MotherTalk Blog Tour: The Complete Organic Pregnancy

When I agreed to review The Complete Organic Pregnancy, by Deidre Dolan and Alexandra Zissu, I was thinking about myself. You see, I am seriously considering having a fourth child, and since my 37th birthday is next week, I would want to do whatever I can to make that pregnancy as healthy as possible. Somehow, I will have to break with the past and not live on Egg McMuffins and takeout roast beef sandwiches.

But while waiting for the book, I thought, If I want an organic pregnancy, I'll just eat organic food. I mean, what could they have found to write a whole book about?

Ha. Dolan and Zissu showed me. Organized into three sections, "Transforming," "Growing," and "Living," the book covers everything you need to know from the moment you decide a pregnancy is in your future through to breastfeeding your snuggly baby.

I found the discussion of choosing organic, local and whole foods to be well-balanced in this book. How to rid your home of toxins (i.e., in cleaners, flooring, bedding) is also covered. This is a topic I find a bit overwhelming. However, the authors do a great job of breaking down the products and materials that may be problematic and providing solutions. They make their case without sounding like alarmists, with recognition that none of us will achieve a 100% toxin-free home or diet. But by becoming informed, we have the power to improve our health and our baby's health significantly.

The book also contains lots of useful tips: for comfort during and after pregnancy (make real ginger ale, do-it-yourself antinausea wrist bands) and for baby rearing (make your own baby mobile, food cubes, and wipes). There's also a selection of eclectic recipes in the back (Mulberry Ice Cream, Green Rice With Roasted Green Chilies and Leeks, Spring Tonic Nettle Soup).

Another feature that makes this book special is the collection of personal essays scattered throughout, by Barbara Kingsolver, Moon Unit Zappa and many other. My personal favorite is "Hippie-crite," by Catherine Newman. God, I love her.

Without further blathering on by me, let me share a few of my questions the authors were kind enough to answer. Then meet me at the bottom of this post, because I've got THREE free copies of this book to give away. If you're pregnant or planning to be, you'll want this book in your library. It will also make a great gift for that special childbearing woman in your life.

"The Complete Organic Pregnancy" spells out many ways to achieve a toxin-free pregnancy. Based on your extensive research, what are a few of the most important steps a woman should take to protect her baby during the childbearing year?

Here are five great steps we keep returning to because we think they’re worth
taking to protect the baby during the childbearing year:

1. Buy non-toxic cleaning products because basically everything conventional is bad for a growing baby and for you. This will help reduce your indoor air pollution considerably. (You can make your own cleaning products for a fraction of the cost with a combination of liquid soap, baking soda, water and white vinegar.)

2. Eat an organic, whole foods diet. This refers to eating food as close to the form it comes out of the earth as possible (think potatoes, not potato chips!).

3. Have your house and water tested for lead, particularly if your house was built before 1987. Drink your water out of glass, not plastic, whenever possible.

4. Read the ingredients on your beauty products. Can you pronounce, let alone recognize, what’s listed? Our government doesn’t (yet) regulate cosmetics as organic which means any producer can claim to be organic. Choose products with fewer and more natural ingredients. We have specific brand suggestions in the book.

5. Don’t renovate while pregnant. If you need to make basic changes, especially where the pregnant mother or baby will be sleeping, use zero-VOC (volatile organic compounds) paint, and nontoxic wood and glue.

I love the personal essays included throughout the book. How did the idea for these "diaries" come about and what were you hoping to accomplish with them?

Sometimes reading pregnancy books and “how-to” manuals can feel more like homework than satisfying an interest. It makes sense, there’s usually a ton of information to get across, and most expected to be treated as reference manuals and not read cover to cover anyway. Pregnancy is an incredibly personal event, but at the same time so universal, that we just assumed women would find other women’s stories interesting. We tried to find a variety of voices so that there would be a better chance of something for everyone.

When Barbara Kingsolver agreed to write a diary about her thoughts on having an organic pregnancy, we knew it would be great, but we had no idea how great. She’s been into organic living for longer than both of us combined and we consider her diary (which starts the book) a thousand times more inspirational than anything we could have written.

Some women may find the idea of avoiding toxins in foods and the environment during pregnancy too confusing or overwhelming. What words of encouragement can you offer them?

Well, Lexy grew up eating organically, so the food part was never very overwhelming to her, though the home stuff was in the beginning. And we’ll admit
Deirdre predicted going organic would be more confusing than it turned out to be. In general, our approach is less about remembering what to DO, than about what to AVOID. We find that avoiding things really just makes life that much easier – fewer bottles of bleach to lug home from the supermarket and recycle, fewer boxes of uneaten granola bars taking up cupboard space, fewer strange smells filling up the house and causing you anxiety.

To avoid getting overwhelmed, just take it one step at a time. Carry cheat sheets in your wallet of good name brands and which fruits and vegetables are the most contaminated. Keep in mind that this is about your baby. We both feel some rage at the thought of our kids being guinea pigs for whatever is going to be the next lead paint or DDT, and usually that seems to be encouragement enough. Sometimes it’s easier to do for your children what you never thought about doing for yourself, which is why pregnancy is a natural jumping off point for going organic.

If you would like to win one of three copies of "The Complete Organic Pregnancy," leave me a comment telling me your favorite quick and healthy snack, either during pregnancy or not. If you don't have a quick and healthy snack, then tell me your biggest weakness. Don't worry, I won't tell anyone. Mine right now is ice cream, because I had to give it up to breastfeed Ava for A WHOLE YEAR. Aren't I amazing? However, now I eat the stuff by the half-gallon, and my thighs show it.

Anyway, I'll accept all entries through midnight Sunday night, EST, and post the three winners Monday morning. Good luck!

Don't Read This Post

It's one of those, "Sorry I haven't written, I'm so busy," posts. Don't you hate those? I mean, you're all busy too, and yet you still manage to write great blogs or otherwise be fantastic. Me, I'm just doing laundry, slinging PB&Js and trying to remember not to eat 3,000 calories right before bed.

