I think our building is more pre-Peloponnesian War than World War II. It’s old and not too fancy, but when D bought it (pre-Me, I should point out), it was perfect and on the roomy side for one 45-year-old guy. He just didn’t realize that within a few years, he’d be married again and a father to a son and two cats.

While I was pregnant, we decided that we were going to stay put in our tiny apartment at least until my maternity leave was over and I decided whether or not I was going back to work. We actually love our little apartment, and if not for the ridiculous amount of stairs, we probably would stay there until the Little Guy is old enough to insist on his own room. We are lucky, because we can get out of town most weekends if we want to visit at my mother’s, where we can all have our own rooms if we want.

But as long as we were staying in such a small place, we realized we have to be very selective about baby furnishings and accouterments. For example, things like a changing table and big crib were not going to fit, and we never missed them, to be honest. He slept in his porta-crib from the time we brought him home until he was a little more than a year old.

We had to eliminate things like a baby wipe warmer and baby bottle sterilizer because of counter space and lack of electrical outlets, and our little guy doesn’t seem to mind the cold wipes and the bottles that were sterilized on the stove top in boiling water. He is almost as easy-going as his dad!

So finally, here is my advice to NASA: If you send a married couple to Mars as has been reported recently, make sure the space ship has at least 100 electrical outlets. I don’t think you ever could have had enough outlets, but now with the number of devices that need constant charging, it has become a point of contention. I have become enraged when I’ve found my iPhone charger unplugged and D’s Droid charging instead. Or stumbled to the bathroom in the morning and found my electric toothbrush unplugged and the blow dryer plugged in! Or cold coffee in the electric coffee pot sitting next to the video camera that D is charging up for the weekend.

Now imagine that instead of being on Earth where you can walk off that kind of rage, you’re in a space ship heading back from Mars half way through a 3-year journey, and you find your iPod unplugged and dead next to SOMEONE’S electric shaver…I can just imagine the capsule splashing down and finding Major Tom and his wife dead, he with her iPhone charging cord wrapped tightly around his neck, and she with a fatal head wound where he bludgeoned her with his dead, uncharged electric toothbrush….

I hope NASA is proactive and avoids this sort of potential interstellar space tragedy. Maybe the new new status symbol in Manhattan will be having 3 kids and 100 outlets!

© Copyright 2013 grayhairedmom.com

Next time: We leave Gotham for Mayberry

In the 18 months that I’ve been blogging, I’ve gotten to “meet” other bloggers who are suffering through infertility and its effects or treatments. I think maybe some readers have either found or been directed to my blog because of the underlying message of “it may not be too late.” However you’ve gotten here, I hope I can at least give you a giggle occasionally. Or a ray of hope. Because infertility sucks.

Here are a couple things that really upset me before and during my pregnancy.

Never assume

When I began to show, a few people seemed to make an assumption about me as an obviously older expectant first-time mom: that I’d endured years of infertility treatments and disappointments. I had a few people regale me with stories, never their own, about couples they knew who went through years of IVF. These stories almost never ended with the happy arrival of a baby. This just wasn’t the case with us. We had two cycles that were cancelled midway but before any fertilization or transfer took place, and one cycle that resulted in F’s birth. Hearing these stories, told to me I assume to show sympathy with my situation, made me so guilty and sad.

On the other hand, I know or know of much younger women who suffer from infertility and have to answer thoughtless questions all the time like, “When are you going to have children?” Or older pregnant women who didn’t go through IVF, thank you very much, and got pregnant the old-fashioned way.

I never minded sharing with anyone who asked me “how” I got pregnant. I did have a few women approach me because they’ve had their own difficulties becoming moms and wanted to know “my secret.” I was always glad those women felt they could approach me.

