Sick and Tired

Every time Riley so much as sneezes, an ominous pronouncement my sister made more than a year ago echoes in my head:

"There's nothing worse than a sick baby."

Logically, I know this is untrue. There are many, many things worse than a sick baby. Global warming. War and famine. The Gayle King show on Oprah's XM channel. (Programming note: this is not blasphemy against The Oprah herself. That would be wrong. This is extreme bitterness, envy and jealousy of Gayle King. Remind me to rant about how rich and famous I'd be if I were Oprah's best friend some other time.)

But sick babies are definitely on my list of things that make life very, very difficult. It's up there with professional snags tied to other people who don't respect the fact I have deadlines.

Hang on, I must redirect another impending rant.

I think I'm so eager to jump onto my soap box and vent because I've had a sick baby for a week now. At first it was just a snotty nose that didn't seem to affect her chipper demeanor or predictable sleeping patterns. But for the last three days, she's been markedly more miserable, which means I have as well.

She's not sleeping. She's not eating. She's demanding to watch the 30-second clip of cows on her Baby Einstein video over and over and over and over and over and over again. She's crying for most of the day. She's waking up at night crying, then waking up ridiculously early to start her day.

Yesterday she woke up at 4 a.m. I stayed with her till 6, then handed the bottle and baton to my husband. About 10 minutes after I'd sunk back into a deep sleep, John called for my help over the monitor because Riley had gone Exorcist all over the bed.

While my heart went out to my daughter for her upset stomach and to myself for having to deal with puke that early in the morning, I did score a minor victory. She finally threw up on Daddy after 19 months of hurling on Mom. The fact that I took more than a little bit of delight in this sticky, smelly, disgusting turn of events brings me back to the point I've taken 9 paragraphs to get to, and my verbosity underscores this even further: it sucks to have a sick baby.

Having it all

I'm a devout member of the Church of Oprah. One of the many perks of working from home is that I can turn my TV on every afternoon at 3 p.m. for worship. Today's sermon topic: Can women really have it all? It was enough to make me stand up and shout "HALLELJAH!"

It's working moms and stay-at-homers sounding off on their choices for their families. It's the debate that will never go away as long as printing our own money is frowned upon by authorities. So many moms have no choice but to work. Others make the choice to work because they love what they do. Each side feels guilt, each side is convinced the other is looking down on them.

I see myself in the middle. I left an office job, but I continue to work. When I was pregnant, I burst into tears every time my husband and I talked about day care. I didn't know how we'd manage financially, but I knew that I had to find a way to be at home.

This conviction is not based on religion, politics or tradition. It's just something I knew was my personal truth. My consience, subconscience, superconscience -- all that I am -- told me that I had to be here for Riley.

So I quit my job right before Riley was born, but worked freelance assignments up until my water broke. I went back to work three days after I came home from the hospital. Not that I got a whole helluva lot done. But I was in a panic about how I was going to take up the financial slack I caused when I walked away from a steady paycheck.

I felt so guilty about not pulling my financial weight. I still do. I went through a real identity crisis as I tried to figure out how to be the best mom in the universe but still somehow be Kerry. It took well over a year to come close to a rough balance, and every day is a new juggling act.

I don't make enough money. I don't pursue my true passion -- horses/horseback riding -- the way I should to really keep my happiness balance in the black. I still haven't lost those last 10 pounds I promised myself I'd whittle off. I can't remember the last time I went shopping for myself and enjoyed it, much less bought myself something.

The list of things I gave up on or about June 24, 2005 could fill cyber space. But on every day since then, I've tried to mark a point on my new infinite checklist of what I've gained. This list is much, much longer and more gratifying than my old one.

It's not the right choice for everyone. I don't look down on my friends who went back to the office after six weeks just as I don't look down on my pals who do "nothing but" care for their children. There's no definitive right answer for womenkind. It's up to each of us to find where everything fits in our own lives and totter across our respective tight ropes inch by inch, day by day.

My world has become much smaller since the center of my universe shifted outside of myself. I still pine for my horse. I still wish I could take exotic vacations. I still wish I never worried about pay checks making it in to the bank before the car payment hits. But the eternal maternal cliche rings true: As long as I have my family, I really do have it all.

To her own beat

For the past year, Riley and I have been going to Kindermusik. This is a hilarious music program for babies as young as newborn up till they're gigantic 7-year-olds. Once a week, we get together with our baby pals to sing, chant nursery rhymes and bounce around to silly games.

