There is a certain comfort to be taken in the knowledge that some things are probably never going to change.

The grass is always greener on the other side of the fence; the earth will continue to rotate around the sun, and I will not get even one iota smarter this summer over last.

Learned lesson. After three plus decades on this earth you would think that by now I would have learned just a little bit about sunscreen. You would be wrong. I have, however, recently learned quite a bit about aloe.

I sum it up thusly, on the first day God made the sun so the devil had no choice but to counter with sunburn.

For the record, I am much better at parenting then I am self-preservation.

Stupid mistake. Despite remembering to coat both children with a thick layer of sunblock, I still managed to believe it a fine idea to stand IN THE WATER under a blazing hot sun for more than four hours with nothing between me and the sun but my own stupidity. I know, just typing it I’m embarrassed all over again.

I honestly don’t know which hurt worse — the peeling or my pride.

What I really suffer from is a case of rampant optimism.

A little sun. Despite years of cause and effect training which would have trained even a gerbil to recognize “sun minus sunscreen = burn,” I continue to operate under the delusion that I, the whitest white girl in America — can get “just a little sun.” This is akin to believing you can get “just a little pregnant” or “just a little nuclear radiation exposure.”

I persist in this belief because in my teens I could — and did — tan.

Tanning goal. That was really my whole life goal back then. Study? Maybe. College? Yeah, whatever.

A nice golden copper toned glow — I’ll work on it day after day until I achieved my goal with only a backyard lawn chair, a couple hundred gallons of baby oil, and my ability to lie completely prostrate for hours at a time to guide me.

Brown baby. They also tell me I used to get “brown as a berry” as a baby. Apparently, I am supposed to take great solace in the fact that I was a real babe when I was FOUR.

Meanwhile back at the pool, well meaning friends tried to warn me. By late afternoon my back was starting to feel a wee bit warm and I thought about sunscreen for a nano-second, but my children blissfully sliding time and again down a waterslide and my need to be waiting at the bottom because, after all, how could I trust the no less than THREE lifeguards on duty, seemed the more pressing matter.

By the time we left the pool, my upper body was the approximate color of a ruby red grape. I radiated enough heat to toast a marshmallow and people just passing by clucked in sympathy and then, I don’t doubt, laughed uproariously when out of my earshot at how stupid some people can be.

Phase two. Now, a few days later, I am currently in phase two of the sunburn process, phase one being the getting burnt part.

Phase two is the back-slapping phase. In this phase people who have never shown even the slightest iota of interest in you previously, people who don’t even KNOW you, will suddenly be seized by the need to slap you on the back.

It’s as if there is a primordial siren call of seared skin. Seemingly unbidden they are moved to “slap!” you on the back with a hearty hail fellow well met even if they know not why.

As you cringe and slither to the floor in a heap of blinding red hot pain, they are left to state the obvious to soothe you, “little burnt huh?” “Little burnt huh?” is obviously code for “I hate you enormously and I wish to see you dead!,” that is the only possible explanation for this.

The only possible defense to back slapping is to make the universally recognized sunburn warning noise whereby you grit your teeth, pull back your lips, inhale briskly and spasm your body inward in the standing equivalent of the fetal position.

Sure, they’ll STILL slap you on the back, but with these motions you are slightly less likely to want to punch them. As if you could really lift your arms to take a swing anyway.

As the days have passed I have regained near normal movement in my upper limbs.

Shedding skin. I have also started to shed skin like a snake, lending whole new meaning to the phrase “You scratch my back, and I’ll scratch yours!” My husband, lucky man that he is, gets to witness it all.

All I can say is that when it comes to reliving the sheer stupidity of the moment when I chose to eschew the necessity of sunscreen for the certainty of a not-so-slow burn, all I can say, is boy, was my face red.

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“Something’s gotta give,” my exasperated husband sighs as we both gaze desparingly upon our monthly bank statement. “What? What can we give?” We look over every detailed transaction. Gasoline…300 dollars per month. Groceries…1800 dollars per month. Doctor visits and prescriptions…125 dollars per month. The list of costs associated with raising our large family, in this modern day, is seemingly endless and far too overpriced. My new struggle with trying to balance frugality, while shopping for our health, has proven to be an enormously frustrating task. The conundrum of trying to fill my children’s tummies with organic goodness and simultaneuosly avoiding a negative checking account balance is a foe that I am acquainted with, against my will. I keep hoping that my foe will grow tired of the resistance to his efforts to ruin my shaky but stubborn balance and leave me alone, but he is more persistant than I had estimated him to be.