I think this post calls for bullets:

• We're still in the basement. The family room is still off-limits because we have to put felt on the feet of the couches so they don't scratch the floor, among other things. I was in the room for exactly 4 minutes and in that short time managed to scratch the floor getting the sofa back in the room. I'm that talented.
• We got a letter from Ben's school last week that read, "Congratulations! Your child has been selected for our Reading Recovery program!" After reading all the fine print and talking to the teacher, I realized it should have said, "Congratulations! Your child tested at the bottom of his class for reading!" Woo hoo!
• Yesterday I let myself have happy thoughts about John's preschool. Thoughts like, "Gee, he's doing great, why was I worried?" Then when I picked him up the director literally threw herself in front of my van to stop me from driving away happy. I rolled down my window to hear about how John had a bad day, how they had made so much progress with him but he totally backslid, how he was seeking negative attention from the other kids and wouldn't listen to the teachers. All I could think was, "Please don't kick him out!" I wonder if she saw the look of panic in my eyes. Any ideas for bribing preschool teachers?
• Ava turned 15 months yesterday. I want to write a big long post about how fabulous she is, but she's right behind me requiring my attention, so I'll just tell you that she's trying to climb out of the damn crib already. Can you believe the nerve? She shouldn't do that for at least another year. Next thing you know she'll try to drop her nap. (Ssshhh, let's pretend I didn't say that out loud.)
• I'm 25 pounds over weight. At the doctor last week, they had a weight chart conveniently located across from the toilet and it said, right there in black in white, that I am overweight. I haven't been this big since junior year in college. The one pair of "fat" jeans and the package of "fat" underwear I bought are all too small. I am in crisis.
• I have a huge pile of crap, (i.e., books and such), to review and give away. I plan to get through it all over the next week or so. Think gifts. Think helping me declutter my house. Think reselling it on ebay for money. A lot of it is pretty good crap, I do try to be discerning, you know. Just come back and enter to win the crap, will you please? The order in which I post the items will be in direct relation to the number of annoying emails I've received from the associated PR person.

Um. Hmm ... I think that might be it. Oh yeah! I finally managed to at least partly participate in a FlyLady Super Fling Boogie these last few weeks, something I haven't done since September 2004. I have sorted, I have tossed, I have donated. However, I still have not found my funny. I promise to keep looking.

Revisiting Reflux

Right now, Brian's watching a show about the universe on the Science Channel and it is blowing my mind. I can't take it. So I'm taking advantage of the Internet connection he installed last night, down here in the basement. Yes, we're still hunkered down here, waiting for the floor to dry. We won't be back upstairs until Saturday morning. The kids are on the second floor, sleeping with their bedroom windows wide open to let the fumes out. Of course, it's 38 degrees tonight, so we'll have to monitor their popsicle status closely.

Yesterday, John complained about his stomach again, and I asked him, again, to show me where it hurt. Instead of putting his hand at his belly button, as he's done for the past several weeks, he put one hand there and cupped the other underneath his jaw, and said, "It hurts all the way up to my neck, almost to my head, Mama!"

Which could only mean one thing: reflux.

John came into the world as one pissed off newborn. He was just plain miserable. As for me, it took one week postpartum for me to accept the fact that I had an unplanned newborn and a 19 month old to take care of. Then I bonded with his cranky newborn self and spent the second week of his life trying to figure out what his freaking problem was. With the help of The Baby Book, I highly suspected acid reflux. His incompetent pediatrician suggested the drug that makes the espophogus close. I can't remember the name of the drug now, but I did my research at the time, and with the side effects and John's symptoms, that was just a stupid choice. We requested an acid blocker and a referral to a pediatric GI. Because of the awesome teamwork and initiative of Brian and I (we did rally, I have to say), John was pain free by 7 weeks of age. Thanks also to Prilosec.

John stopped taking Prilosec at age 21 months, the same day he self-weaned, actually. The same week at Winnipesaukee that Ben potty trained, incidentally.

When John turned 3, I suspected he was having the heartburn symptoms again. He was extremely fussy after his afternoon nap, sobbing and hanging on my legs. He cried out in the night. His pediatric GI at Mass General agreed and started us on the acid reflux drug du jour, Prevacid. Which, coincidentally, costs the same as Ben's private speech therapy, $60 a month.

In February, just after his 4th birthday, John went off Prevacid at his GI's advisement. Since then, he's seemed fine. He hasn't said his stomach hurt until recently, and I always ask him. He's had behavior issues, namely, agressiveness. But his brother teases and is bigger than him, and he changed preschools four times, so he has some right to be pissed. Despite that, he's incredibly sweet, coming to tears at sad notions, such as Ava getting hurt. He says, "I love you, Mama" spontaneously about 20 times a day. Unfortunately, he's also started saying, "Mama, don't tell anyone I'm sick." And he means it. It's supposed to be a big secret between the two of us.

These last weeks, he always said his pain was no higher than his belly button. I'd get eye-to-eye with him, calmly ask him to put his hand right on the pain. He always laid his hand down low. Until yesterday, when his neck entered the picture.

This morning, at the bake shop downtown, he chose some pineapple-guava-orange juice. After sipping it for a while he said, "Mama I can't have this, it's bad for my belly." Just more confirmation that reflux is at play here. I guess he feels it down low because of referred pain. Either that, or something else is wrong.


Of my three pregnancies, John was the only one that gave me acid reflux. One night I woke up, throat on fire, scared for my life. The next day, it hurt to eat a sandwich. I could feel the injury to my throat, from the acid inching its way up my esophogus. That's what happens when heartburn gets really bad. That's what's happening to John now.


Thankfully I kept some Prevacid on reserve just for this occassion. He took his first dose last night, and based on our history with acid blockers, he should feel better by Saturday.

In the meantime, cherry flavored Maalox with semithecone, bananas, scrambled eggs. And a call to the GI, which at first alarmed John. I reminded him how the nurse is so sweet, the walls are all painted purple (one of his favorite colors, along with blue), and we always get to pick a free book to take home. That made him feel better. This is one of the perks to living outside Boston: excellent medical care.

Reflux has made poor John's life hell, again. If I have my way it will be the last time. I guess he just stays on acid blockers until he's in first grade. At least then, I can be pretty sure that he'll be able to tell me if any symptoms of it crop up. The poor kid.

Dreams Do Come True

My long-awaited, seemingly impossible dream of getting the Carpet of Death out of my house has been realized. The wall-to-wall carpet in the family room, the one I've written about here before, the one that smelled like dog but more recently began smelling like ass: It has left the building! It's in my van now, which is a disgusting thought itself. But the carpet is out.

And, now I have this beautiful new wood floor! Well, the bank has it but they're letting us stand and walk all over all day every day so, I won't split hairs. I can't post a picture because my camera's on my desk which is wrapped in plastic, which I already took apart to get my cell phone cord, then ripped a big hole in to get my coupons. (You know you're broke, er, frugal when ...)