It's a blast. We've made lots of friends and enjoyed every minute of it. I really think that it's the reason Riley's got such a strong vocabulary. Granted, my verbal brakes are a little weak, so she could be following my example. But I really believe the research on the bazillions of benefits of exposing your kids to music at an early age.

So after a year, we've finally moved up from the baby program to the toddler class. Yesterday was our first trip. I first thought we were in the wrong room because we didn't know any of the kids and almost all of them were three times Riley's size. To me, these were not toddlers. These were free agents awaiting a call from the NFL. They were running, throwing, howling, jumping and tackling. All that was missing from this Broncos spring training session was a tire trail and helmets.

Riley was not nearly as concerned about the new crowd as I was. She was quieter than usual and hovered closer to me than she usually does with her pals, but she didn't seem intimidated. As soon as the music started, she was good. She didn't respond as vocally as she normally does, but she did stand up and do The Riley Dance to the beat of whatever song was playing.

She did her own thing as the rest of the team ran their drills. She didn't worry about getting mowed down. She didn't care that she was bouncing on my lap as the rest of the kids rolled all over the floor. She found her own little space in a sea of wild things and claimed it as her own.

To coin a music cliche, she danced to her own beat. So even as I tried to run interference and protect her from the mob, she seemed completely unafraid and secure. Even in my heightened maternal watchdog state, I was really proud.

NO! Way

Riley's new favorite word is "NO!" with a vehement, slack-jawed shake of her head. The loose lower lip really negates the seriousness she's trying to convey because she looks like a coon hound shaking her dewlaps. Riley always looks perplexed at my laughter, which just makes it funnier.

I've tried to avoid this word much more diligently than the four-letter no-nos I still need to expunge from my vocabulary. I've had a few trusted friends tell me that I can prevent a NO-talking toddler if I avoid the word myself. That I should flip it into a positive -- tell her what she should be doing rather than what she shouldn't. That if I say something like, "Riley, that's not the right thing to do," she won't be able to repeat that back, but she'll get the idea that she needs to stop.

Both of those tips make sense. I certainly want to accentuate the positive with my daughter. So I made an honest attempt to go those routes. But I've apparently failed miserably. I hear it constantly. Riley even says "NO!" sometimes when she actually means "YES!"

Needless to say, this is frustrating for both of us. And I can't help but notice that Riley has no interest in saying or mastering the concept of YES. I'm having serious pangs over this, because it suggests to me that I've already started a pattern of discouraging her rather than directing her energy and her interests in a more productive manner.

Which is exactly what my mother did with me, and it's a sore point 33 years later. When I have exciting news to share with my mom, her response is always one out of fear about how my new project won't work or why it's a bad idea. I hate that. I feel myself wilt every time she does it. It's hard enough for me that I've stopped sharing things with her that I'm especially excited about just because I don't want her to kill my enthusiasm.

I can't stand the thought of doing the same thing to my daughter, because every time I lock eyes with Riley, I am humbled and awed by the potential and magic I see swirling around in there. So I need to find a way to keep her from touching a hot stove, pulling the cat's tail or running off in a restaurant that won't haunt us 30-plus years down the road.

So I'll flip through my Perfect Mom's Guide to the page on Instilling Self-Confidence and Trust in Mom while Safeguarding her Health and Maintaining Discipline and find...

Oh yeah ... no such thing. Like the rest of the mommies out there, my own included, I'm making this up as I go along and hoping for the best. I know a particularly unpleasant road is paved with good intentions. But I guess I'll just keep working at it and hope that 30 years from now, those good intentions will count for something.

Too many blessings to count

Thanksgiving is the traditional time to take stock of all that's right in the world. Like any good Oprah groupie, I try to take a few minutes every day to focus on how amazing my life is. I'm actually too lazy to write it down in a gratitude journal as Herself suggests, but I figure the reflection is good for at least a few karmic points.

There are the staples I try not to take for granted -- nice home, great husband, best baby on the planet, etc. But to keep myself on my appreciative toes, I try to find less obvious and more random blessings. I never really did this until I realized how much wonder the world holds for somebody who's brand new. Riley has really helped me tune in to small miracles that used to go unnoticed. Like...

