Among my son’s bedtime reading selections is a book called Winnie the Pooh and Tigger Too. In it, the energetic Tigger enthusiastically “bounces” the characters one by one, until grumpy Rabbit decides he needs to rid Tigger of his annoying bounce. He convinces Piglet (and Pooh is dragged along, somewhat unawares) to help him take Tigger on a lengthy Explore in the woods, lose him, and therefore — through fear and sadness — make him much less bouncy.

I’m telling this story because it parallels what’s happened with our day care situation. My son is just too bouncy for his current day care, apparently. He’s too energetic and physical. Add to that the fact that he’s tall and big and strong for his age — but still actually too young to understand the negative consequences of his passion. I will admit he has hit and scratched, but he also gets bitten and bruised himself. This small day care, without adjacent outdoor space, is out of its league. It’s directors are also afraid the boy will injure others badly enough to bring a lawsuit on the day care center. (This is the heart of the matter, I suspect.) They would like to unbounce my boy, and, barring that, we’ve been told to make alternative arrangements.

It saddens me that my son’s physicality, which is one of his greatest strengths — we suspect we have a budding athlete on our hands — is his downfall in this case. And apparently even his energy wouldn’t be so difficult to deal with, were it not for his size and strength. (Size discrimination? You activists tell me!) His behavior, according to the day care folks, is completely consistent with his age, but when this powerful giant boy acts like a 2.5-year-old, the consequences are more dangerous than usual.

I’ve spent a lot of time questioning my own parenting skills. Do we play rough-and-tumble at home? Sure, we do. We bounce on the couch; we do improvised gymnastics; he climbs up on the bed or onto his parents’ shoulders. I think of this as helping him get that energy out, but am I not setting the limits he needs? (It’s tough because most of his troubles are in interactions with other kids, and we parents don’t see these interactions very often.)

He’s not a bad kid. He resists the usual things: getting dressed, getting his diaper changed, going to bed. We’ve just always noticed his physical precocity. He was always the smallest kid climbing on the big kids’ play structure. He quickly conquered his fear of the biggest twistiest slide. He’s just a physical kid. And somewhere in there, he had a big growth spurt that has everyone with experience around kids saying “How old is he?” “My, he’s big for his age,” and “Wow, he’s tall for two-and-a-half.”

In the Winnie the Pooh story, Rabbit’s plans for unbouncing Tigger go awry. Instead of losing Tigger in the woods, Rabbit himself becomes lost. Guess who comes to his rescue? Later, Tigger, bouncing with Roo, gets stuck in a tree and swears never to bounce again if he makes it out of the situation safely. Once down, he’s so happy he’s on the verge of bouncing, when Rabbit reminds him of his promise. The deflated Tigger slinks off, demoralizing everyone, until they all agree they like the bouncy Tigger best, and want him back.

We love our bouncy boy more than anything in the world. So we’re trying to find a nanny (which we totally can’t afford, but would need anyway, when the baby comes). She can take him to the park every day, until he gets his fill of running, and climbing, and bouncing.

UPDATE: The day care center seems to have reconsidered, and they think that they can work with him, so we have a bit of a reprieve on nanny-hiring until #2 is on the verge of appearing. It’s a relief, I must say. As much as I like my boy just the way he is (bouncy), I know it’ll be much easier on us all if he can stay at the day care for now.

And, by “kicked out” I mean permanently, if not immediately. More to come, I’m sure…

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More…

Is it too late to say I just can’t handle this parenting thing and I’ve decided to stay childless? It’s been one of these days/weeks. My son is the most beautiful and amazing creature in my life, but he just adds so much complexity — and financial strain (this is a HUGE factor in the stresses facing our family right now) — to everything. And there is another one coming. What were we thinking?

Don’t interpret my silence about Shauna’s book as meaning that I haven’t read it, for I did, and quickly. And it doesn’t mean that I didn’t love it. For I did, very much. I’ve just been, uh… digesting. My thoughts are more expansive than one post will accommodate, but I’ll start today with…. Exercise.

After I’d finished reading, the one thing I was left longing for was a box, a table, a chart… something that said: 10 secrets to Shauna’s success. What did she eat? Did she eat carbs after 6 p.m.? After all of those setbacks, how did she get back on the wagon each time?

My best guess to secret #1 is: exercise. It seemed like every time she needed motivation, she dusted herself off and went to the gym. It’s tough to feel bad about yourself and eat like crap when you’re putting in your time on the treadmill, in the fitness class, or whatever. So, in an effort to emulate my superhero, last weekend we set up the treadmill in its new NYC location, and today, I actually did some exercise: Erin O’Brien’s Prenatal Fitness Fix video.

