Some people don't get it

Ann Landers' daughter, Margo Howard, has a generally interesting advice column: Ask Prudence. But her latest column got me annoyed.

A woman wrote in for advice in helping her friend, who has just been told that she can't conceive with her own eggs. The advice-seeker says:

I love her so much and can see and hear the pain, but I cannot empathize as I had my two children in the last six years and feel happy, even though their father traded me in for his second "fling."

I need some resources or canned answers to gently show her that she is fortunate enough to be able to carry a baby if she chooses (a few of our other friends can't) and that her husband would accept adoption -- though Anna hasn't decided about adoption. She isn't getting any younger. Her 40th birthday is next week, and I fear her depression will peak on that day.

How kind of her. We all need more friends to "gently" show us, when bad things happen to us, that we are, in reality, lucky. Perhaps, when the advice-seeker suffers a loss of some sort--a serious illness, death of a family memebver or friend, house burning down, unemployment--that after all, she's lucky.

What crap! When someone you love is hurting, it isn't your job to decide that she's too focused on the negative and it's your role to tell her to move on and be happy for what she has.

And if you haven't ever experienced infertility, it's not your role to decide how important or how sad or how infuriating that should be to someone else. (Actually, even if you HAVE experienced a particular misfortune, I don't think it's your role to decide that someone else should see that the way you do.) Especially if you acknowledge that you have no understanding or empathy for the infertile due to your own fertility.

And our advice columnist, given an opportunity to point out that unqualified support and perhaps some self-education might be useful--and maybe even a batch of homemade lasagna or cookies--says instead:

Prudie has a hunch that you, as a close friend, feel her disappointment, sadness and anxiety, while you as a "citizen of the world" understand that there are many unwanted babies that could use good parents, and that one's own genes aren't a guarantee of perfection.

As a rule, most women who cannot conceive get over the narcissistic injury and go on to make good decisions. Infertility technology is a major growth industry for a reason. All you can do is keep trying to get your friend to include her husband and agree on a solution; also remind her of the possibilities.

Oh good. Glad to know that we infertiles can eventually rise above our self-absorbed narcissism in actually feeling as if that infertility can be a big deal. After all, kids are kids, right?

Now, I myself am adopted. I say this not in any way to diminish or devalue the family ties created by adoption. But: adoption and traditional biological child-creation are not pure substitutes for each other. Both create families; both result in real children with real parents. In the long run, I do beleive that that parenting any child, who joins your family in any way, is more similar than different to parenting any other child.

But they're not exactly the same. Each offers some of its own challenges and its own joys. And to treat those differences casually, and to treat casually the idea that some people do not have free choice to build their families in any way they prefer, is to be, not to put to fine a point on it, an idiot.

Grieving one's infertility, or, in this case, in particular, grieving one's inability to have a biological connection to one's child, is trivilaized by representing it as some desire for perfection.

And adopting unwanted babies isn't like going into your local boutique and walkign out with a baby. Adoption involves expense, risk, stress, home studies, and long reflection on exactly what you can handle in a child.

Will you be ready to tackle a child with attachment issues from an orphanage in an international adoption? An infant whose mother may have had no prenatal care, or who may have used drugs? Will you be able to be a good parent to a child who has been abused or neglected? A child with special needs? Are you educated enough and commited enough to raise a child of a different race or with a different national heritage, acknowledging your extra responsiblities? Are you prepared to help your child through the issues of open adoption? Or through the issues of perhaps no information at all about her parents--as in many international adoptions? Are you ready to deal with your child growing up, in some cases, with no detailed or up-to-date genetic family medical history?

How much money can you spend? Do you want to meet the bio parents of the child? Do you want ongoing contact? How much? How much medical history will you have available? Will it be updated over the years?

I am beyond grateful that I was adopted by the best parents I can imagine, giving me a fabulous family-including my (also adopted) brother. I am not suggesting that adopting a child is not rewarding and joyful and (I hope my parents feel) life-changing in good ways. I am not suggesting that every adopted child will have or could have any or all of the above issues.

But adoption today is not simple, not cheap, not quick. It is a valuable and wonderful way to make a family. It is not the consolation prize that makes all your infertility issues vanish.