My maternal mission to live on one income has required me to completely forget about designer jeans and MAC counter make up. I’m forced into concerning myself with only the basics, now. I don’t even dare pick up a copy of Vogue, for fear that the reminiscent yearning for the latest fashions might birth feelings of inadequacy. Who the hell needs the stress of feeling fashionably inadequate when trying to put adequate food on the table? Not me. I’m learning to be content with my Target brand jeans and generic make up. There is no room for fashion snobbery in my life anymore. I french kissed it goodbye (hey…we had a torrid love affair for a long time) and will never look back. I simply cannot allow myself the luxury of that kind of fornication with seven kids to put through college, and apparently, even struggle to feed for the next umpteen years.

We have also recently come face to face with the financial demands of raising imperfect children. As imperfect as I know we are, as parents, there are more than just two imperfect humans who live under our crimson tiled roof. One son has an ADHD disorder that we strive to try and naturally cure. This translates into forking out a lot of money on extra vitamins, health supplements, organic foods, holistic health practictioners and literature on behavioral modification approaches. Trust me, medication is the cheaper “solution,” eventhough (for us) it is not the best route to take. We have kids who need medical procedures to put tubes in ears, remove adenoids and correct a serious tongue tie problem. We have hyperactive kids who need weekly athletic involvement in order to stave off wall climbing, which costs money. We have kids who grow at incredible rates. Rates that necessitate a larger sized shoe, only six weeks after purchasing the last new pair. I’m sorry to say, that God actively ignored my prayers for perfect children. This is not what I signed up for. Somehow, I ended up in the group of people that got assigned to be a parent of imperfect humans. Did anyone else, reading this, get put into the same group? Just curious!

So there we were, sitting at the organic apple sauce encrusted kitchen table, pondering ways to increase our cash flow or decrease our expenditures. We sat, two exhausted lumps of flesh and a piece of paper that seemed to scream from the top of its lungs, “What the hell were you two thinking, having all these kids?!” We did the only thing we knew to do… shake our heads and laugh. “Hey,” my husband tried to make light of our stressful moment,” if my parents did it, we can do it.” And he’s absolutely right. If his parents raised thirteen kids up to be happy, healthy adults, then surely we can raise half that amount. We will just cinch up our Target brand belts, make a few adjustments to our habits and keep on truckin’.  I got up from the table and poured each of us a glass of wine, as part of our nightly pre bedtime ritual, when my husband had an idea. ”Maybe we should stop having our nightly glass of wine. It will save a few bucks each week.” I looked over at the man who had just suggested cutting out the one thing that we get to share every night, besides a bed and cooties, as if to say, “Are you effing serious?” He chuckled at my expression of pure disgust and retracted the ridiculous statement by picking up his glass and toasting, “Here’s to our financial struggles, our child induced stress and the wine we get to share together for the rest of our lives. May the first two never interfere with the last!” As long as we can afford our weekly bottle of wine, I consider our lack of wealth a very minor side effect of being blessed with so many imperfect, yet wonderful, children. I’ll let you know if my sentiments change should we ever have to suppress our affinity for wine, due to lack of finances.

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I used to drink. A lot. Too much, really, for someone with my family history and proclivity for creating chaos and drama. So I stopped. About 8 months ago. And life has gotten much better…. but that’s a story for another time.

Like many imperfect parents, I’m more or less a very good parent on most days… but this requires a certain amount of concentrated effort and a whole lot of help. I used to get help in a bottle, and now I get help from a variety of sources.

But I still need and want a vice.. something that serves no other purpose than pleasure and rebellion. A way to cut loose and be onesself without getting mistaken for a “ma’am” or a “sir”… or someone who is, say, turning 40.

I like to joke about starting a respite center for mothers staffed with hot Italian boys (or girls, depending on your preferences).. and I’m only sort of joking. Seriously, it’s so very easy to take parenting too farging seriously these days.

But the thing is, I miss having a vice. I don’t want anything life or health or marriage threatening, just something to spice things up and remind me of the wild girl I used to be long long ago.

So when my friend told me of her new “thing” for nicotine-free cigarettes (doesn’t that sound like “no strings attached” sex?? nice idea but highly unlikely?), I thought I’d give them a try.

I’ll report back soon.. but until then.. any vices you’d recommend?

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I would like to be able to tell you that I am one of those perpetually peaceful people who seem to radiate a slightly smug contentedness from deep within their soul. I would like to be able to tell you that I write in a gratitude diary every day, right after my 6am Yogalates session and bowl of organic muesli. I would like to be able to tell you that I am able to handle anything my children throw at me – figuratively speaking – because I am inherently calm and happy and balanced. I would like to be able to tell you I’m like that because I would like to be like that but the thing is, I’m not. Maybe in a parallel universe, but not this one. I’m just not good at relaxing. During the birth of my second daughter, I tried very hard to breathe deeply through the contractions, to focus my energies inward and breathe the pain out. My husband later told me that I sounded like a horse.