Brian and I went back and forth ad nauseum about this floor, and I have to say, we made the right choice. All we need now is an area rug and picture frames for this "family collage wall" I'm responsible for creating. This is when I wish I had an eye for design. I would even take a half-blind eye. I am totally blind when it comes to decorating.

Anyway ... happiness. I can now have people over again. This week though, is all about chaos, of the "watching three kids for three days with no kitchen or family room " variety. Also, I can't get to my computer to write or email, because they're sanding and polyurethaning and all that. I shouldn't even be here writing this now. (I want a laptop, damnit.)

I planned to set the carpet on fire in my back yard and dance around the flames. Come to think of it, I said that about our old living room set, too, while pregnant with my now 6 year old. In both instances, I did not care enough to start a bonfire. In the end, I just said, "Take the damned thing away. And let's drink some beer!"

MotherTalk Blog Tour: We Are All Fine Here

I feel honored to be a part of this week's MotherTalk Blog Tour.

Meet Julia. She is not fine. Not by a long shot.

Besides being lonely and depressed, Julia is pregnant, and she doesn’t know who the father is: Jim, her husband of 15 years; or Ray, her sexy, philandering ex-flame from college. Indeed, in We Are All Fine Here [G. P. Putnam’s Sons; January 13, 2005; $18.95; ISBN: 0-399-15230-X], Mary Guterson’s debut novel, things for Julia seem like they couldn’t be worse.

Her husband works late and acts miserable, unless he’s telling “too-transparently obsessive” stories about his coworker Patricia. “Sometimes a breakdown in communication is the best possible solution,” Julia says of her marriage.

Her hypochondriac mother is so critical that Julia wonders how she can still be considered human. “You’d think every human being, in order to be labeled ‘human,’ would have to have at least one single cell of humanity floating amid the billions of other cells that somehow, miraculously, cluster together in our mutually exclusive yet undeniably similar humanoid shapes. But no …”

Her son, Chad, “the best kid in the universe,” spends so much time at his girlfriend’s house that Julia’s not sure if he still lives with her. Says Julia: “Mothering is everything it’s cracked up to be, which is to say, a complete and total nightmare.”

Even her therapist fails her, despite her desperate confessions. All he offers are shrugs and Klonopin prescriptions.

Then there’s Ray, the man who's been breaking Julia’s heart since college, the man who still tortures her with drunken phone calls and declarations of love. “When are you going to leave that guy?” he asks, as if he were waiting in the wings with an engagement ring and the willingness to make her fantasy come true, the one where she and Ray end up together.

The fact is, Julia has never gotten over Ray. After marrying Jim, she “woke up one morning miserably aware that I was married to the wrong man, raising a child with no idea what I was doing, and unhappily padding around my house in pajamas all day, waiting for God knows what to happen.”

Now 12 years later, Julia’s still waiting, splitting her time between the resource room at Alva Edison Intermediate School, “a place for the mostly bright, yet thoroughly unmotivated students,” and smoking cigarettes in her neighbor Gwen’s living room. Living in a Klonopin-induced fog, she has become so lonely that she cries at the doctor’s office. “I just feel so cared for,” she says. “I’m aware how pathetic that sounds. Pretend I didn’t say it.”

When her neighbor Gwen offers her hopeful, Wizard of Oz-inspired theory that if you’re searching for something, then it’s probably in your own backyard, Julia’s unimpressed. “There is nothing in my backyard but dog shit,” she tells her.

Finally, something does happen: Ray reappears to take Julia to their old friends’ wedding. It’s no surprise that they have quickie sex in the bathroom. It’s no surprise, either, that the tryst reignites her obsession with Ray, sending her even deeper into depression.

The surprise comes three months later, when Julia she finds herself in another bathroom, “the loneliest stall in the universe,” staring in horror at a positive pregnancy test, a discovery that leaves her “contemplating the universe on the one hand and the many various types of suicide on the other.”

The story line may sound depressing, and our girl Julia is just a bit pathetic. But, warts and all, Guterson offers Julia as she is: Hurt, flawed, hilarious, but most of all, human. Her first-person narrative, so blunt and honest and funny, outshines her despair even as she describes it.

In observing the dark truths of relationships – Julia’s as well as those of her relatives, friends and coworkers -- Guterson has created a masterful coming-of-middle-age novel. It contemplates the way those we love disappoint us, the way we disappoint ourselves, and the way so many life-changing events can take place in, of all places, a bathroom.

We Are All Fine Here also reminds us how much our perceptions shape reality, even when it comes to dog shit in the backyard. It’s the kind of book that makes you hope good things happen to good people. Most especially, to Julia. I can see just her, giving me the old slant eye and saying, “You never know.”

Update on John

Thanks for all of your kind thoughts on this post. The results from the blood test came back normal, which, among other things, ruled out mono. *huge sigh of relief*

Everyone is probably right that it's just a lingering stomach virus. He seems a bit more lively. Yesterday we jumped and danced for a good 30 minutes, and afterward he wanted to keep going, not crash out on the couch.

So, we'll just keep an eye on him for the next week and take it from there.

Thanks again!

I Hate School

At age 3, Ben started having ear infections. We got on the revolving-door plan at his doctor’s office. We got to know the names of all the antibiotics a doctor could possibly prescribe for an ear infection, as well as the cost, taste and frequency of the doses.

After several months of this, I told his doctor that maybe we should take things to the next level, meaning, maybe he should get tubes. She agreed, and we went to an ear, nose and throat doctor, who ordered a hearing test.

Ben’s hearing test, given near his 4th birthday, gave me my first official parental panic attack. Other panic attacks I’d had -- over a bloody mouth, a high fever or relentless vomiting -- paled in comparison to discovering that you’re child hears the world as if he’s under water. That my talking to him may sound , in reality, just like Charlie Brown’s mother talking to him.

I made countless breathless phone calls to annoyed appointment makers to get Ben into the ENT and then to the OR for tubes before he returned to preschool in the fall. Out on the street on his first day, he covered his ears when the garbage truck drove by. Everything was so loud! he said. I prided myself on a job well done.

He finished preschool without any ear infections, and we tested his hearing from time to time to make sure everything was OK. Since getting tubes, his hearing has never been better than borderline problematic, but it’s an improvement and is normal enough to satisfy his ENT.

