AGOO BLOG

On a typical afternoon I often find myself pushing my son in his stroller as we buy our groceries, go to the bank, pick up our dry-cleaning and shop at the local stores on our busy street.  Sitting in his front row seat, meandering through the crowd, my three year old happily says “hello”, “hi” and occasionally “nice dog” to the many people passing by. Sadly, I have to report that few will reply, or say hello back or acknowledge his attempt at being friendly.

Just last week, as we walked into an elevator, my son joyfully said hello to the two adults already riding and neither one answered him back. He said it again then looked at me, confused, as they got off on the next floor without answering back.

On a trip to the doctor’s office, we had to see the temporary physician on call. She walked into the room, robotically introduced herself and buried her face in his chart. Using the proper etiquette, I introduced my son, and then told him her name again, just so he felt safe and comfortable with a new person. Precociously and like any three year old, he ask how old are you?  Her reply, straight-faced and without an ounce of friendliness, was, “None of your business.”

It took a lot of willpower for me not to remark on her rudeness and obviously bizarre insecurities in front of a curious toddler. As a doctor, a professional someone trained to have compassion, her cold personality and mechanical social skills left me having to explain to my son why people don’t always want to say how old they are.

”I’m fourteen,” he falsely boasts to her, making his own attempt at soothing what he interpreted as her shyness. I don’t think she actually looked him straight in the eye the entire examination, and did nothing to reciprocate his gesture of friendliness.

Teaching your child values is a fundamental part of their entry and existence into society. Friendliness, compassion, empathy, and awareness of others rank as the key components to social behavior and social acceptance. Constantly we are teaching and reinforcing the proper behavior to our kids in all situations from the moment they move from babies to toddlers.  “Say please, ask nicely, be sure to share, look at a person when you speak to them.”  It is an absolute must for most families to instill these behaviors, and yet the adults in this busy world are not setting the example or being what they expect the children to be.

How do you explain to a child that an adult is ignoring them? What words do you use to say that for no real reason a person just doesn`t feel like being nice? It breaks my heart when I see the rejection in his eyes or the disappointment he feels when his bright hello doesn’t elicit a bright hello in return. Of course not all strangers shun his openness; a few do respond and actually take the time to speak with his darling and curious little nature. Unfortunately the ones who don’t answer stick in his mind, and he asks me why is that person mad, or why won`t they say hello?

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This year, five of my girlfriends had their first child. I was also pregnant, but with my second. As their bellies grew, they stopped looking at me with a bored stare.  Instead, the first time moms gushed and cooed about my growing baby.  Now each of them were interested and enthusiastic about the arrival of their own child and could not stop talking about everything baby.As each of them went on at length about the anticipation and excitement of growing a new life, they often asked me: “What’s it like to be a mother?”

It is a difficult question to answer, being a young mom myself, but when I finally found the words I replied, ’It is the hardest hard you will ever know along with the greatest love you will ever feel.”

A lump in my throat forms from just saying it. Never in my youth did I even think I would have kids, and of course the career girl couldn’t stand kids, the yuppie didn’t even think she wanted kids, yet now the mother of two wouldn’t know what to do if she didn’t have those kids.

You can never explain the transformation that occurs once a child arrives. Each and every one of us have gone nights—months!—without sleeping, changed more poo, seen more puke, spit up and every other body fluid than humanly possible.  We’ve walked a crying baby for hours, slept sitting up or on the floor beside a crib, drove aimlessly to induce sleep or done whatever ridiculous amusement required keeping a baby happy.

The hard is harder than you can explain. The demands, the unknown, the endless consoling, feeding, burping, diaper changing and, just when they are content for a moment, it starts all over again. There is no instruction booklet or guaranteed solutions to colic, acid reflux, night terrors or striders. The diaper rash, cradle cap, fevers, crying, teething, constipation, crying, running nose, heat rash, croup, diarrhea, and did I mention crying? It takes its toll on any human being.

When you are on the verge of tears or too tired to sleep, you never imagined it was going to be this hard.

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Sex, Here I come…

This week I celebrated my daughter’s nine month birthday. It seems hard to believe that nine months have passed since she arrived. So many exciting things have happened in her development and each day I am in awe as her little personality emerges.

In those nine months we have been inundated with pink clothes, midnight feedings, the sighing sound she makes when she sleeps and of course the squeals she makes when she’s awake. She’s brought so much to our world and I am grateful that she chose us as her parents.

Of course, I could go on and on about all the amazing things that have transpired since her arrival, but what I really want to talk about is that in those nine months, the number of times that I’ve had sex I can count on both my hands.