Sweet feet and terrific toes. I used to hate feet. I've always considered them to be the ugliest part of a body not covered by a swimsuit. My own feet creep me out; other people's are even worse. I take great pains to make my own hooves as tolerable as possible, to the point that my toes stay neatly polished all winter long. But from the first day I met Riley, I have completely loved her little feet. I can't explain this, and I have other friends who've gone through the same transformation. There's something so beautiful about the way those five little pink kernels rest up against the smooth curve of her soles. I can't explain it, but every day I count those 10 little blessings.

One perfect little curl. For the longest time, Riley had no hair to speak of. She was never completely bald, but she went through a very thin period. Kind of like Matt Lauer these days. But now her reddish-blonde locks are thicker and longer, and at the base of her neck they swirl into a single loop. When it's wet, her lone curl trails down her back like a rat tail from bad 1980s pop star hair. But it's still really cute.

A single dimple. My mom found Riley's dimple the first time she held her in the hospital. It's just on the left side, a single divot of happiness that pops up next to her grin. It's like an exclamation point to her smile.

I could fill cyberspace with the millions of miracles that make up my little girl. Each day brings a new discovery, a new lightbulb moment or belly laugh, all compliments of Riley. I really don't think I can count high enough to quantify the number of such moments I've had over the past 17 months, but I'm pretty sure it's somewhere in the neighborhood of Oprah's net worth.

Daddy's girl

Riley is all about Daddy these days. She asks for him randomly during the day. She asks for him when I go to comfort her in the middle of the night. I snapped this photo yesterday after she discovered Daddy's hat in the closet and had to put in on gangsta style. That was just before she started crying when she realized I'd hung up the phone with Daddy and she didn't get to talk to him.

I'm happily surprised to find myself thrilled rather than jealous. I've enjoyed Most Favored Nation status for the past 15 months. I know I'm in good with my girl. So now I can enjoy the sight of my husband twisting around Riley's tiny little finger.

And I love watching her face light up when first sees him in the morning and when he gets home from work. She now reminds me of all those TV shows I've seen that document pets' apparently psychic ability to predict their owners' return from work. Some days, she pops up and starts calling for "DA-DA!" just minutes before he pulls into the driveway. I'm now hopeful that she'll eventually fetch the paper and become housebroken.

The Fiendish Plot of Dr. Fu Momchu

Yet another sign that I'm a full-blown mommy: chocolate is now a secondary issue at Halloween. My number one priority is showcasing my girl's cuteness in innovative and original ways.

Here's a "before" shot. This is my sweet girl in her diaper and the hat from her costume. Once she realized I really, really wanted her to wear that hat, she refused to put it back on. Which is too bad, because it was my favorite part of her costume. I dressed her as my favorite Peter Sellers character, Dr. Fu Manchu. If you're unfamiliar with this cultural icon, click here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Fiendish_Plot_of_Dr._Fu_Manchu

Actually, the hat was my second-favorite part. What I was looking forward to most was the gray theatrical hair I was going to apply to her sweet face and strawberry blonde head. But Riley refused to cooperate with my efforts to paint latex glue all over her mouth. Who knew?

What's that, you say? Anyone with an IQ high enough to be legally executed in the great state of Texas -- i.e., anyone -- would know better than to try to glue foot-long strands of fake hair on 16-month-old? Point taken.

So I ended up breaking out the black eyeliner and trying to draw an artful 'stache on a squirming toddler. It was only slightly more successful than my glue project. The outfit she's sporting is one my mother and sister brought back from their trip to Thailand a couple of years ago.

And it's in keeping with a new McGinley Halloween tradition: every year she hits the holiday as a somewhat obscure and highly original character. Last year, Riley went to a baby party dressed as Frida Kahlo. http://www.elmuseo.org/gelmanpr.html I brushed on a heavy black unibrow and a lady mustache. I dressed her in an adorable Mexican dress and wrapped her in a monkey blanket. It was a huge hit with everyone but my husband, who thought it was really, really creepy. I think it was the unibrow that got him.

He thought she should go as something cuter and baby-er, like a pumpkin. I agree that babies in pumpkin outfits are adorable, but they're as common as jack-o-lanterns on front porches. I wanted my girl to stand out, which is hard to do in a field of 30 cuties.

I also know that once she starts asserting herself on costume selection, I'll give way. This is probably the last year I can get away with dressing her up any way I want. Which is too bad, because I think she'd make a great Truman Capote or Tom Wolfe.