In this universe, I’m just your average, garden-variety ineffective parent whose favourite method for calming down involves a large glass of shiraz and an even larger block of chocolate, and whose body would simply snap in half if made to do the downward dog.

When my mother was a stay-at-home-mother of four she went to yoga classes once a week – we used to say she was going to Yoghurt Classes – and she once told me that yoga saved her sanity in those days. So one day I went to a yoga class for new mothers and stretched for about 50 minutes before being told to lie down and listen to the lovely music and breathe deeply and just as I felt the tension melt away and the thoughts leave my troubled mind and just as I reached that state of blissful contentment… I fell asleep. I might have snored. Well, at least I didn’t neigh.

I really love the idea of meditation, but although I have tried I just can’t do it without the snoring. So, like all good mothers, I am living the life of a calm and contented human being vicariously through my children. My kids are learning to meditate. In our house, every day ends with reading from a book called The Wishing Star: Meditations for Children by Marneta Viegas. There’s a good reason why this is a good thing.

continue reading…

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BPA — or bisphenol-a to you nerdy types — has been in the news a lot lately. Wal-Mart and Toys ‘R Us are the latest to listen to consumer demand (go free market!) and are starting to pull baby bottles containing BPA. Canada’s push for a full ban is moving forward, and more and more companies are starting to manufacture BPA-free alternatives. Why? Because experiments on lab animals has linked BPA to “changes in the brain, early puberty, and possible tumors.” Not exactly something you want to make it’s way into your baby’s body (or yours for that matter — Nalgene, a manufacturer of reusable drinking bottles, is also starting to phase out BPA in its production process).

We’re certainly not ones to shy away from a trend when there’s good science and our kids’ health involved, so we’ve convinced Medela to give away a Breastmilk Feeding & Storage Set containing three BPA-free bottles, lids and nipples, to 5 of our lucky readers to get started down a toxin-free path. (Pssst, we have a sneaky feeling these bottles would be just fine for formula feeding as well.) The entry form is here.

Ed. note: The Imperfect Parent did not receive any compensation for this post

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I, like many of my friends, am a smoker. I know, I know – I should quit (back off!). I choose to smoke, as is my choice. And while I am a girl of few rules, there are four that I live by:

1. When there are kids in the car – NO SMOKING
2. When there are kids in the house – NO SMOKING
3. When I am near my pregnant sister – NO SMOKING
4. And when I am in the vicinity of children – NO SMOKING

If I happened to be outside smoking and I see someone approaching – especially if that someone is a child — I quickly move, attempt to blow the smoke as far away from them as possible, or hold my breath until they pass.

So, the next time I see someone smoking with a mini-van full of children, or smoking while pushing their child in a stroller and holding another kid’s hand, smoking while holding a child, or smoking while — gasp — pregnant, would it be impolite of me slap them upside the head?

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I suppose all parenting is based on some sort of ideology, but when does ideology interfere and cross the line of what is in a child’s best interest?

It’s too bad that far too often, a parent’s desire to influence a social movement leaves them vulnerable in order to make a point or act in protest.

For example, and I know this is a touchy subject with some, but parents who refuse to vaccinate their children, claiming that it’s all part of some conspiracy theory to line the pockets of pharmaceutical companies. Many parents are so busy trying to find ways that vaccinations cause more harm than good, I think they forgot why vaccines were introduced to begin with. How much evidence does one need to make the logical conclusion that your political gain may compromise the health of your child?

For example, a recent Measles outbreak in San Diego:

On Jan. 25, the 7-year-old’s parents took the youngster to the Children’s Clinic of La Jolla. The child may have coughed and sneezed in the office, thus infecting four other children.

Those four patients returned to the clinic between Feb. 5 and 8, possibly spreading the virus to 60 other children.

All of the 11 confirmed patients, from 10 months to 9 years old, were not vaccinated either because they were younger than 1 – the minimum age for measles inoculation – or because their parents objected to having them vaccinated, county officials said.

…and, although it has NEVER been proven that vaccinations cause Autism, and countless studies fail to even make a link, there are still those holdouts that don’t care what science has to offer, the political statement of pharma vitriol means more to them than what they consider to be a minuscule risk. Nevermind that the risk WIDENS and INCREASES as more and more parents decide not to vaccinate. (Oh, the irony!) Facts, in these cases, don’t seem to be a priority.
One physician tries to uncover the psychology of it all…

It seems to have taken on a life of its own and may be a good example of a socio-psychological phenomenon known as “groupthink,” a mode of thinking that people engage in when they are deeply involved in a cohesive group.

There may be many parents who will never be convinced that the benefits of immunization for their children in most cases outweigh the risks. In free countries, that is their prerogative and I, as a physician, accept that.