Ben went to kindergarten last fall, and in December we had our first teacher conference. That morning, Brian asked me to mention Ben’s speech to her. “Are you sure?” I asked. “He seems fine to me.” Of course, the first thing his teacher brought up was Ben’s speech. The mom is always the last to know about these things. He could speak a self-created version of Japanese and I would probably understand him.

In January, the school’s speech therapist observed and listened to him. She said he was developmentally on target and sent home 50 different sheets of paper with 100 games on them all involving the letter ‘L.’ To this day, whenever the letter ‘L’ appears in a game, Ben walks away in disgust.

One weekend in May, Brian and I realized we no longer understood a word he said. He’d say, “Did you daryive in the cuyaya?” And we’d look at each other and say, “The hell?”

Later that month, we went to his yearly physical. He spoke to the receptionist and the receptionist looked at me for a translation. Ditto the doctor, who by the end of the appointment advised that I get the boy to a speech therapist, pronto.

My son was 6, and no one could understand a word he said. Sometimes, not even me.

I alerted his teacher. I called my insurance company. I set up a private speech evaluation. We received his evaluation, the one that described his speech as “well-below average” and “poor,” just a few days before his last day of kindergarten. I had Brian call the principal, because after my meeting with him about John’s preschool experience, Brian and I agreed that he would deal with this particular principal in the future. I am already the “crazy lady.”

The principal said they would either go by the private evaluation or decide to do one of their own, and it would happen in the fall. Good enough.

All summer I took Ben to speech therapy. He still goes, and his therapist says he’s still got some major issues. Nothing that can’t be overcome, but the speech problems remain.

This costs us $60 a month. I know it could be more. I know we’re lucky to have coverage, and that we can afford it and still eat and pay the mortgage (barely). But I’m anxious for my tax-paying-citizen status to kick in and for the public school to take over. Let’s get this show on the road.

Today I had my meeting with my “case manager,” the school psychologist, whom judging by today uses her wily psychological powers on parents as often as on kids.

We had the usual talk, she asked about his history, she described the process of the “initial evaluation,” which used to be called a “core” but they no longer use that word. She said they’d take him out of class two times for 30 to 40 minutes each time, and that his cognitive and speech abilities would be evaluated, as well as his social whatever blah blah blah. I asked if we would be reimbursed for the private speech therapy, and she said reimbursements only kick in after he’s evaluated. So, no. Sign here, she said. Fine, I said.

This is why I’m a writer. I have no ability to think on my feet. Because only then did I ask the million-dollar question: “What’s the time line?”

“I’ll give you that in just a minute,” she said, leaving the room to take a copy of the signed form. She came back and said they would complete the evaluation by October 31st, and by November 27th we would have another meeting to find out if Ben has been deemed worthy of speech services.

“You’re kidding,” I said. She studied me. “That’s almost a year from when his teacher alerted us to the problem. That’s six months from when no one on the planet could understand a word he said, even me. That’s another 13 weeks of us paying for speech therapy.”

“You could take him out of speech therapy,” she told me, with a straight face.

“We think it’s too important,” I said, without throttling her.

But in the car driving home I said, “Is that your suggestion? Because if it is, if you’re serious, then I wonder whether you have Ben’s best interests in mind. And if it’s not, if you’re not serious about us taking him out of speech therapy altogether for the next 13 weeks to let him backslide through 1st grade, then I don’t appreciate you being so flip, so cavalier, when it comes to my son’s speech problem and my families finances.

“And let me see that form, let me scratch it out and write that I’m not OK with it, that services beginning in December – maybe, if he qualifies – is not ok with me. And don’t tell me you have no choice, because the principal already told us you could have accepted the private evaluation rather than doing your own bullshit administrative process and delaying assistance for my son for three months.”

Maybe it’s good that I can’t think on my feet, at least sometimes. Maybe by Monday, when I plan to call this case manager, maybe then I’ll be able to speak to her without swearing.

Sick and Tired

Something’s wrong with John. Last week he started saying, “I’m tired,” through the day. At first I didn’t worry. He’d had a 24-hour diarrhea thing a few weeks before, and it wore him out. Plus the change in the air and the light, and starting at yet another new preschool.

After a few days, though, he’d say, “I’m tired,” and I’d suggest he lie down and watch a video or read a book with me. At bedtimes he said, “I’m not tired at night but I’m tired in the morning, Mom.” That’s easy, I thought. Classic signs that he needs more sleep.

This weekend, “I’m tired,” alternated with “I’m sick.” I asked what hurt and depending on when I asked he said his neck, his throat, his abdomen. Once he said, “Under my belly button.” I offered hugs and popsicles, suggested the toilet, prodded for more information.

Meanwhile, this whole time, he’s been fairly active. He played soccer and baseball with Dad; knights, Star Wars and Power Rangers with Ben. He eats well, sleeps well, poops. well The whole shebang.

Monday, “I’m sick,” outpaced “I’m tired.” He said his stomach hurt “this much,” holding his fingers a mere inch apart. “How much did it hurt when Ben pinched you?”

“This much!” he said, arms wide. Still, I took him to the doctor.

In early September, pediatricians see their share of tired, tummy achy preschoolers. Since John had the recent diarrhea, and since he started at a new school just that very same day, didn’t have a fever, and wasn’t vomiting or refusing food, no one got alarmed. Dr. Bob said diarrhea can temporarily damage the stomach lining, and dairy can aggravate that. He said wait a week, eliminate dairy and call Monday if John’s not better.

I put him to bed early, let him sleep late. Tuesday he awoke and announced: “I’m tired.” The fact that he is sick became part of his running conversation, as if he were a cancer patient or locked up in a hospital with tuberculosis. He kept asking for the “medicine to make me better,” referring to the Pepto Bismol that the doctor suggested, even though he said his stomach hurt only a little or not at all.

After school I took the boys to the grocery store, where John explored and behaved and seemed healthy enough. Then we went to the park, and he climbed and played. Then after 30 minutes he appeared at my side and said, “I wanna go home.” I said it would be another 10 minutes, and he lied down flat on his stomach and waited. Then he tossed sand on someone’s foot until they said, “No!” and I had to drag him from the park.

As I tucked him into bed that night he said, “Mom, I’m tired at night and in the day. That’s not right.”

