Home of the Elio Family 

Happy Birthday to Our Katie

Connor and Ror are such cuties. Wow, that’s news, huh? No, but really, I’m thinking of one thing they’ve been doing, lately, in particular. They have assigned personalities and human traits, and even genders to their blankies. It is adorable.
Connor talks about the things Blankie wants, thinks and dreams about. He compliments Blankie on her (yes, both boys have girl blankies. Go figure) softness, her cuddliness, and selfless acts of comfort. Ror talks about his Blankie in terms of what she wants to do with her life and how she wants to change the world with her message of softness, cuddliness, and sharing. Ror is a rough-and-tumble kind of boy, so I especially love seeing him talk with and about his Blankie. He uses such a sweet voice (otherwise reserved for Reagan and when he thinks he’s taking care of me when I’m sick), saying things like, “Mommy, don’t you love my Blankie? Isn’t she sweet? She wants to share her cuddles with everyone. She wants to give kisses and cuddles to everybody. She says you’re a good girl. She’s going to be a BIG Blankie someday.”
Unfortunately, he has the not-so-safe habit of wanting to “share” Blankie with Reagan, and Blankie is sometimes found covering her face. Thanks be to God, he also has the habit of always wanting to boast about his chivalrous acts of sharing, so we always get there before she becomes upset. But it is extremely disconcerting—hasn’t this kid had more than her share of near-suffocation by now?
Riley-Katie has a blanket of her own, but Covey (not Blankie, but Covey, and woe be to the person who refers to it as Blankie) doesn’t seem to have any personality assigned to her yet. When she does, I’m thinking she might be a person with poor hygiene, because she always smells faintly of urine. GROSS. Covey doesn’t get shared, and Riley-Kate even screams, “DON’T TOUCH THIS BLANKET!” at anyone who gets too close.
Speaking of our little Lolly, she spent her morning deep in pursuit of the perfect birthday gift for Katie. This has just practically knocked me over with pride and fascination. This is the first time she’s ever seemed to understand the concept of gift-giving. And she really spent a lot of time deciding what to give! She debated among the usual gift options from a two year old (“Half eaten apple? No…Several strands of My Little Pony hair? No…A fluorescent green hair barette? Nah…”) and finally settled on a shiny penny, which she cleaned with Covey, and is now going to glue to a piece of paper. I’m sure it will be priceless to Katie.
Gipper has begun crawling. And, in true Gipper fashion, she did it IN THE BEST WAY. She’s my fourth child, and try as I might, to have the camera always at the ready, I have never caught any of my children’s first crawls on still photos or video. Until now. Gipper waited until she had a full audience. Chris and I were playing with all four kids in the playroom, and just happened to have the camera on hand AND TURNED ON, when suddenly Riley Katie said, “Look-a Reagan! Good girl, Reagan-Bacon!” And we turned, camera in hand, and watched our little Gip crawl for the first time. It was priceless. And because I have a camera that switches between video and still, I captured the moment FULLY!
Tomorrow we are off to Long Beach for a fun day of celebrating the existence of our Katie for a quarter of a century. There is a lot to celebrate—scientists have made astronomical breakthroughs in Huntington’s Disease research in recent weeks. The breakthroughs have been so astounding that we feel confident that we’ll be celebrating birthdays with Katie for many, many years to come. We’ve also recently learned that the HDSA will be honoring Katie at a fancy dinner in August, so we can also celebrate that HDSA has figured out what the Elio kids have known for their entire lives—Katie is fabulous, and with a cure on the horizon, the best is yet to come.