Older parents mean older grandparents

There are things that younger parents may not have experienced in life yet that older parents have, e.g., having to care for parents or even grandparents before caring for children. A friend of my husband’s was teasing us when F was only a few months old. His son was eating solid food already and he warned D that the diapers start to get really gruesome once solid food is introduced. I almost said, “Well, I’ve changed diapers for an adult, so worse than that?” but I realized that the friend wasn’t condescending or trying to be anything but funny. He couldn’t have known that as I changed diapers for this older person in my life a few years back, I cried not only because of the unfairness of what was happening to my loved one, but because I didn’t think I’d ever have the chance to change my own baby’s diaper. He couldn’t have known. Because we are expected to suffer in silence when the suffering stems from infertility. Or maybe it’s bigger than that even. Maybe we are always expected to keep it to ourselves and not make anyone uncomfortable with our suffering or pain.

New rules for showers

For years, I was the one going stag to my friends’ weddings. And soon after that, the first round of baby showers. Then I even moved into the second weddings for a couple of them. More babies, more showers. I did always try to celebrate and be happy for my friends without making it about poor little me, but it got really hard when I started getting invited to the weddings of my friends’ children, and then even the baby showers for the grandchildren on the way. When my own turn came at long last and against all odds, I turned down the very sweet offers from some of my best friends to throw me any showers, bridal or baby. I remembered how it felt.

Maybe there should be an exemption for showers and weddings: Single women need not bring gifts. Wedding gifts seem especially cruel. You’re asking a single woman to give you a gift or money on the day that you’re gaining not only a life partner but a second income, presuming that you’re not marrying the Big Lebowski or someone like that.

Anyway, now that I’ve gotten that off my chest, maybe I can get back to trying to be less of a bum-trip dropper. Thanks for bearing with me.

Next time: Let’s hope my writer’s block is gone

© copyright 2013 grayhairedmom.com

I was babysitting my niece one day, and we both took a big nap after lunch. I woke up first and stumbled into the bathroom with my make-up case only to realize that while I did have my mini toothbrush, I had used the last of the toothpaste from my little travel-size tube. The tube I found in the medicine cabinet was not an American product. It was in fact from Hungary, but since I had been brushing my teeth for quite a while, I thought I would be able to handle it without re-reading the instruction before doing so this time.

It was worth the risk; I totally had dragon breath.

So I spread some of this Hungarian toothpaste on my brush and started. The first thing I noticed, the consistency wasn’t what I expected. Then I noticed the taste wasn’t minty fresh and fabulous. I quite jingoistically thought, “Yeh, America! We rule toothpaste, too, apparently. U-S-A, U-S-ummmmmm, this doesn’t feel right.”

Since this was an actual tube brought back from Europe, the brand and most of the language was Hungarian, but there were several other languages on the tube in teeny, tiny fine print. One was French! Yay for me! I speak almost no French after studying it for 4 years in high school (and thanks Madame M for giving Donald G the French Achievement Award at graduation and not me, not that I’m still bitter or anything 35 years later) and 3 additional years in college.

It took me a few seconds to translate enough of the instruction for usage to understand that “spread liberally over baby’s bottom” was not how I was taught to use toothpaste. Heaving, I tried to find actual toothpaste or mouthwash or anything to get the ointment out of my mouth, but of course, it’s OINTMENT so rinsing my mouth out with water was not doing anything at all.

Then I had a panicked thought….could this shit be poisonous? I started trying to translate more of the French text and I was pretty sure that it did translate to something like, “Yuck, fool, call poison control.”

Now, I’d rather have died with dignity than admit that I ingested diaper rash ointment, but I was responsible for my niece, so I found an 800 number in phone book and called.

I was lucky to get the best poison control guy ever on the phone that day. I said, “I have one that I bet you’ve never heard before,” and he said, “Try me.”

“Brushed my teeth with diaper rash ointment.”

“Heard it, like twice today already.”

Apparently it’s an epidemic or something. He told me immediately it’s not poisonous, just nasty, and just keep rinsing until you feel better. A year should do it, I thought.

Flash forward about 10 years. I was changing F’s diaper one day and it’s the same old story. I turned my head for a few seconds to find a baby wipe or something and by the time I looked back, F had stuck his fingers in the jumbo-size jar of ointment and I could see that some of it was on his lips. I couldn’t tell if he got any in his mouth or how much. I almost fainted! I knew from the last call to poison control that it probably wasn’t poisonous, but the label did say, “If ingested, call poison control.”