This morning, walking home from leaving Ben at school, he said, “I’m sick.” Questions about symptoms seemed to baffle him. He collapsed on the couch to watch Cyberchase, instead of hopping around the family room as if he had ants in his pants, like he normally does. After two nights of extra sleep, small black crescents had appeared beneath his eyes. When he climbed into the car to go grocery shopping an hour later, he yawned as if he hadn’t slept in months and was settling in for a winter’s hibernation. Instead of falling asleep, he rattled on about some knight getting a little hurt and another getting a “really big hurt,” all the while sitting very still. I asked, “Are you a little sick, or a really big sick?”

“Really big,” he said. As I drove I searched his tired face for clues in my rear view mirror.

“I don’t like sticking little kids with needles, but we can do a screen,” his doctor told me on the phone this afternoon. We went right over for the blood draw. John screamed and cried, but calmed down before all the vials had been filled.

Afterwards I told him the blood would tell the doctor how to make him feel better, and he said, “Good.”

Now I’m just worrying, retracing all the facts and events in my head, hoping that he wakes up all bright-eyed, that the screen comes back normal. We should hear by Friday.

Book Review: Supper Swapping

Supper Swapping, by Susan Thacker, is my kind of cookbook. The recipes are tasty and very easy to prepare. And for such a small book it has everything, from breakfast to dessert, from gourmet meals to grandma's comfort cooking.


Even though I don't have anyone to swap meals with, I'd love to try it someday. Here's Susan's basic supper-swapping plan:

• On Mondays, you cook and provide Monday and Tuesday meals for yourself and your cooking partner.

• On Wednesdays, everyone eats leftovers or perhaps one of the "five-minute back-up" meals in the book.

• On Thursday, your cooking partner gives you Thursday's and Friday's meals.

If you follow this plan and have leftovers, take out or easy meals on the weekend, you will cook just four times a month. God that would be awesome, wouldn't it?

The book gives all kinds of ideas on how to execute a cooking partnership, from choosing the right person, to communicating constructive ideas (when, say, the pasta's soggy), to different ways to deliver the meals (for example, swapping at school pick-up). There's a million ways to adapt supper swapping to your needs -- such as co-ops, once-a-month cooking and lunch swapping -- and Susan covers the sprectrum.

For me, the book's subtitle, "Cook Four Days a Month With Chefs' and Restaurants' Easy Recipes," really captures what makes it so appealing.
Supper Swapping has become one of my favorite cookbooks for several reasons:

• Susan traveled the country, visiting chefs and using her persuasive powers to make them give her their best recipes.

• All of the recipes are easy, with a short list of ingredients and simple, clear instructions that don't assume you know anything about cooking. In many cases, Susan provides substitutions or adaptations to make a recipe less expensive, faster or more kid friendly.

• The book has a picture of this chef. Isn't he a hottie? Throughout the book, Susan has scattered pictures and stories of the chefs and their restaurants, making it in interesting culinary read.

• It has a well-rounded list of recipes, with soups, deserts, the basics, special dinners and everything in between. The index is well categorized, so things are easy to find. There's nothing I hate more than a useless or missing index, especially in a cookbook.

• Super Swapping never forgets about us parents. Every recipe deemed kid-friendly has two little thumbs up on the bottom corner of the page. The long list of kid-friendly recipes is also broken out in the index.

I have tried several recipes in this book, and they've all turned out great. Well, one turned out kind of blah but it was my fault. While shopping to make Red Beans with Rice and Sausage, I made a key error: I bought turkey bacon instead of bacon bacon. While the baby loved these beans, Brian and I thought they were just ok and the boys wouldn't even honor our one-bite rule. We had to let them off the hook. I do think that when I use real bacon, even the boys will come around.

Here are the other recipes I tried:

Steak, Mandarin Orange and Pecan Salad: Thinly sliced New York strip steak over romaine and spring greens, with some toasted pecans, blue cheese and other goodies tossed in. My six year old doesn't eat meat, or most protein foods for that matter. If it weren't for yogurt, all his muscles would have atrophied and he'd be in a wheel chair by now. But! Ben ate this steak. In fact, everyone was quite happy with this dish. It was quick, easy, and satisfying. Despite the red meat, it still felt like a light, healthy meal.

Chicken and Artichoke: Boneless chicken breast baked with mushrooms, artichokes and a tasty white wine sauce. Everyone loved it, and it was so easy to make. Next time I'll buy the presliced mushrooms to save more time. The boys ate so fast I think they ate an artichoke or two by accident. It calls for 6 tablespoons of margarine, but I will cut that down next time to lower the fat in the dish. But, man, those mushrooms were tasty fried up in all that butter. Mmmm ...

Thai Soong (Lettuce Wraps): Ground chicken and water chestnuts cooked in a yummy sauce and wrapped in iceberg lettuce. Even though I had an anxiety attack while cooking this for a weekday supper -- the moment I fully realized that my family would have to wrap this mystery-meat type mixture in a piece of lettuce -- every single person loved this meal. With bean sprouts and shredded carrots on the table, it's kind of like a Thai "burrito night." Since Ben also ate and loved this chicken, I guess I have to admit that he doesn't dislike meat, he just dislikes the way I usually cook it. With some rice on the side, this dish makes fantastic baby food, too. Ava could eat this chicken every day of her life and be happy.

Susan agreed to let me share this recipe with you.

~~~

Thai Soong Sauce
Yields 1 ½ cups sauce, enough for 2 pounds of meat (i.e., a double batch of the next recipe)

½ cup sugar
1/3 cup soy sauce
¼ cup green onion, minced
¼ fresh cilantro, chopped
1/3 Hoisin sauce
2 tablespoons sherry
2 tablespoons sesame oil
2 tablespoons ginger, minced
2 teaspoons garlic, minced
1 teaspoon salt.

Mix the sauce together. See, wasn't that easy?

Thai Soong (Lettuce Wraps)
Serves 4
1 pound boneless ground thigh chicken meat (Tip from Susan: Use pre-packaged ground chicken meat instead. The taste is similar, and the time you save is huge.)
1 cup (8ounce can) water chestnuts chopped
½ cup chopped cilantro
1 head iceberg lettuce (or 2 heads Boston lettuce)
2 cups bean sprouts
2 cups shredded carrots
¾ cup Thai Soong Sauce

In a very hot skillet or wok, cook the chicken, stirring constantly, breaking up the meat with a spatula until cooked through, about 10 minutes. Drain the meat and mix in the chopped water chestnuts. Heat another pan or wok until it begins to smoke. Pour ¾ cup Thai Soong Sauce and the chicken mixture into the wok. Stir often. The mixture will quickly caramelize. Simmer until the mixture is very hot, about 5-10 minutes.

Place the chicken in a serving bowl. Set the lettuce leaves, cilantro, bean sprouts and carrots on a platter. Each person will assemble his or her lettuce wraps by placing spoonfuls of the assortment on a piece of lettuce and wrapping the lettuce around the mixture.