Say My Name

Remember back in the days when Ror would get hysterical if you called him anything but Rory Elio? Those days are gone. So far gone, as a matter of fact, that he’s gone to the opposite end of the spectrum. He DEMANDS to be called Batman. A few nights ago, he kept getting out of bed to give updates on his sleep status: “Dad? I’m still awake.” “Go back to bed.” Five minutes later, “Dad, I didn’t go to sleep yet.” Finally, Chris got frustrated and carried him to bed and said, “GO TO SLEEP.” He replied, “Call me Batman.” “Go to sleep, Batman.” Suddenly, he zonked out. It’s his new response to any request. “Rory, sit down.” “Call me Batman.” “Sit down, Batman.” Immediate compliance. Strange but true.
Connor was the official pimp of Kelly’s wedding on Saturday, and chatted up every beautiful girl in the place, from Kim Dinger to Erin Womer. His love for Kim Dinger, long since gone dormant from not seeing her for 8 months, has been renewed and rejuvenated. Kim and her date sat with Chris and Katie and the kids (I was at the bridal table) during the reception, and Connor questioned Kim about her date—“Is that your husband?” “No.” “So, you’re not married?” “No.” “You’re beautiful.” They had a very dramatic goodbye scene when Kim left. Later, one of the bridesmaids asked him to dance, and he said, “I’ve got a lot of girls who want to dance with me—Kim, Katie, Mom, Kelly…I’ll try, but I’ve got to dance with them first.” He practically tore a hole in the dance floor with his flying feet. When things really got going, the DJ handed out fluorescent cowboy hats and glow necklaces—the perfect accessories. Before the night was over, he was doing handstands and break-dancing. He danced with his godmother and remarked to me, “Wow, I’ll bet Aaron’s happy that he married her.”
Riley Kate took the prize as most-admired at the wedding (other than the bride and groom). People kept telling her how pretty she looked, and she would respond, “Yes.” She also made us proud when she attempted to prevent what she thought was a kidnapping. My good friend Vanessa’s husband, Gary, fell in love with Reagan and held her many times throughout the night, and several times, he took her out onto the dance floor to dance with Vanessa and himself. The first time he attempted this, Riley-Kate must have missed the part where Gary asked Katie if it would be okay, and took off across the reception hall screaming, “He’s got Reagan! He’s got Reagan!” She then ran out onto the dance floor, and since Gary remained oblivious to her tugging on his pants, she ran over to the bridal table to make me aware of the situation. I couldn’t have been more proud.
Reagan didn’t exactly dance the night away, but she did get to meet and greet lots of Mommy’s friends from high school and college, and was pleasant throughout what must have been a very long day for her.
We’ve returned refreshed and excited to hear all about Kelly and Aaron’s Vatican Honeymoon, and we are now focused on our next big Elio family event—closing on the house on July 28th!

He's Impossible to Live With, Now That He's a Star.

Geez, Connor is such a diva. Chris recorded a 3-second sample of him and included it in a promo for his radio show, so now Connor listens faithfully each week, for the full three hours, to hear himself for three seconds. Last week, he said to Ror, “Rory, you don’t know what it’s like, because you’ve never been ON the radio. I’m on the radio, so I’m like, a radio guy, you know? You’ll understand someday, if you’re ever on the radio.” Oh please. Connor’s new album drops on June 21, so that’s another source of pride for him. He’s been recording songs to send to Debbie, a friend of ours, who once casually suggested that he send her a tape of himself singing. It has escalated into a full scale production, replete with huge musical numbers—covers and original tracks. I’m afraid that Debbie’s going to think we’re some sort of crazy evangelists, though, because all of Connor’s original songs are variations of the theme, “We love Jesus, and He’s gonna kill the Devil.”

Riley Katie’s new favorite phrase is “I don’t want to talk about that,” used to deflect from discussions with Dad about her behavior when he’s not home. She has also apparently appointed herself Lady and Mistress of Everything, and her self-proclaimed duties include, but are not limited to, telling everyone what to do, how to dress, what to say, and how to play. The problem is that the big boys think she’s so darn cute; they tend to go along with everything she says and do her bidding at all times. Connor and Ror, on the other hand, are not so obliging, and she’s found it very frustrating that she is unable to manipulate them as she does with the big boys.

Everyone in the house agrees that Ror, at three years old, is a 24- hour comedy show. Whether he’s arguing with his sister (“Lolly, you drive me CRAZY! You’re making me CRAZY, Lolly!”) or presiding over dinner as his alter ego (“Hey, are you so glad Bruce Wayne is eating dinner with you? I’m such a hero. A hero with tools and weapons.”), he keeps us in stitches all day long. The most entertaining aspect of his personality is that he sees NO HUMOR in anything that he says, and he demands to be taken exceedingly seriously, which is, in itself, hilarious. There is nothing more comical than a child coming to dinner with a blanket tied around his shoulders, speaking in a baritone voice, saying, “I have to eat quick. I’ve got to save a baby from a fire,” and expecting us all to react with reverence and respect.