And to suggest that being hurt or saddened by infertility is narcissistic shows a stunning lack of understanding.

I hope "Prudie" gets a lot of letters pointing out this out. If you want to be one of them, write her here.

Otter works on exercising his sense of style

Otter has been learning to dress himself. We have not enough time to get all the laundry put away instantly. Often Otter's folded and semi-folded clean clothes are in the living room, stacked on top of the dresser, waiting for us to have time to put them away. Otter also knows how to open the drawers of the dresser holding his clothes.

This means that Otter has the opportunity to dress himself often. More than once a day. Essentially whenever he feels like grabbing another piece of clothing to wear, he does. So lately if I leave the room to go check the dishwasher or get him a sippy of water, I come back to a child dressed in a new piece of clothing.

However, Otter has not mastered the concept of "one at a time." I.e., he feels that if he likes the blue striped short-sleeved romper he's wearing, and he can get his hands on the long-sleeved pink-red-yellow-and-purple-striped top to his pajamas, he'll put the PJ top on... over the romper. This is a deliberate choice, as he can and does take off his shirts when he so chooses. So far, he has stopped at two layers at a time, though I don't count on that continuing forever.

He has not yet mastered taking on and off his pants, but once he does, I'm sure we'll see ever more interesting combinations of clothing.

The sadness of toddler veins

Otter has been struggling with this cold, and on our eleventeenth doctor's visit, I asked, in semi-desperation, what we could do to boost his immune system. The doctor said, "Well, basically nothing... but we could do some testwork to find out if something is interfering with his immune system's ability to fight off illness."

Now, on first glance this sounds reassuring, doesn't it? Do some simple tests, get an answer, remove the obstacle, fix the problem, healthier kid, right?

Until , as a somewhat anxiety-prone mama--

--and I come by it honestly; my mom is prone to... umm, being aware of possible worst case scenarios. So I too have this tendency. (Vigilant! aware! able to foresee and protect the child from possible hurt! Really, it's an under-valued superpower.) Back to our story--

until I realize that immune system problems could include nasty big things that are wrong. I cannot list these things, as I have, wisely I believe, chosen NOT to go on the internet or to our parenting books and look up all the horrid things that could cause my child to be somehow less than super-strong, immune-system-wise.

And until, more crucially, I find that testing Otter's immune system means testing his blood. Now, I'm sure you all know this, but to test blood, you need first to remove it from the veins. We have undergone this process with Otter before, testing for anemia and lead (a recurring test, which we've done at least twice a year). That's not been so bad; quick jab, quick filling of the little tube(s), and home we go. Not fun, but okay. We've been pretty lucky.

This time, for some reason (our phlebo-luck ran out? ha ha not funny Latin-ate blood-tech joke there), it did not go so smoothly. When the tech got the tiny needle in Otter's right arm, she couldn't catch a vein. So she pushed the needle further--no blood flow--and in another direction--no blood flow--and in yet another direction--no blood flow--pulled it back a bit and pushed it back in in yet another direction, chasing the elusive toddler vein... still no blood flow. Repeat that sentence a few times like a parental nightmare mantra--try again--no blood flow--try again--no blood flow. Not a soothing chant.

Okay. This took about forty-five seconds to a minute, maybe two minutes, not longer, I'd guess. That's not at all long if you're watching a movie, or eating lunch, or reading a blog, perhaps. But it's a very very very long time, when what you are doing is holding your toddler as his wails gradually build in intensity and volume while you watch the blood tech gently but firmly jab a needle around inside your child's entire elbow area. I can only imagine that his poor arm is going to have a big big bruise, and be very very sore.

During this time, I am sounding calm and collected and telling Otter repeatedly that it's okay to be mad and upset, that he can cry if he wants, that I know it doesn't feel good, that it'll be over soon, and that he's being very very good.