~~~

As someone with way too many cookbooks in the first place, I have found that I return to this book again and again (I've had it for six months now). I think it's a steal at $11.53 on Amazon, and with the holidays coming up, it would make a great little hostess gift.


You can also receive a signed copy from Susan for $12 plus $1.75 shipping. Just email her at supperswapping@sbcglobal.net. By the way, the Supper Swapping Web site has more recipes, freebies and pictures of hottie chefs.

Inept Babysitter No. 6: My Own Damned Self

Saturday, Ava escaped without injury, not so much as a bruise. I, however, was quite traumatized.

• While playing with her before lunch, I sat Ava on the little overpriced wooden chair we bought when Ben was a baby, the one that's so heavy it could kill a small animal when it tips over, which is all the time. So I sat her on the chair, holding her hands, her feet dangling four inches from the floor. When she signaled she wanted down, I lifted her hands up, but not enough. She came forward and so did the chair, banging her on the back of the head. She looked shocked and began to cry. Then, before I could stop it, the chair slammed into her head again.

• Before her nap, on my queen-sized bed with box spring (i.e., 3+ feet off the ground), Ava and I rolled around on the pillows. I kept my eyes and hands on her the whole time. Then she moved just out of reach, sat up and fell backwards off the side, landing on her head in a pathetic pile between Brian’s nightstand and the bed.

• After her nap, I took her out back, where the boys, Brian and I had been playing soccer. Ava was sitting on the grass, and I was standing 6 feet away from her, at most. When I noticed the soccer ball at my feet, I kicked it. Square into her face. Really hard.

Did I mention it was Ben’s new soccer ball, and it’s not at all cushy like a child’s soccer ball? It’s very hard, like a real soccer ball. Brian stared at me in disbelief. “What were you thinking?” he asked. Everything got all surreal and I started crying, because I’d hurt her again but also because I feared I'd lost my mind. What the hell was I thinking? Nothing, apparently.

The boys, to their credit, kept their laughter under wraps.

I made Brian swear not to tell anyone what I'd done (and not to leave me alone with the baby). Then I immediately went inside, called my mother and sister-in-law, and told them everything. And, for some reason, I'm telling the Internet. I have no aim, and no shame.

So far, since The Day I Kept Hurting Ava, things have gone better. Perhaps I was just a little tired. Or as my sister-in-law suggested, maybe I’ve hit menopause. (Why do I even call her when I’m upset?)

Every time I think about the Soccer Ball Incident, I let out this little, uncontrollable laugh. It was just that absurd. If could have, I would have fired myself on the spot.

Connecting the Dots

Last week, I got to meet the lovely Robin of CC Jelly Beans for some outlet shopping, sans kids. If you're on a tight budget, I highly recommend that you take Robin shopping with you because you'll be so busy chatting and laughing that you'll only buy lunch, coffee and a $5 doohickey at a kitchen store, instead of spending your mortgage payment at Banana Republic, which is what I normally do when outlet shopping.

Now Robin and I are thisclose! BFF! IRL!

Read more about our meeting over at DotMoms, where acronyms like "BFF" would never appear thanks to the good judgment of our editor, Julie, who's next on my list of people I want to meet IRL.

CD Giveaway, or Why I Shouldn't Be Reviewing Kid's Music

Update: The winner is Kristi from Small Things. Congrats, Kristi! Send your address to clouth@gmail.com, and I'll get it right out to you. And remember, encourage your child to listen to this ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HOUSE, in a sound-proof room if possible.

A few months ago, in an effort to restore some sense of joy within the walls of my skull, I stopped listening to the news. I stopped turning the speakers off in the back of the van so I could listen to talk radio, and started turning those speakers up, quite loud if the boys were annoying me, and filling their little ears with music that I like.

I didn't realize that, in doing this, I would end my boys' enjoyment of kid's music for all eternity.

Soon after my self-imposed news blackout, some friendly PR people sent me various CDs of kid's music. Like a good reviewer, I not only listened to this music, I forced my kids to listen, too. After all, it's their opinion that really matters.

I figured I'd find the music at least moderately enjoyable. I'd read Amy's news story on DotMoms, about how kid's music is topping the charts. Of all that I received, I thought Kidz Bop 10 had the best chance of success, because the songs are already hits, just sung by kids in a toned-down arrangement. Plus, this series has topped the record charts. I'd just seen this exact CD for $16 at the checkout at Stop & Shop, shelf space reserved for the best sellers.

The first time, I played it in the kitchen. Both boys asked me to turn it off. I tried different tracks. "Turn it off!" they yelled in unison.

The next time I played it in the van, from which they couldn't escape. I would make them listen, and it would grow on them.

"I don't like this song."

"Me, neither."

"Give it a minute."

... "I still don't like it."

I put on "Bad Day," figuring they could relate. "Just listen to one song all the way through."

After about a minute, my six year old groaned, "Why are you making us listen to girls' music?"

Then the four year old screamed "We HATE this music!!" over and over until I gave up and put on BCN.

("Mom, does everyone like rock music?" "No, honey." "Why not? It's awesome!")

Believe it or not, I tried slipping the CD in a few other times, including this morning. John saw it by my computer, and I told him I was "getting rid of it because you don't like it." He insisted that he did like it, so I put it in while he was eating his cereal.

"I hate it," he said, milk dripping down his chin. "Get rid of it."

As for me, I found it quite grating as well. But, I'm not a kid, so I guess my opinion doesn't matter all that much.

Would you like to take Kidz Bop 10 off my hands? Tell me the name of your kids' favorite CD or artist, or your favorite kid's CD, if you have one. I'll accept entries until Sunday at midnight, EST, then I'll draw a name and post the winner Monday morning.

Babysitter No. 5: The One I Could’ve Punched

This is the last part in a series about my experiences with babysitters between 2002 and 2003. All were hired to work two four-hour mornings a week. It’s all in the past, so I don’t need any babysitter advice. But thanks, anyway!

Let’s bring this saga to an end, shall we?

The Set-up
After three failed babysitters followed by one year of babysitter bliss with Sheri, I found myself, in September 2003, again scheduling interviews and evaluating candidates.