Our little Reagan-Bacon-Gipper (she’s got so many nicknames, it’s hard to keep track) has cut her first tooth, can sit briefly on her own, and, my personal favorite, MAKES KISSING NOISES to get attention! She’s sleeping through the night, but actually getting her to sleep is quite a feat these days. She’s very dedicated to her new Sibling Prevention Program, which requires her to sense the exact moment that Mom and Dad plan to have some alone time, and then begin to scream like she’s being shot. We’ve commented on many days that it is only her extraordinary cuteness that saves her from being sold to the gypsies. She continues to say “Da-da” and “Hi” (though we are quite sure she has no idea what she’s saying), while refusing to say Mama.

Last week the kids got to spend an afternoon with my brother and his wife, which has taken their save-the-world play to new heights. Uncle Ryan is usually the central figure in the dramas, and he then recruits the boys to help him interrogate bad guys and protect the President. Riley Kate is required to stay behind with Aunt Kortni to help keep the home fires burning. Because of Connor and Ror’s hero-worship of my brother, we’re able to sort of use him like Santa Claus. Most parents say, “If you don’t…Santa won’t bring any presents.” Our warning is, “Do you think Uncle Ryan recruits little boys who cry over a video game? I don’t think so!” We have a similar tactic that involves our nephew Joshua, Connor and Ror’s other idol, because he’s a “cool big boy.” If we could get Joshua and Ryan to move in, we’d be on parenting auto-pilot—“what? You don’t want to clean your room? Let’s see what Joshua and Uncle Ryan have to say about that…”

I posted new photos last night, from Tarzan, the trip to PA, and various other stuff. Click on the link at right. Next week I’ll be posting pictures of the NEW MR. and MRS. DOMANSKI!

A Theatrical Week

My kids have turned into regular patrons of the arts. Movie sets, Broadway shows, and, tomorrow, a movie premiere charity event for Rory.

On Sunday, we took the boys to see Tarzan on Broadway (one of their Christmas gifts from Katie) while Katie took the girls to the Central Park zoo, and, as fate would have it, onto the set of Spiderman 3. Katie knows people who know people, let’s just put it that way. Anyway, we knew ahead of time that all social norms for theater etiquette would be thrown out the window when we took Ror to see Tarzan—for days prior to the event, Ror began saying things like, “Even if they say, ‘Hey Rory, be quiet,’ I am still going to sing with Tarzan. I’m going to sing like this—SON OF MAN LOOK TO THE SKY, LIFT YOUR SPIRIT SET IT FREE! SOMEDAY YOU’LL WALK TALL WITH PRIDE, SON OF MAN, A MAN IN TIME YOU’LL BE!!!” So we knew that he had no plans to sit quietly. His commentary, if inappropriate, was hilarious. During the scene where the baby Tarzan, through some lovely stage magic, becomes the young boy Tarzan, Ror just started explaining it to himself and others: “Oh, I see, he growed up now. See that, Mommy? Tarzan isn’t a baby; he growed up. They made him grow up. LOOK AT THAT MONKEY! See the MONKEY?” After much shushing and cajoling, he’d just get settled down again, and then, “Oh my GOSHIOUS! Did you see the leopard? He’s the BAD GUY! That is the BAD GUY of this show! He eated that baby monkey!” Just before the end of the first act, there is a big number, clearly inserted to keep the attention of the little girls in the audience. Jane is walking through the jungle and singing about all the flowers that are blooming, and as she names each one, it comes to life. This could not have been more mind-numbingly boring to Rory, so throughout the song, he’d ask questions loudly, in an exasperated tone. “So, uh, is there gonna be a bad guy in this part or WHAT?!?” “You think that flower is gonna kick her?” “Maybe she’s gonna get stuck in that tree! Ooooh, she’s gonna get REALLY STUCK!” Connor behaved like the perfect gentleman until the artificiality of the theatrical atmosphere began to gnaw at him. Finally he turned to Chris and said loudly, “Dad, I don’t think that’s even the real Tarzan. Is it? Is that REALLY Tarzan?”
After the show, we met Katie and the girls outside the theater, whereupon Connor learned of their travels and began lamenting, “I can’t BELIEVE you went to the Spiderman movie set! I can’t believe this!” When we tried to point out that he had been seeing his first Broadway show and therefore had not exactly missed out entirely, his complaining went on unabated, so we took them back to the set. We thought it would be the perfect opportunity to explain the ins and outs of reality versus fiction, but Connor wasn’t really ready for it:
Colleen: So this is where the actors are filming the movie.
Connor: You mean, this is where Spidey was.
Colleen: I mean, this is where they made the movie.
Connor: You mean, this is where they taped Spiderman saving the people.
Colleen: Um, okay, look up there; that’s the wire that they flew him across on.
Connor: I think that’s a web that he shot out of his wrist.
Colleen: No, that’s a wire that they used to….Yeah. Yeah, I guess you’re right. It’s a web.
Tomorrow, Ror will be going on a big date night with Kate, a glittering soiree where he will be rubbing shoulders with celebs and their kids for the New York premiere of Cars, the Disney movie, to benefit the Hole in the Wall Camps Foundation. In Connor’s words, “I am so ashamed of Katie, that she is taking Rory to this and not me.” Yikes.