Having a baby is a huge transformation and it seems that once the labour part is over and all of the healing has taken place (in my case I had a caesarean section), we expect ourselves and are expected, by our partners, to kick into gear and resume our sexual routine.  NOT!

I would like to know why no scientific grants or government money is allotted to study the effects and conditions of post-pregnancy sexual stimuli. I myself have had to, on numerous occasions, explain to my husband that “not feeling like it” has nothing to do with him. Additionally I have had to explain (and this is where I think the scientist should step in) that Mom’s body and brain are on other things.

Of course, before baby came, having one’s breast massaged and paid attention to felt good, tantalizing and erotic. But now after continuous nursing, suckling and, if your child is older like mine, tugging, biting and trying to hang on while turning to see Sesame Street, has pretty much ensured that all of those feelings are shut off and gone. I actually believe my brain has HAD TO remove all sense of sexual stimulation to that area because now having my child nursing seven to ten times a day–in the car, at the playground, in the restaurant bathroom–has basically zapped the “ I’m  still an sexual  entity” right out of me . Now my breasts are no longer for playing with, they’re here to perform a job.

Of course my husband still wants them to perform the job he likes most, but I keep thinking, “How can one possibly be expected to feed baby in one minute and then a few minutes later be aroused and excited?” I assure him that he’ll have no better luck south of the border.  All I want to do is sleep!  I’m not sure about you, but the time, energy and work that goes into that voyage is often way more than I have at the end of a day filled with gymnastics, blowing up the mini swimming pool, feeding Carco, my son’s imaginary dog, and having the city gas company ringing my doorbell to tell me they have to dig up my newly landscaped yard to find a leak in a pipe. Where’s the arousal in that?

Even when a day is moderately filled with my son insisting on wearing his shirt backwards or the  hysterics of a lost toy, I still find it hard to muster the strength (or should I say juices) to perform in the night. This is where my doctor (female, of course) has actually come to the rescue explaining that: during breast feeding a woman’s body often loses its “quick response” to become aroused. Lack of lubrication is common in breastfeeding women, because estrogen levels are low. Normally when you are sexually excited, two special glands at the entrance of the vagina, called Bartholin’s glands, produce extra secretions. The moisture from these glands is more slippery than the moisture from the cervix, because its purpose is to provide good lubrication during intercourse. While breast-feeding, vaginal dryness and painful intercourse can occur as Estrogen levels are low, causing the vagina to become thin, inelastic, and dry.

Thank goodness someone was able to explain it, because on all of those days I spent making banana bread with my Mom, we never got to that conversation! On the upside, I have been told: your clinician can give you some estrogen cream to use vaginally every night for a week or two and then once or twice a week. This will improve your symptoms without affecting your milk supply. Breast-feeding women vary in how quickly the dryness resolves. For some it is with the return of menstrual periods; for others dryness lasts a longer period of time.

Aware of this information, I have been getting the pressure to end the breast feeding stint as my little girl has reached her ninth months. My husband’s request has been duly noted but I am still not 100% ready to give it up and have even become endeared towards the tugging and yanking, knowing that the countdown to the end is inenviably near.

It isn’t a perfect situation—who do I make more important to?  My daughter, who needs it?  My husband, whose patience is outstanding?  Or myself, who adores being a mother yet has the distant feelings of a woman in lust?  I know we are sexual beings where intimacy and intercourse has definite importance in our relationships, but I still find it hard to convince my body and my brain to make the necessary effort.  An effort where there should be no effort, just enjoyment and pleasure, where kids aren’t looming on your mind and where the slightest gurgle from the other room doesn’t break your concentration. Again, where are the scientific facts to back me up and assure me that one day soon I’ll feel normal again and S E X will be grander than ever?

Standing on my soapbox,

JB

To read more please go to agooblog.com

Now going into my fourth year (of motherhood), I have to say that the crazy, mind-boggling and often completely overwhelming no longer seems so incomprehensible, but instead just commonplace. Over this holiday weekend we attended a BBQ, had a day at the pool and an evening with friends at our house. Each and every event was filled with kids, noise, chaos, confusion and half-finished sentences in between broken conversations. Each set of parents juggled food, spills, trips to the toilet, bumps, cries and negotiations over who did what to whom. The babies got trampled over by the bigger kids; the toys got fought over by the ones still not able to understand how to share. Only one small, uncherished item got broken, and the two bowls of food on the floor were quickly cleaned up by the collective parents.

It all was very unstructured as parties or events go, and between diaper changes and nap times, crying spells and tug of wars, we as the parents just helped, provided and attended to whichever kid needed it at the time. While I assisted my friend’s daughter with taking off her shoes, someone else held my baby. When my son wanted more ketchup while I was breastfeeding, a friend’s dad fetched it for him. Each parent took a turn with whichever youngster needed help, whether it was on the slide, in the water, getting juice or brushing off a scraped knee. It didn’t seem to matter whose child it was, just whoever was closest.

