Remember two weeks ago when I was sequestered in the house for five days straight wearing perma-pajamas (I pretend to be really annoyed about this, but secretly, this was the best thing ever) while I slaved over pee bags and snot suckers? Well, Madelyn’s fevers never went away and the nose juice was getting juicier. Pulpy even. And she was eating weird. And really, let’s be honest, she was acting like a biatch. This is not typical Madelyn behavior because normally, she is the sweetest kid in the world. But EVERYTHING was pissing her off. I guess I couldn’t blame her. If I didn’t know how to blow my nose and I had a faucet of liquid germs emerging from it, I’d be really irate as well.

But this fussiness turned into spur-the-moment temper tantrums without any kind of trigger! She was going all out — incessant screaming, head banging on the floor, total attitude to mom and dad (sneak peak of her teenage years! Score!). Madelyn was not a happer camper. No kumbayah in our house.

So after a week of sickness, back to the doctor she went.

Of course, when we walked in wearing real clothes for the first time in a week (this development went for both of us), she perked up and acted real chipper. Maybe she was stoked to finally get out of the house and see some other humans other than her old lady. Maybe she was just grateful that I put on mascara and ran a brush through my hair.

We had to go through the sick door to sit in the contaminated side of the waiting room. I feel like there should be a scarlet “S” for SICK branded on our foreheads anytime we have to enter on that side. It’s so embarrassing. And you know the moms on the other side of the waiting room are thinking, “Gosh, glad we’re not in THEIR shoes!” or “That mom didn’t wash her kid’s hands enough!” Banished to the sick side. That’s how we rolled. And yet, when we’re on the healthy side, visiting for well-child check ups, we’re so glad to be separated from THOSE people. It’s a cruel world.

Madelyn excitedly entered the waiting room and checked in at the desk. Then she wanted to explore the toys and books. Part of me was thinking, “Ho hum. She’s already sick. She may as well entertain herself,” and the other part of me was like, “Oh HAAAAAAIL no, you’re not catching a new germ from touching the infected doctor’s office toys!” The neurotic Jewish mother version of me won, and I enticed Madelyn to sit in a chair, isolated from the toys on the shelves that may as well be petrie dishes.

We got called back to the room where we did more waiting. To distract Madelyn, we did a butcher paper photo shoot on the exam table. She hammed it up, making me think she was faker for the previous days that she acted miserable.

The pediatrician came in and we love her! She did a thorough exam on Madelyn, looked in her ears, and, Eureka! There it was! The right side was clear, but the left ear was positive for infection! She said it looked pretty red and gnarly and that was definitely the cause of Madelyn’s un-Madelyn like everything (small appetite, irritable temperament, bad sleep).

She prescribed 10 days on an antibiotic and we immediately trekked to the pharmacy to start the drugs.

Thankfully, the liquid antibiotics was flavored with something delicious — strawberry milkshake? — and Madelyn gulped it down each time during the entire course. We noticed she was back to her usual self within two days and I am so thankful we caught the ear infection, but so sad it had gone so long.

The week before, when we were in for Madelyn’s initial check, her ears were clear. Obviously the infection began brewing during that time. She never tugged at her ear or touched them in pain, and since she’s still speaking Madelynese, I don’t understand her language. I had no way to know that her ears were the culprit. My poor baby! Oh, Mama Guilt, you are mean.

I’m happy to report that the illness is behind us and so far — KNOCK ON EVERYTHING — Bryan and I have remained healthy during this season of ick. And there goes Madelyn’s first ear infection milestone. It only took 17.5 months. Not bad for a formula fed baby, eh?

In just over 24 hours, how could our baby girl go from this:

Hey Madelyn. The Beatles called. They want their hair back.

to this:

I’m in so much trouble for making this photo public.