This morning, Riley Katie sat sweetly with me while we listened to Chris’s radio show, for about two minutes, and then she got bored and walked away. She then returned at 5 minute intervals saying, “Where did Daddy goed? He still on the radio?” over and over again. So it IS a novelty; just not enough to warrant interrupting her busy day.

Reagan Elio, Girl Genius.

So much to tell. I keep writing things down, so I remember what I want to post, but then I lose the little slips of paper. Such is the life of a scatterbrained ditz.
Well, obviously, first news first. WE ARE BUYING A HOUSE! Many followed the saga of the first house breaking my heart by being callously ripped off the market (okay, maybe it was less dramatic than that; the owners just decided not to sell), and now it seems that we will be buying almost the identical house, except for the fact that the windows on this house are maintenance free, the house has a custom deck (it is a REALLY cool deck), the living room is so fabulous that I can’t even use words to describe it because you’d have to see me gesticulating wildly and enthusiastically, AND the girls’ room is already the perfect shade of pink. So, God knew what He was doing! Of course, the owners have not legally accepted our offer yet, but we offered exactly what they were asking and it’s all written up. We should be closing on July 28th. It is definitely in move-in condition, so I am thrilled beyond words.
Connor and Ror’s take on the house-hunting process has been a little weird. No matter how many times we tell them otherwise, they believe that the house comes with all of the previous owners’ possessions. So, for instance, when we saw a house a few weeks ago, Connor commented, “Well, I like the TV in this one, but I don’t appreciate that they have pictures of other children hanging on the walls.” Ror’s opinion was more straightforward: “No sandbox? I don’t want this house.” Fortunately, the current owners of the home we’re purchasing have lots of cool “kid things” in their house, so Connor and Ror both voted in the affirmative. They’re in for a huge shock on closing day when they walk in and find it empty.
Riley Kate got off to an early start with her shenanigans yesterday when she managed to use my cell phone to call Katie at 9am. She plays with my phone pretty much every day, and always pretends to talk to Katie, so I thought nothing of it when I heard her saying, “HI, Katie! I’m putting my shoes on! I’m going to E-town!” I took the phone from her and said, “Don’t play with the phone.” No sooner had I hung up, Katie called back to let me know that she had actually been on the line. Then she earned some “thinking time” for screaming at me, “I DON’T WANT TO TALK ABOUT THIS!” when I told her that she shouldn’t be making unauthorized phone calls. Then, when we arrived in E-town and set the kids free to roam the Fun Fort, Riley Kate looked around and screamed in horror, "KATIE! We forgot her! [falling to her knees] KAAAAATIIEEEEE!"
My biggest news on the kid front is that Reagan is a genius. Seriously. Still skeptical? I thought you might be, which is why I have obtained signed affidavits from the two witnesses of the following incident:
On Saturday, Reagan was sitting in her little seat thing on the counter while I peeled potatoes. Mark was in the kitchen with me. Reagan was babbling, but the babbling soon became whining. I started talking to her. “Reagan, do you just want Mommy to pay attention to you?” No response; continued whining. “Who’s Mommy’s little Gipper? Who’s my Gipper?” Whining escalated. “Do you just want Mommy to nurse you?” Immediately she began kicking her legs and emitting a high pitched squeal while grinning from ear to ear. Mark and I looked at each other, totally amazed. Mark said, “I can’t believe I just saw that!” I tested her: “Reagan, do you want me to put you in the dishwasher?” Fussing, whining resumed. “Do you want some meatloaf?” No response. “Do you want me to nurse you?” Again, squealing, kicking, grinning. We felt like we had our own circus act!
Then yesterday morning as I was filling sippy cups for the other kids, Mark came into the kitchen and suggested we do it again. This time, Alyakim was present. I said, “Alyakim, watch this, Reagan understands what I say to her.” Alyakim, true to form, rolled his eyes.
“Reagan, do you want to go in the garbage can?” No response. “Do you want a Popsicle?” She looked away. “Do you want me to take you downstairs and nurse you?” Kicking, squealing, smiling. Alyakim was blown away and concurred that she is, indeed, our very own little prodigy.
Well, more ramblings of this obnoxious parent later. I haven’t kept up on the blog lately, but I got an influx of emails this weekend telling me that y’all enjoy the articles, so, you know, nothing like praise and flattery to motivate me once again.