Some of the moves are hard for me, just because I’ve got more bulk than your average (even pregnant) bear. Other moves were difficult because I’m a bit out of shape! But, generally, it wasn’t difficult enough to discurage me, and I managed to follow along pretty well. I chugged about three tall glasses of water — a testament to my dehydration — during the 40 minute workout. I finished it feeling energized and excited. I don’t have to languish on the couch, and I can improve my fitness, despite my delicate condition.

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I’m weighing around 222 now, which is probably more of a gain than I should have experienced, thus far, but I don’t think I’m far off of last pregnancy. I really don’t want to gain to the weight I did last time (240-ish), though, as I was really swollen and uncomfortable, but it might just be in the genes. Hopefully more daily activity (walking everywhere, getting more exercise) will help.

When it comes to pregnancy, New York holds a lot of bad memories for me. I’ve written before about my ill-fated first pregnancy, though I won’t go into details. But I will say that the 20-week ultrasound scan was the start of the horrific events that marked pregnancy #1. And Friday, I was all set to go to my current 20-week scan, at the same hospital as before, having been sent there by the same doctor as before. (I avoided all this in pregnancy #2 by moving across the country.)

There were dozens of reminders of that first time — the walk from the subway to the hospital; the seat where I filled out paperwork; the row of dark examination rooms; the door to the genetic counselor’s office. But I’ve already had testing that ruled out what happened before, which gave me some reassurance. I’ve also generally had a good feeling about this pregnancy, and, since that first time, I have had a beautiful little boy. Also, this time I brought my husband with me for the procedure. But it was still tough to go into that 20-week scan, knowing that it’s not just an occasion to see your baby close-up, it’s also an opportunity to find out that something could be wrong — very wrong.

I had to recount my medical history for the technician, and she dutifully explained that she wouldn’t be able to give me any results herself. That would have to wait for the doctor who would come in later. But she didn’t help by asking questions about my first pregnancy while she was looking at the brain. “What were the markers that you saw before?” she asked, leading us both to wonder whether something had appeared this time. I gripped my husband’s hand tightly, and we waited for the doctor to come in and break the news.

And when he did, he told us everything looked fine. It all looked fine. I almost couldn’t believe it. When he’d left, we hugged and our eyes teared up with relief, and also with amazement that we will soon be adding another little boy to our family.

For the last few years, I’ve had a love/hate relationship with make-up. Growing up in Houston, land of big hair and panty hose, it wasn’t really even a question. Of course you wear make up, starting in your teens or even before — even if the stultifying heat and humidity meant it dripped off in the first few minutes. When I moved to New York, I was pleased to find it was more of a personal decision, but I still leaned more often toward using it rather than foregoing (except for during exercise or on lazy weekend mornings), even though I’ve been blessed with the kind of skin that often draws compliments from strangers.

When my husband and I began our courtship, he assured me I looked lovely without it. (And he hasn’t changed his mind, thank goodness.) When I moved to near-Berkeley, basically hippie-central USA, local cultural norms argued against it. When I had our son, I was happy just to get the time to take a shower, much less stand in front of a mirror and focus on myself for a few minutes. So, I haven’t been wearing it regularly.

Since moving to New York, a few factors have kicked in. The dry, cold air (and pregnancy hormones, no doubt) have brought out red splotchiness in my complexion. The gorgeous, stylish girls I see on the train, and on the streets, have me aspiring to take advantage of my natural assets. And, now that I have my husband’s help, I realize that I need to (and can) take back time to take care better care of myself — healthy diet, vigorous exercise. Why not make-up?

So, since I can’t find my make-up since moving here (it must be in a box somewhere, like so many other missing items), I started shopping — my search complicated by the fact that we are on a major economy drive. I hit multiple online shops, and sometimes went so far as to put things in my virtual shopping cart, before closing out the window and determining it was just too expensive. One evening, before picking up my son, I stopped into a drug store and cased out the colors and brands. But, there, too, I walked out without buying anything.

Finally, on Friday night, I was invited by my ex-boss to attend a little get-together with my former work colleagues at her loft apartment. What with the general weight gain, the pregnancy, and my nervousness about seeing old colleagues again, a little make-up confidence boost was in order. At the drugstore on the way into work, I picked up foundation, powder, eyeliner, eye shadow and blush, for the grand total of around $50. Not much by make-up standards, but a lot for a discretionary purchase. But, guess what? I’m so happy I did it.