On Tuesday morning, Madelyn woke up hot to the touch. I doubted my therMOMeter — my lips — because I’d thought she’d had fevers in the past only to use the real thermometer to find out that she was fine and normal. So where were my magical lips that could feel fever? As a kid, I remember my mom could put her lips on my forehead, squint in deep thought, and pronounce “one-oh-one point two!” and Regis Philbin would say, “Final ansa?!” and my mom would be like, “Yes, Reeg. Final answer!” and then she’d take my temperature with the real thermometer and sure enough, her therMOMeter was right. Every freakin’ time. (P.S. Let’s pretend for a second that Who Wants to Be A Millionaire was on TV in the late 80s and early 90s because shows like Pyramid and other ones that my mom watched didn’t require the “final answer” schtick). So now as a mom myself, would my lips lie to me?

I kissed her on her head. Warm. But, like, she’s alive and (kind of) well, so that’s a good start. Then I kissed her tummy and it was like backdraft. I may even have third degree burns on my face. The baby was hot. So I took her temperature and she definitely had a high one to the tune of 102.2.

After some milk and water and citrus, I took it again a couple hours later and Madelyn spiked to 104.8. This is a number that grown ups don’t like and I called the pediatrician to find out what she’d like me to do for Madelyn. I should say that this was our first rodeo with a real, true fever. We’ve been so lucky that for 17.5 months, Madelyn has been super healthy! She’s had one bad cold and that’s it. So I felt late to the sickness party, but still very fortunate that Madelyn has had such a clean bill of health for so long. I will say, as much as I did not appreciate this bug invading my daughter’s body, I didn’t mind the cuddles and low-key disposition from the usually rambunctious and busy Madelyn. It felt good to feel needed and I savored every moment of her in my lap in search of hugs.

Kisses and snuggles hold us over until we hear back from the doctor.

I know how to take care of myself when I’m sick, but I’m not sure what’s appropriate for a toddler and even though I played doctor on Google, I wanted to hear it straight from the source: our beloved pediatrician.

I called and they needed to call me back. I’m sure the office was swamped with other sick kiddos. When I finally heard back and the doctor learned of Madelyn’s 104.8 reading, she asked if we could come in at 5 at the end of her day. And this is why I love her. She’s a working mom and always has time for other peoples’ kids. Amazing doctor.

Super Daddy to the rescue!! aka Mommy gets to breathe for a minute.

Bryan met us there straight from work and Madelyn was happy to see her handsome daddy. Even when she’s sick, she knows a good thing when she sees it. Thankfully, she was clear for any kind of nasty infections like strep and ears and the doctor performed a flu test that 80% ruled out flu. She wanted to check for UTI, but in the 20 minutes we were there, Madelyn wouldn’t pee in the bag. So she sent us home with pee bag souvenirs to facilitate ourselves. So, no diagnosis, but she told us how we should treat her fever and would like the bags returned with pee the next day for urinalysis. All of the examinations were done with much protest by the patient, requiring parental involvement in the fashion of arm restraints and leg holds. Really fun. The butcher paper on the table was soaked with tears. So was my shirt. Kudos to me for wearing black. A wet t-shirt contest in the office of the pediatrician would not be savory.

Unimpressed with life on the butcher paper and not even getting to enjoy a pastrami on rye.

Back at home, Madelyn got a cool bath which she did not love and then went to sleep. Like the usual rockstar she is, she never woke up once even though I slept with one eye open the whole night. Glad one of us got sleep!

In the morning, Madelyn’s personality was back. So was her temperature. At 102.7, we pumped her back up with Advil and affixed the fresh new pee bag. Over the next three hours, she had a half of a popsicle, a couple slices of grapefruit, a handful of blueberries, a few Cheerios, and a pouch of applesauce. She refused liquids. She was not into anything — juice, water, milk. She was falling asleep in the high chair — a new first — so I knew it was time for a nap. I checked her bag and it was empty so I put her to sleep, hoping she’d go while she snoozed.

Asleep at the dining table and refusing all forms of nourishment? She has lost her Friedman card.

After her “nap” which consisted of on-and-off shut eye and talking to herself, I checked her bag which was still empty and surrounded by other waste, so that was a lost cause. I checked her temp and she was normal, so I felt better about things. I slapped on our last bag and hoped she’d pee before the end of the day.