This call to poison control was not as fun as the last time. This operator was super friendly (not a real handy quality when time might be of the essence) and didn’t seem to understand what I meant by diaper rash ointment. She wanted a brand name, and then she put me on hold for what seemed like an hour before coming back on and saying, “I don’t think it’s poisonous, but it can be a choking hazard.” I hung up and called my pediatrician. Everything turned out fine.

So, there you have it. Don’t brush your teeth before reading the instructions very carefully.

© Copyright 2013 grayhairedmom.com

It has also been my experience that the only people who will offer a pregnant woman a seat are other women and Latino men. So, some time in the late winter of 2010, I was riding the subway home from work. It was one of the rare times that I didn’t get a seat, so I found a corner of the car where I could wedge myself between the conductor’s door and the exit door and hang onto the door handle. I noticed two young Mexican guys sitting across from me, and I slowly tuned in on their conversation. My Spanish is limited to some random phrases here and there, but I did pick up the words “encinta” and “gordita,” and I realized that they were discussing whether I was pregnant or fat. I also know the word “vieja.”( I would so rather be gorda than vieja. Gorda, I can diet about; vieja, not much I can do). Anyway, I totally understood their dilemma. The one fellow thought I might be pregnant and wanted to offer his seat. His friend thought I was just old and fat and thought offering the seat would only make it clear to me that they thought I was old and so fat that I looked pregnant. Eventually, good manners won the argument, and they did offer me a seat. I took it, and as I sat, I played up the pregnant belly so that they didn’t feel foolish.

Then one morning I took the subway into work. I had not been commuting during the morning rush in a long time because my darling husband had been driving me to work, so I was oversensitive to the crowds. At 42nd Street, this otherwise normal-looking older business man type got on, and for some reason, decided that I was the one causing all his misery in life. He started shoving me, apparently because he thought I hadn’t given him enough space. After a few shoves, which I tried to ignore, I decided to call him out. I said in a loud voice, “Excuse me sir, but no matter how many times you shove this pregnant woman, there isn’t going to be any more room.” Did that shame him? Not a bit. He decided to fight with me. I always so admire a man who will pick on a woman traveling alone in NYC, and I pointed that out loudly to him and everyone else near us on the car. I think I might have also speculated on whatever shortcomings he might have that would make him angry enough to shove an old, pregnant woman on the subway. Finally a younger (much bigger) man told him to shut up, and he finally did.

When I was about 7 months pregnant, I was walking on Broadway in mid-afternoon and stopped for a light on the corner of 76th Street. I was wearing an overcoat and maybe I’d like to think that I really didn’t look obviously pregnant, but that could just be wishful thinking. As I waited for the go signal, I stepped down off the curb into a small hole, and I felt myself tipping over. I was wearing what I thought were sensible shoes, my clogs, but my foot slid in the clog and my ankle buckled, and the next thing you know, I’m down in the gutter rolling on my back like a turtle unable to right itself. The light changed and everyone waiting to cross the street from the other side came towards me. There were probably a dozen or so people, but to me it felt like everyone in Manhattan just saw me fall. And not a single one offered to help! In fact, one man actually walked by and made eye contact with me and made sure that I saw him shake his head in disgust. Everyone assumed I was drunk! I was so embarrassed. Finally, the last person to cross the street was a very young woman with a stroller. She stopped and asked me if I was OK. By this time, I was back on my feet and tearing up a bit. I wasn’t hurt, I was just mortified.

What was really interesting to me was that when I repeated this story, almost every friend of Irish descent (including my mother who has never had a drink in her life) assumed that people thought I was drunk. Everyone else (non-Irish friends and my therapist) said they would have never assumed that a woman falling in the afternoon was drunk. In fact, my therapist who I had been seeing to help me deal with job stress during my pregnancy, really wanted to explore that further.

I wonder what she should make of this: I do know another Spanish word. Borracha!

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