Rumor Has It...

Riley Katie has been keeping the rumor mill running lately. We’ll drive by Chuck E Cheese and she’ll say, “Connor, we’re going to Chuck E. Cheese!” Connor says, “Wow! Ror, did you hear that? We’re going to Chuck E Cheese!” Or she’ll see the 197 bus go by and say, “Hey, Katie’s here! Katie’s here!” And then we’ve got half an hour of talking Rory off a ledge when she doesn’t show. It’s getting old pretty quickly.

Rory threw a huge fit the other day because he was insulted by my telling him to change into pajamas. Evidently, he took it the wrong way; I said, “Ror, get changed for bed.” He replied (after throwing himself on the floor in sobs), “I will NOT get changed! I will stay Rory Elio!”

Little Ms. Bacon is teething, so she’s up, oh, approximately… all night long. I am bleary-eyed and cranky, and if she weren’t so darn cute, I’d sell her to the gypsies. She’s rolling over on her own now and has begun to actually play with her little baby toys. She definitely recognizes her brothers, and has shown her precocious intelligence by cringing in fear every time Riley Katie comes near her.

Connor is mourning the loss of his friend Natalie, who has now been gone longer than she was actually here, but Connor is clinging to the drama with great ferocity. He wakes and says things like, “I had a lovely dream. I dreamed that Natalie never left….*sniffle*…” And then there’s the standard, “I just can’t believe they’re gone. It’s so hard to believe.” It’s hard for ME to believe that they stayed for two nights in this crazy house!

I need to sign off because…. I have a date tonight! Melina-the-beautiful-babysitter, as she is affectionately called by Connor, is coming over to watch the oldest three while Chris, Reagan and I go out for dinner. So I’m going out this morning to get my hair done. How lame am I? No need to answer.

P.S. I just ordered a shirt that says “I [heart] Reagan.” I realize they probably didn’t mean THAT Reagan, but I do!

Hi, I'm Ror, and I'm Addicted to Bottles.

I have so much to tell, but I can’t remember any of it because I am suffering from NIA—nursing-induced amnesia. This child is sucking my brain out through my breasts.

Well, the kids finally had their “kid party”, long after their actual birthdays, so they’re totally confused. Connor kept saying, “Wow. I can’t believe I’m six already. It went by so fast…” We kept telling him, “You’re still five. Same birthday, different party.” They got to play with their cousins, and both boys worship their cousin Joshua because he’s a “big boy.” It’s so useful. I’ve made the wildest claims about my nephew to bribe my sons—I’ve asserted that he does everything from wash his hair every night without a fuss (hoping the kids don’t notice that he doesn’t really HAVE hair; he has a buzz cut) to eating his vegetables before even THINKING of asking for a cookie. So, in our house, WWJD now means, “What would Joshua do?”

Easter has come and gone, and the kids are detoxing from quite a candy high. Their friend Jillian spent the weekend (she’s Katie’s goddaughter), so they all had a ball looking for eggs and comparing Easter presents. We made resurrection cookies, which turned out more like resurrection lumps of goo. I tried to give it a religious bent—“See? Goo! Because when we realize that Jesus loves us so much, it makes us feel warm and GOOEY. This goo represents how we feel inside about Jesus.” Not surprisingly, they didn’t buy it. So, tip of the day: before attempting a really special, spiritually significant holiday culinary project, do a test run first, or you could end up with Resurrection Goo.

Ror has joined boppy-holics anonymous, and he’s been sober for six days. And geez, it is ROUGH. Six days with no boppy. Let me just say, the “Joshua doesn’t use boppies” line was not cutting it at 11pm when he was screaming, “GIVE ME MY BOPPY NOW!” And in the morning, our banter goes a little something like this:
Ror: I want a boppy.
Mom: No.
R: I said I want a boppy.
M: No.
R: I’m having a boppy, so deal.
M: You’re a big boy now. You don’t need boppies.
R: Yes I do. Get me a boppy.
M: I know this is hard. Do you need a hug?
R: No, I NEED A BOPPY.
M: I’m sorry, sweetie. No boppy.
R: SHAME ON YOU!
M: I’m sorry you feel that way, Ror.
R: Where’s Daddy? He will say, “Yes, Rory-boy, have a boppy! AND a cookie!”
M: Are you on crack? No he won’t!
R: Get my Daddy.
[Enter Chris.]
R: I want a boppy.
D: You’re a big boy. You don’t need a boppy.