My love/hate relationship has partly to do with my struggle over what using make-up means. Does it indicate that I’m unhappy with my appearance and want to cover up, somehow? Or is it part of a take-care-of-myself beauty regimen like diet, exercise, moisturizer, tooth-brushing, etc.? I think for me, interpretation #2 is appropriate, and I’m adding a few minutes to my morning routine — if not every day, at least fairly often. Because I’m determined to love myself.

My copy of “The Amazing Adventures of DietGirl” — the book — is here. Yippee! I just want to check out for a few days until I’m finished devouring it! Yummy!

When I first heard about the “Eat Like Me” blog, I have to admit I expected it to be a little self-satisfied and pretentious. Besides my natural distrust of “naturally skinny” people and nutritionists, I just couldn’t imagine anyone holding themselves up to the model of healthy eating. For every meal! But I checked it out anyway.

I’ve been so pleasantly surprised, and have found the Cristin’s entries to be so down-to-earth and just downright helpful to me in gaining a perspective. What do “normal” portion sizes look like? How often is it OK to “treat yourself”? What daily “indulgences” (2% vs. skim milk, for example) work? What’s great is that it usually helps me come down in favor of eating a little more — healthful stuff like peanut butter, smoothies, etc. — which makes it less likely that I feel the need to binge on less nutritious options. I’m definitely not following my own ideal to the letter right now (that previously-mentioned croissant was not an anomaly), but I feel like I’m working my way there, slowly but surely.

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While I am linking let me just say “wow” — Love Your Fat Self in the Utne Reader is just amazing. No time to really say more, but it totally rings true.

This morning was a doozy. The boy insisted he wanted to “watch tee-bee” rather than getting dressed and going to day care, and he physically fought our attempts to dress him. After we finally wrestled him into clothes, got him out the door and dropped him off, we headed down to the subway. We rushed to catch a train only to find that it wasn’t the one we needed. Instead, it was the Q — one that (on a very cold day) would have dropped me a couple of very long blocks from my office — so we passed and waited for the next train…. the next ill-fated train. (Note this deft use of foreshadowing…)

A few stops out, the train just stopped. We heard the train operators talking to one another over the PA system (sidenote: shouldn’t they have a private channel to talk to one another?), basically admitting that they didn’t know what was wrong. Then, after a few minutes of back-and-forth, and waiting, the train lurched back into action. But our exitement was short-lived. The train would be taken out of service at the next stop, we were informed.

After lumbering off the train and braving the super-crowded platform, we decided to surface and find a new subway station. Twenty minutes of freezing-cold adventuring later, we stood on another platform, and up pulled the Q train… the one I’d earlier passed up in favor of the one that would (allegedly) take me closer to the office.

By the time I was walking that long couple-of-blocks to the office, I began to think that maybe I deserved some kind of treat, some kind of consolation, for my awful morning. There’s an amazing French bakery near the entrance to my office building. Perhaps one of their super-rich almond croissaints would do. Hmm… I thought to myself… my usual breakfast of eggs on whole wheat toast is much better for me. It’d help me power through the morning with a little protein. But the croissaint is so good, I considered, and I’ve had a rough morning. On the other hand, the croissaint is also more expensive, and the last time I had one I almost felt sick from the amount of sugar. But I deserve a little indulgence now and then, don’t I?

Long story short(er), I walked into my normal breakfast place, not the French bakery, and the short-order cook recognized me and asked, “eggs on whole wheat toast?” All I had to do was nod. After all, real love is feeding myself something that will sustain me, and nourish me, and keep me going for a few hours. That’s what I really need after a rough morning.

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In the interest of full disclosure, I must report that I did end up getting one of those fabulous croissants later. But, thankfully, it wasn’t out of some desire to console myself for a bad morning.

In other news, we finally unearthed our scale from one of the boxes and I found out the damage from pregnancy (and holidays) so far. I’m now up at 221, an 8 lb gain. Not ideal, but not terrible either, at 19 weeks (and counting!). Also, a doctor’s visit today — the first at new (old) NYC doctor — went well.

And… I’ve been wondering when I’d receive DietGirl’s widely-celebrated new book, which I pre-ordered back in the summer. It took me some time (and reading a blog post) to realize it had probably been sent to our previous address. Indeed, I checked the site, and it is likely winging its way toward me now, due to the magic of mail forwarding. Hope I receive it soon because I’m dying to dig in!