There was, however, a moment when all the toddlers were at the kid’s table and the babies on the laps of their mom’s and the food was dished out.  For what seemed like a few minutes we actually all got to enjoy our food before the milk spilled, the napkins became swooshy swords, the baby started crying and the phone began to ring.

To read more please go to : agooblog.com

Until next time, standing on my soapbox,

JB

Before I had kids, I often sat with my arms-crossed and face-scowled when kids, in any environment, gleefully ran around me, shouting at the top of their lungs. I had this permanent look of non-amusement at any event that was all about kids. I would refuse to sit beside little ones on a plane; I even remember asking a booking agent one time if they actually had a child-free flight. If a hostess at a restaurant seated me next to a family of kids, I asked to be moved. Whenever my friends talked about their kids, I got bored–and heaven forbid anyone put their gurbbling, slurbbing infant on the phone and expected me to engage in a conversation. I sort of didn’t really like kids, I thought.

I swore I would never let my living room look like a toy store after an earthquake. No diapers would get changed on my couch, no snot rags would lay around, no clutter of bottles, wipes, food jars, creams and baby potions would invade my elegant space. I was sure that there was no reason why a house needed to look like the toy box had thrown up. I knew that if I had kids, I would never let my home get that way.

I used to cringe at the smell of kids, the dirt and the icky, gooky hands that all too often reached for my designer jewellery and expensive outfits. I liked my heels, my pashminas, my acrylic nails.
None of that went with kids.

All of the mothers I had observed were make-upless, frumpy, had soothers between their teeth and sweat on their brows. I thought that there was no reason that motherhood had to look like that. Just because you have kids, it doesn’t mean you can’t look nice, fix your hair and retire that shirt you’ve been wearing since pregnancy.

No, I would never let myself go like that, I said. I would never become so frazzled and exhausted just because a baby arrived.

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Studying costumes and costume design was one of my favorite things in school. For whatever reason, I loved the ornate and overly detailed fabrics of the years gone by. I was particularly enthralled with the 17th century, the French court and all that was Renaissance.

I adored the intricate floral prints, the ribbons, lace and overly grand ensembles that every lady wore. The stomacher, Watteau pleating, chemise and pannier hoops were just a few of the accomplices of that highly ostentatious era. Red heels, lace cuffs and a six inch ruff on the men made them no less the object of great finery. All was big, bold and overly impressive.

What I did find odd though was how the children were dressed as miniature copies of their parent’s attire right down to the brass buttons, lace pinafores and diamond buckles. It seemed a bit odd to me at the time how anyone would think a child, barely walking, would enjoy the layers upon layers of court dress, not to mention the opulence, constriction and weight that accompanied such elaborate outfits.

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June 5th, 2008

The recent warm weather and burst of spring showers had prompted my son into a desire for puddle jumping. Of course, the rubber boots he donned last year were far from fitting onto his now three-year-old toes, so off to the store we went to get a new pair.

Not thinking and trying to multi-task, Dad came along and so did little sister. With the plan to get groceries, a baby shower gift and a new pair of boots, we had to visit three different stores. Food was first, as it keeps the toddler snacking and amused, and Dad likes the illusion of getting things done as he fills the cart and checks items off his invisible list.

With our double stroller holding our coats, diaper bag, water bottles, wet wipes, rattle for the little one and new Dora video for the bigger one, Dad and I had to meander as best we could onto our next errand. Of course, he has the cart with all of the food, 25 rolls of toilet paper, Kleenex boxes, bleach, diapers and even more wipes, so we proceeded like a convoy.

I knew exactly what I was getting for a gift, so Dad stood outside with the crew as I zoomed in to quickly check off another thing on my list. Of course, the store was busy and the sales girls did not really notice as I stood patiently (yet impatiently) waiting to pay. Finally, I asked for help as I heard my baby start to fuss. Dad is never good with the fussing, he usually lets it go for too long and it passes the point where you can amuse her again.

I paid as fast as I could, glancing back at my husband and son eating Japanese oranges, my husband oblivious to the fusses as my son flicks stringy bits of orange at his sister.

With two errands down and one to go, I amused the baby with a granola wrapper crinkling in her hands, then made the dreaded mistake of removing my son from the stroller as we took over the small space in the shoe store.

On the shelf I saw a perfect pair of navy blue rubber boots. Dad had his cell in his ear as I looked for my son’s size and told him to remove his old shoes. The two seconds when I had my back turned resulted in my son running to a different shelf and, with the thrill only a three your old can exude, he shouted, uninhibited, “Mom, I want these ones!”