Of course, after this interminable two minutes, she can't get a vein, and we have to start over on the other arm. So as soon as she pulls the needle out of Otter's right arm, I have to tell him we're NOT done; we're going to try it all over again on the left arm. But you'll get a purple bandage to put on the arm after we're done. Different tech, only a couple tries, blood comes pretty quickly. And once the needle is in, we can see the blood come out, and go in the tubes. Isn't that interesting? What color is the tube, Otter? What color is the blood? We're almost done, honey, just a little bit more... Damn the blood is slowing down and the second tube isn't filling up--no more jabs no more jabs please make it flow again--okay there it goes... there it goes, see, what color is the top of that tube, we're so close to being done, okay, there we are... ALL DONE! See, they're taking off the squeezy arm thing, and putting on a bandaid, and then the purple bandage on top. How many purple bandages do you have? One on each arm now? Two? You were so good, Otter.

This is not my idea of a fun start-your-morning-right experience. Thank goodness, Otter rebounded quite well, and we rode "up-a-stairs" in the elevator to get paperwork for the new baby's pre-admittance pre-birth birth certificate, and then went out from the "hosbiddle" to take Otter off to daycare to show off his purple bandages.

I don't enjoy these things, but I have to say, I think so far I've been pretty good at them, if being able to stay calm for your kid and help him understand what's happening while you hold him down and have people do painful things to him is, in fact, a skill. I remember when they had to try forever to put the IV in his hand when he had surgery at four weeks old, though thank goodness they numbed it first, and the ER nurse was all surprised that I could hold Otter and talk to him and stay calm and not freak out and run away sobbing.

What good would that do anybody? The child needs you, and tiny baby or toddler veins are hard to find, and the medical staff are doing their best and it's a necessary procedure.

That said, when I went to drop Otter off, I stayed and held him on my almost-non-existent-seven-months-plus-pregnant lap while he ate cheerios and drank water. And then I went home to do work with a headache.

When he doesn't sleep, no one sleeps

Otter has been having some restless nights. We can't quite figure out if it's illness (coughing, pain, tummy discomfort being some of the choices?) waking him, or bad dreams, or what. Not every night, but two out of three, he wakes at 2 or 3 or (as today) 4 am. If we're blessed, some shh-shh-snuggling puts him to sleep; if we're just lucky some randomly chosen meds and rocking and back-rubbing helps him go back down.

If we're not so lucky, he doesn't go back down quickly. Like last night.

From 4 to 4:45 we tried all of the above--no luck. Then from 4:45 -5:15 we tried nursing (which I as a pregnant tired woman try to avoid when it's "ni-night' time, as it wakes me up even if it helps him go back down), and achieved nothing but the revelation that whenever Otter unlatched he'd go straight back to wailing. Clearly no long-term soothing effect was being achieved.

So my glorious husband groggily took wailing child into the living room. I cuddled up under a warm blanket and listened for ten minutes of faint wailing from the other half of the apartment. I dozed off after it seemed to have stopped.

When I woke at 7, Otter had fallen asleep on the sofa on G while watching the Zoe's Dance Moves DVD. According to G, every time he'd been sure Otter was asleep, he'd tried to turn off the DVD, only to have the child's eyes pop open and a voice wail "Zoe! Zoe's Dance Moves!", either weakly or loudly, depending on how far asleep he'd been. Eventually G gave up hope of sleep without a Sesame Street soundtrack, and left the thing on.

So when I came in at 7, G had to get up to go to work, and quickly, and I wanted to make G a good lunch. So we tried to transfer Otter back to bed--no luck. He woke up.

In hopes of smoothing over the morning rockiness of having to take off his PJs when he wanted to wear them to show his whole daycare, I let Otter pick his own clothes. He kept on the bright pink socks he'd worn to bed, but accessorized them with a light (but bright, not pastel) pink shirt and bright pink pants. The overall effect was that of a toddler who'd been dressed by a lawn flamingo.

So my all pink boy went fairly cheerily off to daycare, where I suspect he had a rocky morning from not enough sleep. I crawled home to bed for a quick nap and then to work, feeling as if I have rocks and fuzz in my head and sand in my eyes.

It says a lot for how much I love Otter and how charming and joyful a child he actually is (and how much co-parenting G does!) that I still loved talking to Otter while I took him in to daycare, and that even now I miss him and want to hug him.

Not enough to pick him up two and a half hours early though. (If we could win the lottery and hire a house-cleaning service and a personal assistant, maybe that'd be different.)

Maybe a half an hour early... but I do need to get more done first.