The most terrifying animal at the Zoo

Those who know me best know that I am not a good decision maker.  That's actually numbing the truth a bit - I have been known to be paralyzed by decisions as simple as which brand of peanut butter to buy at the grocery store; should I go with the oddly oily organic variety or the smooth, fully hydrogenated Jiff that I prefer?  (Peanuts are terribly pesticide ridden, so if I buy the kind I like am I poisoning my family with pesticides as well as clogging their arteries with hydrogenated oils?)  These small choices don't keep me up at night or anything, but they do complicate my shopping trip.  One would think, then, that parenting would leave me immobilized on a daily basis.  As a parent I face HUGE - life altering, psyche shaping, potentially therapy inducing - decisions constantly.  Should I breastfeed or bottle?  If I breastfeed (as I do) should I continue to do so past the age of one?  Should my husband and I let our son sleep in our bed?  Dr. Sears recommends it, but will it warp him?  Will it warp us?  (Months of co-not-really-sleeping led me to think that yes, it would).  Should I allow him to use a pacifier?  Should I introduce nuts now, or wait until he hits three?  Now that Evan's one we have a new set of choices to face: how to deal with temper tantrums.  Sheesh.  Already?

Strangely, as paralyzed as I can be by life's mundane decisions, these monumental parenting choices come rather easily to me.  I let instinct be my guide, and when that doesn't have an opinion I do research.  I do a lot of research.  I can only hope I'm choosing correctly in the end, but at least I've given the decision some thought. 

Which is perhaps why, on a recent trip to the National Zoo, I was shocked to encounter just how differently one can take up the role of mother.  The National Zoo exhibits an interesting menagerie of parenting styles.  The disparity is probably due to the diverse nature of the zoo's clientele - some mothers, like myself, live in the area and just like to come to the zoo once a month or so because it is a free and pleasant way to spend the day with their children.  The others are tourists from all over these United States.  Within such a mixed group as the zoo-going crowd one can witness a vast range of mothering styles.  Case in point: picture a woman in a white bedazzled baseball cap (and yes, that little fashion detail is telling - this woman is not from the DC area) yelling at a small girl around seven years old.  Actually cursing at a seven year old girl.  Actually, cursing quite a bit with volume at a seven year old girl; "I'm not going to put up with your shit!" was repeated a couple of times, along with a few other choice expletives.  The gist was that this child is an ungrateful brat who doesn't deserve to do anything fun.  The bedazzled mother then stormed away from her daughters (there were two with her) and left the zoo, with the young girl trailing behind her crying quiet tears.  The mother didn't even look behind her to be sure her children were still there as she crossed Connecticut Avenue (a very busy road).  Now, granted I have no idea what sort of "shit" the seven year old was putting her mother through, but I can't imagine anything this tiny girl could do would be bad enough to warrant such damaging behavior.  And I do think that sort of treatment is potentially damaging, don't you?  These brief outbursts, when they come from one's own mom, leave scars.  For that little girl, the most terrifying animal at the National Zoo wasn't in a cage.

This mother-daughter confrontation has been on my mind for over a week now.  I can't shake the scene.  As I've considered why it bothered me so much, I have come to a strange conclusion.  I am terrified that I might become that woman.  Mind you, I will NEVER wear a bedazzled white baseball cap.  Shoot me on sight if you see me in one, please.  But will I ever snap like that at my son?  Will I lose all reason one day, mid tantrum, and unleash some undeserved hellfire on him?  Our children test us all the time.  Is it possible that one day all of the careful decisions I've made to preserve his innocence and insure his welfare will be nullified by one outburst of cruel words?  I've even heard good mothers tell stories of hitting (slapping) their children in the heat of the moment.  I will never hit my son (I strongly believe that hitting only teaches hitting), but can I assure myself that I will never yell at him like the woman at the zoo yelled at that sad little girl?

As my son enters toddlerhood I am faced with a lot of tough choices regarding discipline.  I have made the choice to be a calm, caring figure for him.  When he's dealing with the storms of emotion that are a necessary part of growing up, I want to be a shelter for him.  So how do I do that while also correcting his behavior when his mood goes haywire?  I'd love to hear from other moms of toddlers and beyond: how do you react to tantrums or other acts of defiance?  How do you keep your cool?  
          

How Foxglove almost stopped my heart

Evan at the Colonial Garden in Williamsburg

When I chose to name this blog "Picnics & Panic Attacks" I had a particular recent incident in mind.  Let me preface by explaining that our baby, like most babies, puts EVERYTHING in his mouth.  Mouthing objects is his way of exploring the world sensorially.  As picky as he might be at mealtime, he is quite the omnivore when he encounters a dirty rock on the playground.  This innocent desire to taste the world is often the cause of severe anxiety for me and his father. 

Foxglove

Last week my family went to the Outer Banks for a vacation, and on the way back home we decided to stop briefly in Williamsburg, VA for lunch.  While there we checked out the Colonial Garden, which, along with exhibiting plants the settlers would have used, also sells some common herbs.  We decided to purchase one of those herbs, a "chocolate" mint plant.  Our son sat safely (or so it seemed) in his stroller in front of the cash register as we paid for our purchase.  We were chatting with the woman dressed in colonial garb about mint varietals when, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted Evan about to chomp into a flower blossom.  He had picked a flower from a Foxglove (aka Digitalis) plant that was in a pot on the ground in front of the register table.  Until that moment the plant had escaped my notice, but luckily I knew what Foxglove was and acted with motherhood-inspired superspeed quickly enough to interrupt his deadly appetizer.  The entire plant is toxic and is used to create digoxin, a heart medication used to slow the heart.  Too much of this toxin can actually cause the heart to stop - a deadly amount can come from just a small bite of one of the leaves on the upper stem.  This particular foxglove plant almost stopped my heart indirectly, and had my husband and I panicked for about an hour that Evan might have eaten some of the plant before we noticed anything.  Why the Colonial Garden would chose to place a known toxin on the floor near the cash register, where many children are likely to be parked while their parents pay, is beyond me.

Hence the latter part of my blog's title ("Picnics & Panic Attacks").  Parenthood is for thrill-seekers.  I won't lie and say that it's cheaper than jumping out of an airplane or climbing Everest, but it is certainly more spontaneously terrifying.             

A blog for my birthday boy

My baby turned one two and a half weeks ago and I'm still reeling at that fact.  One!  Never has a birthday had such an impact on me (that I recall).  In twelve months I've seen my son grow from a helpless little lump (we called him Creature) into a helpful little boy, albeit one with an impish charm.  I've never loved anything more. 

This year just sped by and aside from taking about a billion pictures I have done very little to chronicle it.  I sincerely regret my laziness and would like to make amends now.  So here it is - my attempt to chronicle the highs and lows of this adventure before my mommy brain robs me of the details.  Why a blog and not a diary, a private record?  I need to be held publically accountable in some way (even if that accountability is only in my head) or I'll allow my nearly daily exhaustion to justify quitting this project, and that would be a shame.  I want my son to know what he put his parents through.