But two hours later, she still refused liquids and her temp soared back up to 103.3 and her bag was still empty! I even baked cookies because what goes perfectly with cookies? Right? No. Nothing. Apparently. Then I squirted chocolate syrup into her milk because, I mean, who doesn’t love chocolate milk?! Madelyn. That’s who. She wouldn’t touch it. No juice. No fruit cup. No flavored waters. This girl could live off of sand in the Sahara. I called the doctor to say that I have not turned in my homework because my daughter is a camel! She warned me that dehydration is serious and that she needs liquids so she’s either going to get it through a syringe or at the ER via IV. Neither sounded fun.

Short of water boarding her, Madelyn was force fed liquids via syringe because the ER was not exactly my idea of a fun evening or a helpful one to any of our immune systems. She fought it so hard. Oh my gosh. If you’re ever in a dark alley and you’re being chased and you need someone to back you up with arm chops and kicks and crazy, angry Miss Piggy hiiii-ya! kind of stuff, call Madelyn. Email me for her phone number. She means business.

So I escaped the ordeal without needing rhinoplasty, but she got a few syringe-full doses of water and juice, even though she might hate me for it for the rest of our lives. Better to get it out now than when she’s 16, yes?

And because there was an entire factory of Minute Maid all over her body, I stuck her in the bath which was met with whining because of the coolness of the water, but then she got over it and she played and giggled as if we were best friends again. Phew. I was worried.

Bryan came home from work and saw her all happy and was probably like “why is my wife a beast with frizzy hair and juice all over her face and the house a disaster and our dog jumping up and down in desperate pleas of ‘HELP. ME’ when there’s a perfectly happy and sparkly baby girl jubilantly playing in the bathtub?” Actually, he probably wasn’t like that because he gets it. But yeah, thanks a lot, Madelyn, for putting on a good show for your father.

After the bath, she was in great spirits! We tried to incite more thirst by loading her up on salty snack foods, but she only had a few bites and then was on to our scheme. She barely sipped from her cups. So, we went Gitmo-style and force fed our sick little terrorist with liquids via syringe and she cursed us in her baby language “I WILL NOT GIVE UP THAT INFORMATION!” Even though it was upsetting me, too, I tried not to gasp and breathe like Carrie Mathison and really wished I had Saul Berenson on hand to calm everyone down with his beard and Hebrew.

The torture ended and we figured she was so exhausted, she just needed sleep. My mom, with all of her therMOMeter glory, always said that sleep is the best medicine. So we took her temp one more time (normal! Score!) and soothed her to bed.

She’s now sleeping peacefully and I’m hoping to catch a wink or two myself. Taking care of a sick toddler is no fun. Whenever I’d heard of my friends’ babies being sick, I always felt bad for the baby. I still do, of course, because I have a soul (somewhere. Deep down.). But now I feel bad for the caretaker. Like, really bad. My job is still the best and I wouldn’t trade it for anything else, but yesterday and today were hard. I’m sad Madelyn is sick and that she isn’t all rah-rah about the numerous remedies I keep trying to do for her. C’mon, Madelyn. Pretend I’m Jerry Maguire. Help me help you. Help me. Help you. Aaaaand then I go make out with Renee Zellweger while Jonathan Lipnicki talks about human heads.

Crossing fingers we wake up with normal temps and thirst. And then the countdown is on for the germs to attack Bryan and me next. In 5…4… 3…

We are on the heels of Madelyn’s first birthday which is this Thursday, August 9th. People keep reminding me that she’s about to turn one, commenting how big she is and how fast the year went. None of this is news to me. She is big now and I swear I blinked and it’s already August again.

I’ve been pretty emotional as we approach her birthday and it’s not because I don’t want Madelyn to get older; I’m excited for toddler-hood and know we’re in for a treat of many laughs and fun times. I just know that if this year zoomed by, then I know all the years after will, too.