Happily, I turned to see him holding a lovely pair of Dora the Explorer rubber boots, all in pink with lavender soles. A moment passed before I could respond, while he kicked off his shoes and wiggled into the boots.

Now I know that his attraction is to Dora, the famous cartoon character every kids loves, and these boots represent adventure, friendship and exploring. But the boots just happened to be flamingo pink. I immediately and without thinking pointed to the Diego boots (denim blue and orange)–they are more masculine, of course.

“No, these one Mommy,” he insisted, as he stood to

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Dress to Express : Dressing Your Kids

After working in the wardrobe department in the film industry for over twelve years, I know a thing or two about fashion. One of my many jobs involved the demanding and hectic process of buying the perfect outfit for the top celebrities.

When I say perfect, I mean perfect—that authentic red 1950s dress that the director had his heart set on seeing, or that simple white t-shirt that’s actually far from simple!

I remember having 3 dozen cardigans to show Sally Fields. Jessica Alba was fanatic about her underwear, and I won’t mention any names, but I had to alter the butt of a leading man’s Boss jeans three times before he was happy. I have walked down the mall with Arnold Schwarzenegger, sat on curb talking fashion with David Bowie and even help put Will Farrell into an elf suit. All moments to remember and all dictated by fashion.

Many people who have never worked in film often ask what it’s like to dress such important people. I often say it is similar to dressing my three year old. They know what they like and know what they want!

For almost two years, I was blissfully going about sporting my son in the cutest and trendiest of boys wear. Many of his scrapbook pictures have him in a vest, button up shirt and even a bow tie. I often enjoyed the attention he would receive from strangers who admired his clothes and thought he looked just so cute…

…until he woke up one day and had a fashion mind of his own. Suddenly I’m at work all over again, trying to reason with someone who argues, screams and throws their clothes on the floor. Like starlets in the past, I have to negotiate, coerce, and try to convince him of what to wear.

Don’t get me wrong! I love that my son has awaken to the eccentricities of fashion. He has his favorites, like the shirt that has to be washed every second day so he can wear it all the time. We went through the one t-shirt that did not come off for three days in row. He tells his friends about his favorite “jaguar” shirt, no different from the name-dropping you would hear in any make-up trailer on set. Speed McQueen, Diego and Scooby Do are his version of Prada, Vuitton and Max Mara. They all mean something, and somehow make him feel better.

Anything new needs to be introduced slowly. It sits in his closet for a while; he needs to get to know it, trust it and when one coveted favorite reaches that point where the sleeves are to short or the neck starts to fray, a new one, if lucky, might be chosen. Leaving his black rain jacket at Gramma’s has resulted in driving across town to retrieve it—no different than when Kyle McLachlan left his leather jacket in his hotel room and a team of union drivers had to go to pick it up.

I started taking my son to the mall (something we desperately try to avoid with the cast) so he could pick out what he would like. Most of my choices are rejected or outgrown by the time he’s decided to wear them. Once he has it in his mind he wants to wear something, I know no amount of showing him something else will change it. Kinda like when Lindsay Wagner arrived from LA and, although we showed her over two hundred different items, she went for something she fished out of her suitcase.

So why do we become so attached to our clothes? At three, it seems unlikely that it is taught behavior. Trying to explain that the navy blue alphabet shirt clashes with the red-and-grey Nike shorts seems far beyond his comprehension. Yet sometimes I see his glance in the mirror and his confidence grows when he dons his “race cars” shirt. Is it any different from my favorite Gucci boots or cashmere sweater?

Regardless of age or gender, what we wear express how we feel. My son loves red; his best friend can’t live without pink. No one told them or showed them that what you wear can make you feel good. The only conclusion I can come up with is that it must be encoded somehow, regardless of environment or influence. Growing up in a town of fifty thousand didn’t stop me from dyeing my hair purple or wearing blue lipstick and handcuffs on my belt.

When it comes to fashion, I’m no longer interested in the price tag or gold logo. How do I feel wearing it? What sort of smile, smirk or twinkle in my eye does it create?

When it come to kid’s fashion, it’s even more important. Do they laugh, play and feel free to express themselves? Are their clothes an extension of who they are? Do they enable and create the confidence to be who they want to be and allow them to joyfully present themselves to the world?

I know in my heart that if I stand back and watch my son, he shows me every single time just who he is. When I try to make him look or appear a certain way outside of his character, I always have a battle on my hands. Allowing him to choose what he wears empowers his spirit and increases his self worth. He, in is own little three year old way, is making a choice to be the person that he feels he is, and his clothes are a beautiful and effortless extension of that.

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