By this time, the boys were 3 and 1½. The physical work of caring for them had increased with their age. Ben liked to roundhouse John. John liked to stick his head in the toilet, climb the book shelves or eat pennies at every opportunity.

Meanwhile, I was a tightly wound ball of anxiety. I’d taken a sizable writing contract with an educational publisher, with work to begin in September. Brian and I had hired a man to paint the house, who was in the process of teaching us why not to hire the lowest bidder. Ben was starting preschool, which should relieve stress, but I’d made the rookie parenting mistake of choosing a preschool that didn’t do pull-ups. At all. Ben’s toilet and underwear phobias peaked anew with each passing day. We’d scheduled a week at Lake Winnipesauke during what should have been Ben’s first week of school (to get a cheaper rate), and God help us, we would potty train him then.

The Interview Process
While interviewing candidates, I explained the finer points of keeping the boys alive, so there would be no surprises about my expectations. Three key elements to this lecture were:

• Do not leave them alone together. Take the one-year-old in the bathroom with you, separate them by gates, do whatever you have to do. But DO NOT LEAVE THEM ALONE TOGETHER.

• I have zero tolerance for hitting. When Ben hits his brother (or inflicts some other physical punishment), he gets a time-out.

• The boys and I just lost our beloved babysitter, Ben is starting preschool, and I am picking up more work. There will be an adjustment period, and it may not be pleasant.

"Lucky"
I hired Darlene, a short woman who looked like a teenager but had a few teens at home herself. She wore no makeup, baggy t-shirts and jeans, her long brown hair pulled back in a pony tail. She had cared full-time for triplet boys, from babyhood through to kindergarten, and had a long list of references from before that. She was a single mom to two boys, which alone inspired a kind of awe in me. Her oldest was headed to the local prestigious prep school on full scholarship, and that also left me starry-eyed.

I felt lucky that Darlene could work two four-hour shifts before our vacation, so when I came home our new sitter would be trained and ready.

Mediocrity in Action
When she showed up for work, Darlene exhibited a marked lack of energy. (See, now I sound like a babysitter archaeologist.) She kept piping up with conversation starters, about her sons, my house, anything. But I didn’t hear much out of her mouth directed at my kids. She stood there, arms folded, mouth slack, staring at them.

• Her slump-shouldered silhouette on my couch, emanating a single, monotone command: “No, Ben. No, Ben. No, Ben. No, Ben. No, ...”

• Me, in the fridge, trying to grab lunch. Both boys at my legs, pawing at me, begging for my attention. Her, standing behind me, watching, arms folded. Does she look ... disgusted? Is she ... judging me? Nah, couldn’t be. But why the hell isn’t she taking over, so I can eat my damned lunch?

• John, my 1½ year old, sobbing whenever he saw me -- very out of character for him.

• A messy diaper from Ben that told us he wasn’t feeling that great.

Midway through her second shift, I had to go to the doctor. When I came back, she chatted amiably and said the boys were “better” after I’d left. The next morning, we packed the van and headed to the lake for some much needed R&R.

The Break-up
Standing on the deck of our rental house Tuesday morning, sipping coffee as I looked out over the lake, I called my answering machine. Darlene’s voiced droned into my ear, with an eight-minute message pontificating on the various reasons why she wouldn’t be back.

To paraphrase:

“I’m calling to let you know that I won’t be back. Your older son is extremely abusive to your younger son. At the table, he hit John with his cup. Then later, when I was in the bathroom, he hit him again. You must see it [condescending chuckle]. How could you not? Your older son just does not know how to listen. I knew when I saw him with you. If he won’t listen to you, he certainly won’t listen to me. I’ve never seen a four year old not know the meaning of the word ‘no.’ Maybe you can get some kind of counseling, someone to handle problem children ...”

I don’t know what else she said. I listened to the message twice and couldn’t do it again. The rage started in my chest and reverberated through my arms and legs. I struggled to breathe, to set the phone down on the railing of the deck.

What was I going to do? Work started that Monday! But, more importantly, how dare she? How soon could I get to her house to punch her in the face?

I immediately called Sheri and told her what Darlene said. “Is that the reason you quit?” I asked, trying to sound calm. “You can tell me. Are my boys horrible?”

She said no way, Ben is a normal three year old and not at all hard to handle. She also agreed to come back and work until I found someone else, thereby cementing for all time her title as the Best Babysitter in the World. My attentions then moved to Darlene.

Brian and me, alone on a canoe in the middle of the lake, beneath a crystal blue sky and warm sun. Gentle breezes glide across the lake and over my skin, cool and refreshing as a glass of lemonade. Yet there I am, hunched over, seething with rage about Darlene’s message, composing various one-liners I will use when I get her on the phone.

After about 24 hours, I regained my composure. But I remained hell-bent on telling her off.

"Punishment is not for revenge, but to lessen crime and reform the criminal."
Back at home Sunday morning, I called and got Darlene's answering machine. I left a message asking her to call me. It occurred to me that she may never call, and that she wouldn’t listen to me even if she did.

After a few days, I decided to write her a letter. I pulled out her resume to find that she didn’t include her address on it. I knew the town, but I had no idea where she lived. I had hired a babysitter, and I had no idea where she lived.

After an exhaustive search featuring Yahoo! People and multiple calls to 411, I had to give up. I didn’t know where she lived, and I never would. I considered leaving her a long-winded voice mail, but I figured she’d just delete it without listening. I was running out of options.

Finally, I remembered. She told me her mom, to whom she was very close, owned a farm. She told me the general location of it. I went back online and – voila! – I had her mom’s address.

This is where I kind of lost it. I spent a long time writing a letter. But as I wrote, I realized the odds of her reading the whole thing were slim.

That’s why I decided to tell her off in as few words as possible. On a postcard. Mailed to her mother.

(Sigh.)

I remember sitting at my kitchen table with a black felt-tipped pen in hand, printing my message in block letters on a plain postage-paid postcard. As I wrote, I fantasized:

Her mom in her country kitchen, flipping through her mail, a look of horror crossing her face as she reads my postcard. She picks up the phone to call Darlene, reads my words to her. On the other end, Darlene’s mouth hangs open in expressionless disbelief. Her mom demands an explanation; Darlene cries, “You never believe me!”

The handwriting said: Insane person who may hunt you down and shoot you. My words said: Logical, intelligent woman who is clearly right while Darlene is an incompetent brat who knows nothing about kids.