I worry. What if I didn’t appreciate X? What if I didn’t spend enough time doing Y? What if I missed out on Z? I don’t want to have any regrets, especially about Madelyn’s first year. I have no control over time and can’t press the pause button. The clock is going to strike 12 on August 9th and just like that, Madelyn will be one. One year down in the books. Next!

The one-year mark is not just about Madelyn getting older. Now that I am a mother, I feel as though birthdays should celebrate the children who were born, and also the mothers who brought them into the world. To think about what I went through, what I felt, what I experienced a short 12 months ago and how I ended up 12 months later is remarkable.

The Alison of August 2011 had no idea what life would be like today. A year ago at this time, I didn’t even know when I’d be having a baby. All I knew is that I was past my due date and twiddling my thumbs. There had been talk of a possible induction, but it wouldn’t be until the day before Madelyn’s eventual birthday that the induction would actually be scheduled. A year ago at this time, I was so swollen, I could hear my feet go squinch-squinch as I walked. My chins were aiming in vertical and horizontal directions. I was peeing every 45 minutes and only making a drip-drop each time. I was frightened about birth and pushing out a baby. The Alison of then had no idea she’d never even get to push.

The Alison of then had no idea that after she brought home her baby, she’d go through 11 weeks of pure hell, recovering from an extremely painful and serious infection at her incision site. The Alison of then was intending to breastfeed for a year, never even considering she’d last only 10 days. The Alison of then didn’t expect the overwhelming strong support and love that would come pouring out of family and friends after the baby would be born, and she had no clue how she could possibly re-fall in love with her husband and fall madly in awe of a new little person. The Alison of a year ago assumed a few months of hard work would bring her body back to normal and was unaware of the unfortunate combination of gravity and pregnancy.

I tell the Alison of 2011, “Oh, Alison of 2011, only a year ago, you are a completely different person than the Alison of 2012. A year changed your priorities and passions and it was the best year to ever happen.”

So I guess I’m not sad about the year quickly passing. I’m not happy about it either. I’m just… fascinated. In awe. I am still adjusting and figuring it out and recovering in my own way. But the timer is about to go “ding!” on the year and I’m not sure I’m ready to turn off the oven and start preparing a new year. I like this year. I went through a lot, some shitty things happened, mostly amazing things happened, and I don’t think I’m really on board to move on and start over. To file this year away seems rude.

I’ve tried to explain this to various friends and family members and I’m not sure it made sense then, and I am pretty sure it still doesn’t make sense now. I am a sentimental fool and the symbol of a birthday — of turning a year older — makes me realize that the past is no longer of importance and our eyes must be aimed toward the future and what comes next. But the thing is, some of the most important things happened in the past 363 days and I don’t want them to become distant memories.

And this is why I write.

One of my best friends from college is getting married in October and before Harmony sets off to marry her loverboy, our girls are getting together where it all began for us — the dusty streets of Tucson — to send her off with a bachelorette weekend! We’re all so excited to head back to our roots (a drive-by of AEPhi, I’m sure), eat at all of our favorite places (Beyond Bread 82374987134 times), enjoy the good life that we didn’t live when we were in college (staying at one of the resorts in the hills!), and be the cougars we never thought we’d be at our favorite dive bar (DIRTBAGS! A part of growing up. We grew up. Oy.). It’s all really exciting — mostly because Harmony’s getting marrrrrried — but I always have the best time with my Phis and we’ve been squealing about this weekend for months.

Harmony and me before an AEPhi date dash my junior/her senior year.

Our 2nd Beyond Bread trip during our Tucson weekend in 2010

Fun night out at Dirtbags in 2010. We felt old THEN…

Wine tasting weekend in Santa Ynez Valley with all six of us together only a couple months pre-pregnancy.

Together for Madelyn’s baby naming earlier this year!

And while I’m with all my favorite girls, I will be away from my best good girl back home; my Madelyn.