Society must understand that such convictions must not dictate public health policy. Failure to offer people a sound vaccination program would no doubt result in a resurgence of contagions such as polio, measles, and heaven forbid, perhaps even smallpox, should the wild virus ever be reintroduced into the world.

The human toll in lives and suffering, long forgotten by our postmodern world, would be incalculable in a jet age which rapidly spreads infectious disease to all continents.

I’m sure we all have different, conflicting examples of “group think” and some “group think” is beneficial to a child, like the disdain of child abuse, but when does group think interfere with our own sensibilities? I think the Internet, for better or worse, has propagated much of this and found validations for practices in which some critical thinking would go a long way. I can think of a bunch just off the top of my head, can’t you?

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Okay, so our site logs lead me to it…a breastfeeding.com thread in which a link to an Imperfect Parent column sparked many tangents on a debate board. Kelly Cunningham’s essay, “Don’t Even Bother: The Case Against Childbirth Education Calsses” was the target of scoff in a thread entitled: Everything wrong with birth in our birth culture. Basically, the old “natural birth vs. assisted birth” debate made for old-school debate fodder when it took a surprisingly sharp turn into the bowels of maternal control and rage, accusing doctors who intervened during the sacred process of birthing and interfering with their birthing desires, as a crime and psychological significant of being raped.

Then they argued as to whether it was rape or assault and who had actually been raped and who was qualified to categorize it as “rape”.

Yep. They call it “birth rape”.

So to all the fine, imperfect people out there, can medical intervention be classified as “rape”, if it is against the implied, specific or vague birth plan of the mother? If you wish to read where the “birth rape” started, go to page 33, post #323.

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Forget the ghouls, goblins and witches. I read something in the local paper this morning that would strike a much larger fear into a parent’s heart — a kid at my son’s school has been diagnosed with the “super bug”, methicillin-resistant staphylococcus aureus, otherwise known as a staph infection. As the name implies, it’s antibiotic resistant, highly contagious, and in some cases fatal. So, yeah, just the kind of thing you want to read as you’re sending your kid out the door. And hello, school administration, why am I reading about this in the paper? Shouldn’t there be some sort of phone tree system to alert parents of such things?

Supposedly the best way to prevent the spread of MRSA is good hygiene and diligent hand washing. That sure makes me feel better since we all know how good young kids — especially boys — are at keeping clean, right? One way us parents can help is to keep bandages on open wounds. Here’s a MRSA fact sheet from the CDC that will either ease your mind or, if you’re an online-enabled hypochondriac like me, make things worse…

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I had my first mammogram yesterday. After it was done, I pondered things that would have been much more pleasant…chewing glass…having a toe amputated…sticking a needle in my eye….eating goose poop. The thoughts flowed through my head as I winced and said, “Ow. Ow. Ow.”

The nurse was nice enough to prep me, she said, “You know a lot of women complain about how painful this test is, but I think you’ll find that it isn’t as bad as everyone says.”

“Thanks a lot,” I thought to myself, “I hadn’t actually heard that, but thanks for making the 45 minute wait that much sweeter.”

First of all, it’s awkward, because you have this woman man-handling your breasts and she pulls them and stretches them every which way. I’ve heard women tell me it’s worse when you have less (pointing out that I have “more”), but then there’s less to squeeze and squish in between those large plastic plates. Now that I’ve done it, I have to disagree.

Seriously, I have red marks above my boobs and I’ve had to take ibuprofen last night and this morning and I’m still in excruciating pain (over 24 hours later). There is no way that can be good for your breast tissue. Screw the dangers of radiation, I feel like the damage to my breasts is enough to facilitate cancer even if there was none to begin with. I hear stories from people all the time, where an injury later developed into cancer in that area. While doctors and scientists poo-poo the idea, I’d like to see more research in the area myself. Bodies are not meant to be damaged. We are fragile beings. My boobies are fragile. Be kind oh, mammogram operator. It just isn’t right!

I even told her when it was done that I didn’t agree with her, the whole thing sucked the big one and I was too young to get it done anyway, “I’m 38,” I boasted. She wasn’t impressed. She told me that the first mammogram should be between the age of 35 and 40 and then it was to be done every 2 years until 50 and then it’s to be done every year.

The only reason I even did it was because my OB-GYN wouldn’t renew my birth control pills without my having it done, so he had me over a barrel. (If you lived with my two boys, you would know what I mean.)

My GYN recommends a mammogram after 40 every year.

This experience has taught me two things a) I need to get a new GYN (one that sticks with traditional protocols) and b) breasts were never meant to be compressed like a stale piece of gum, stuck to a cheap pair of shoes. Mammograms really hurt. Next time, I’m stopping by a bar and having a few before the torture.

As if coming upon 40 weren’t bad enough…

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