Nestled in my computer’s “My Documents” folder, I found two word files dated 09-14-2003 and named “Uugh” and Uugh 2.” They contained the longer letter I wrote to Darlene as well as the postcard message.

Some Lines From the Letter That Didn't Get Mailed
"My son's name is Ben. You didn’t mention his name in your voice mail, so I wasn’t sure you remembered it. You said, 'If he won’t listen to you, he certainly won’t listen to me.' That’s quite a judgement considering you saw Ben in my care for 15 minutes.

"The rest of the time, I was paying YOU to take the lead with the kids and keep them occupied. You didn’t. I never saw you smile or act the least bit enthused about anything.

"I think blaming Ben and me is your own personal cop-out. That’s how you make yourself feel OK about not trying. John and Ben are a handful, and you couldn’t handle it.

"I took the time to explain that this would be tough for Ben, because of many changes to his routines. Instead of empathizing and helping us, you judged us and added another hardship to our lives."

The Postcard I Mailed
"Thank you for having the insight to see that ours was not a good match, and that you couldn’t manage my boys. Although I was home most of the time, I didn’t know Ben was being 'extremely abusive' to John, as you said in your message. It surprised me that you never told me about any hitting during your 8-hours in our home. Ben should have gone to his room – I did explain that we have a zero-tolerance policy for hitting and he needs timeouts for that. I’m disappointed that you let it get to the point of 'abusive' behavior, and that you left John alone with him when he was behaving that way!

"You say you’ve never seen such a defiant 4 year old. Ben recently turned 3; and anyone who knows abut kids knows defiance is a hallmark of that age. You saw one side of Ben in your brief stay, and you are not in a position to judge his listening skills or my parenting skills. Yes, we are both very lucky that John did not get hurt. Although I am glad that things worked out as they did, I do wish you’d done me the courtesy of speaking to me directly."

The Happy Ending
In the end, Sheri decided to stay on as our beloved babysitter for another year. By that point, I was unemployed and couldn't afford her anyway. She still babysits for us from time to time, and if I ever get some steady writing work, she'll be the first one I call.

Postscript About Kerri
A few of you asked about Kerri. I never did hear from her again, even though I called her a few times. Strangely, a year later, her name came up on my caller ID. I immediately called her back, but got her answering machine. I left a message saying "I'd love to hear from you," but she never called again.

Babysitter No. 4: The Best Babysitter in the World

The first time I was supposed to meet Sheri, I didn't.

It was August 2002. Ben and John were 27 and 8 months respectively. I had just lost my second babysitter in two months, and had launched my third search.

When Sheri called, she wanted to know why my ad kept reappearing in the newspaper. I can't even remember what I told her. My kids are hellions? The first two babysitters ran screaming from my house?

We scheduled an interview for 2:30 in the afternoon. At 2, I fell asleep on my bed with Ben, so when she came to my door, no one answered. I crossed her off my list and figured it was my loss. I ended up hiring Kerri.

When I ran my fourth ad, Sheri called again. We discussed my inability to hire a competent babysitter as well as my inability to keep an appointment. Then we agreed to meet.

To say I grilled Sheri doesn't adequately describe my demeaner this fourth time around. I grilled everyone I interviewed, because I was not, I repeat, NOT going to make another mistake. I made sure Brian was home for every interview, too, because I was not, I repeat, NOT going to take the blame for another bad babysitter episode by myself.

I told Sheri that babysitting my kids was "no walk in the park," something she recalled many months later ("I kept thinking, 'What have I gotten myself into?'"). I asked her and several of her references how reliable she was, because that's what I wanted: Reliable, reliable, reliable! I also wanted to know about her attitude, i.e., did she have one? I wanted no attitude. I wanted sane. I wanted someone to last more than two weeks.

Her references went back 10 years and were impeccable. She was a mom of two girls, a five year old and an 11 year old. Something about her seemed ... real. When I said "No TV," she looked a little put off for a moment. She wasn't overly sweet with my boys, but she seemed to know her way around them. One of her references claimed she'd worked for two years without missing a shift. They all said she played with the kids, did arts and crafts and play dough, took them for walks.

She was a professional.

When I called her later that week, I told her she seemed like someone I could work with. I told her I sensed that she would be honest with me if she had any issues, that she wouldn't walk around my house with an attitude, something I just couldn't deal with.

For some reason, she took the job anyway.

How do I sum up how great Sheri was?

• In two years, she missed work twice: once when my boys had a major stomach flu the week before she was to leave on vacation, and once when she had the stomach flu so bad her husband called an ambulance.

• She showed up for work one morning, in tears, because a close relative had died suddenly of bacterial meningitis. And (despite my protests) she worked her entire shift.

• She walked my kids to the park or took them outside whenever the weather was nice.

• She washed dishes and picked up toys.

• She took them to Chuck E. Cheese and McDonald's, the former without purchasing food, the latter without purchasing Happy Meals. Like all good nannies, she had superpowers.

• She never ate my food. Not that I would have minded, but she never took so much as a Diet Coke, despite my offers.

• She taught me how to Google a store with the words "discount" and "coupon" to find discount codes before making an online purchase.

• To this day, I still consult her before getting any new cell phone deal.

• She chit-chatted with me at the beginning and end of every shift, and she never sulked or had a bad attitude. I was right about her, she was someone who could say what was on her mind. She was mature. We became friends.

• She worked late every time I asked her to, and showed up for extra shifts every time I called her in a pinch.

• She worked when my kids had head colds -- big snotty noses -- and never batted an eyelash. ("I wash my hands a lot," she said with a smile.)

• Snow storms never prevented her from getting here. It was as if she had chains on her tires or a plow attached to her bumper.

• She often gave the boys used toys and books from her house or that she picked up at yard sales. Other days, she'd bring a special game just for the day.

• She was kind, yet stern. She didn't let my boys get away with too much, but she had fun with them.

• When we invited her to the boys' birthday parties at their request, God love her, she came.

• My boys adored her. They still do.

Like all good things, Sheri's tenure with us came to an end. It was one year later, the fall that her daughter started school. The kindergarten schedule was awkward, and would make it hard for her to work mornings, which is what I needed. She also wanted more hours.

The timing of her departure was bad for me, because I'd just taken a large contract with an educational publisher to write a series of essays. It was my biggest writing challenge yet, and I would need another babysitter.

A heavy pit of fear settled in my stomach as I dialed the local newspaper to place my ad.

I would need another babysitter.