This weekend will be the first time I’ve ever been away from Madelyn for a night. And it’ll be two nights. Sure, I’ve had my necessary “days off,” to get a mani/pedi or meet up with business clients (want to advertise on a Jewish weddings blog?), but I’ve never gone to sleep and woken up without her a few handfuls of feet away.

Bryan is going to enjoy a daddy/daughter weekend, which I know he’s looking forward to. During the week, he only gets to spend an hour or two at night with her before she goes to sleep, so they’re going to have some pretty concentrated bonding time. I’m glad for them because I think it’s special, but I’m also going to feel left out. I wish I could clone myself and be in two places at once. What if she starts walking hard-core? What if she starts putting together real words? What if she performs a soprano aria to a sold out crowd at Carnegie Hall? These are the things I’d be sad to miss.

Daddy and Daddy’s Girl

I know he’ll take good care of her. He is, after all, the one who kept the two of us alive those first three weeks at home when I was battling my infection. He totally had the household under control, and he’s always my rock when I need him to be. But part of me can’t help but feel the mom guilt that I should be at home with my family and maintain a sense of normalcy. I’m not at all concerned that Bryan isn’t up for the job, and as much as we are very connected, we are also still individuals who parent in slightly different ways. Things that may not happen on my watch with my rules during the day may pass with flying colors when Daddy’s in charge … not because he’s intentionally defying the mother hen, but because it’s not something that particularly bothers him when he rules the roost. Then again, I remember the rules were slightly different (read: bent) when my dad was the boss when my mom was away on business trips, and it was freakin’ awesome. M&Ms for snack time and pizza delivery for dinner, all while watching TV in the living room? Score! It was fun, I survived, and I even turned out pretty well.

Madelyn will probably not even have a clue that I’m gone. That’s a good thing. I’m sure when I’m galavanting through The Toos with the girls, all I’ll need is a photo text or two to make me feel like I’m part of life at home. When the weekend of celebrating Harmony is over and I come back from my two days away, nothing will cheer me up about leaving my favorite girls than a hug from my best good girl.

With my little nugget.

Does she sleep through the night? Does she crawl? Is she walking? Can she say her name? Did she get early acceptance to Harvard Medical School? And how does she measure up and compare to other babies who are just trying to be… babies?

Labeling babies as if there’s a Baby Olympics where the competition is stiff and then broadcasting it to other babies out there would be absurd. And yet, that’s exactly what TIME magazine did with their cover story about moms and the choices they make for their babies. The cover shows a mom awkwardly breastfeeding her preschool-age son with a hand on her hip as he stands on a chair (yeah, because THAT’S how moms breastfeed their children all the time…), creating a platform for moms to judge other moms and in my opinion, that is mean. And stupid. The mom chose to breastfeed her baby beyond a year. So what? Who cares?

I read the article. I read the follow-up responses. I took the quizzes. Apparently, I am not mom enough. According to the quiz results, I do not subscribe to the methods that Dr. Sears prescribes. And, because I do not sleep with my baby or breastfeed her, I am not an attached parent. So if I don’t subscribe to attachment parenting as a whole, then does that make me a mom who is detached?

Newsflash: I really like my baby. In fact, I love her. Actually, every choice I make is with her in mind. I am extremely attached to her. Even more so, I am attuned to her needs and respond to them in a manner that suits our family unit.

What the many articles and the Dr. Sears studies don’t mention are the many obstacles, usually unexpected, that moms and families as a whole, experience that could drive lifestyle preferences a certain way. I had every intent to breast feed my baby. I never gave myself a time limit. I assumed at least six months. Hell, I’d try to make it to a year. I didn’t expect to go longer because I knew I’d want my body back and that my baby would receive nutrition from her advanced foods. And that was my personal choice. As we all know by now, I made it two weeks. A week of breastfeeding and a week of pumping gave Madelyn about three weeks of breast milk. I fell about 21 weeks shy of meeting a benchmark I had for myself and am still mourning that lost experience due to the complications after my c-section. Dr. Sears would say I am not an attached parent. Laughable.

I should make sure it’s known that I don’t take a side on “attachment” parenting or not. I just think parenting, period, is important and necessary.

It’s no secret that breast is best. But things happen. Life plays tricks on you (or, you are just unlucky enough to get an on-call doctor who couldn’t care less about you when you explain you are in pain, which results in a horrible infection). Moms who don’t breastfeed aren’t shrugging their shoulders and shaking their heads as if to say “Nah. I’d prefer to give my child what’s second best.” We make choices. And sometimes decisions are made for us. Novel idea: how about we moms just give our children OUR best and stop putting so much pressure on everyone else?

The controversy about the article is really just annoying. Why breastfeeding has to be a controversy at all is beyond me. We are mammals. Yes, breasts are sometimes utilized during sexy time — wooo! — but their primary purpose is to nourish our children. As humans, we have the ability to make choices (or, in my case, not) and some choose to feed their children with a bottle with breast milk or formula, and some choose to feed their children straight from the tap with the breast. Other mammals do not have these choices, but no one questions a baby elephant in the wild who nurses until he’s about three to four years old. Likewise, I believe a breastfeeding mother shouldn’t judge and label a mom who’s nourishing her baby with formula.

Would I nurse my baby until she’s three to four years old? H. E. Double hockey sticks!! I love my baby, but I’d want my body back! But do I care if other moms do? Absolutely not.

So why the Good Mom vs. Bad Mom rivalry? Why the labels? Why does one side have to be right? And who can really be on one side anyway? I imagine, like the way most people identify with politics, parenting styles rarely fall in line with one single perspective. A little bit of this. A little bit of that. A pinch of this. A sprinkle of that. Why can’t moms learn from other moms, see what works, and practice what makes sense to them individually? That would seem like a perfect blend of methods and choices that work for the child-parent relationship.

By labeling and categorizing types of parenting in the spotlight like TIME did, we are putting a stigma on the methods we do or don’t agree with. This creates tension and polarizing differences between groups of moms if we don’t accept other moms’ practices. And don’t we want to raise little humans who are tolerant and accepting of others who are different than them? Is this really what we want to model?

Choosing only one camp and living exclusively by its set of bylaws seems to actually promote ignoring the baby’s needs for the sake of being loyal to a labeled lifestyle. There are aspects of attachment parenting I practice that I didn’t even know fell into the attachment circle of the Venn diagram. Reversely, Bryan and I parent in ways that would not be considered attachment parenting. But until I was aware that there was this war on moms — by moms! –, I always just thought instincts led parents to raising happy, healthy, and balanced children. I’d say we don’t use any specific method. Just our instincts.

TIME magazine played dirty. They took breastfeeding and made it into a topic that requires campaigning one way or another. It should be a non issue. Instead of educating people about available methods of parenting, TIME divided varying styles of motherhood, pinning moms against each other. Being a female is hard enough already. Didn’t we leave middle school behind us ages ago? Why is there a need to good cop/bad cop moms? It was sensational “journalism” to make something that’s natural and thousands of years old like breastfeeding “news.” The cover photo was a cheap shot to sell magazines in a world where print media is dying. Publishing a cover with a breast should not be the ticket to selling units. It makes me sad that a breast is sexualized so much that it’s a scandal and the talk of the town just because it appeared on the front of a magazine. If our elephant friend had been on the cover suckling on his mom, would we even be having this discussion? I’m sorry that print media is suffering but not at the cost of labeling moms and how they do the hardest jobs in the world.

I may be a rookie at this mom gig, but I haven’t met another woman who has said that being a mother is a piece of cake. I also believe that dads don’t have it so easy either. Parenting is hard work. Making, growing, and raising a human is the hardest job anyone could have, but its blissful moments and heartwarming experiences are better than any other million-dollar pay out could be. We are rich for being moms. And dads. And I don’t care how you do it and the media shouldn’t care how I do it. I am very attached to Madelyn and simply by being her mother and her being my daughter, we share a life-long bond that will always be strong.