Every day, though, it gets a little easier. One day at a time.
Easter pictures will be posted tonight! :)

Update on the birthmark

Just got this info about Gipper's birthmark. The doc said we could have it removed, and I talked to a few friends about this, so I just wanted to update you-- it is definitely an "angel kiss" mark, so it should disappear by age two:

• "Stork bites," "angel kisses," salmon patches, and macular stains: Blotchy pink or purple flat marks that are dilated capillary veins near the surface of the skin. They're the most common birthmark, with up to 70 percent of babies having one or more. They can become more noticeable when the baby cries or when there's a change in temperature. The ones on the back of the neck, called "stork bites," usually last into adulthood. The ones on the forehead or eyelids, called "angel's kisses," usually go away by age 2.

The New Man in Her Life

Riley Kate is in love. I’m not worried, because while the new man in her life does ardently return her affection, he is already attached… And he’s over forty years older than she.
“Mommy, I like you. And Unca Boppy.”
“Time to get up! Let’s go see Unca Boppy!”
“I want to watch JoJo. With Unca Boppy.”
“Look at my [whatever she’s wearing]! Show Unca Boppy!”

Unca Boppy, or Uncle Bobby to the rest of us, lives two and a half hours away, so we can’t accommodate her newfound urgency to see him every day, but she is wearing a hole in the pictures we give her to soothe her sadness. This attachment has grown throughout her two-year life, but has sprung into full blossom due to her spending a great deal of time with Uncle Bobby at Reagan’s baptism.

I’m thinking I could give her tips. I remember my toddler years of pitting Uncle Bobby and Uncle Paul against each other to vie for my affections, so much so that they tended to compete to outdo each other in gifts and time spent with me. However, I was their only niece, a limited commodity. Riley Kate clearly sees the writing on the wall: suck up all of his time and affection before Reagan comes of age, and more urgently, before Mom and Dad have another girl with whom to share his attentions.

Connor is getting ready to begin his two new (and equally dangerous) ventures this spring and summer—according to him, “karate masters and experimenting.” He’s going to begin karate lessons soon (though he already thinks he’s got some good moves all on his own), and he’ll be joining the Montclair University summer program for gifted children, where he’ll be doing—gulp—“Chemistry for Kindergarteners.” Lord, have mercy.

Ror is fully engulfed in the “thrilling three’s”, which is positive-parenting code for sassing his parents 24/7. His new phrase is “so deal,” which is positively appalling. “Well I WANT to stay in the tub, so deal.” It wasn’t until Chris pointed out where he learned the phrase (*hanging my head in shame*) that I began taking note of my own exchanges with him. “You’re not getting a cookie, so deal.” “I already told you it was time for bed ten minutes ago, so deal.” Oops. He’d be totally obnoxious if weren’t for his more redeeming remarks—“Mom, you’re my special cutie.” “Reagan, you’re a little sweetheart.” So, he lives to sass another day.

Reagan. Ah, Reagan. It is impossible to dull the effusiveness of my praise for this kid, made more precious by the fact that Mommy almost killed her—we appreciate her even more now. Sometimes I really have to bite my tongue when the urge strikes me to wax poetic about her charms, for fear that I’ll be duct-taping Chris’s head back together after it explodes due to hearing me tell him for the zillionth time that she is the most perfect baby since the birth of Christ. But really, it didn’t help my rapturous feelings of love that now she even SMELLS holy—last weekend was her baptism, and her head still smells like chrism.
The kids are all grateful that spring has sprung; the playground has been our hangout for the past week. I’ll post some playground pics in the next few days. Meanwhile, check out the baptism pictures, courtesy of my brand-spanking new camera!

I guess this is my Manifesto?

I think I've got Alanis Morissette beat-- if you read the last paragraph of my last entry before reading this, you too can answer the question, "Isn't it ironic?" It's a sick, sad, twisted irony, but noticeable all the same.

I am sorry in advance if this hurts anyone’s feelings with regard to my new, strong opinion. I am very upset and I am just saying what I feel I need to say for the sake of others. It’s quite embarrassing for ME, so believe me when I say, I don’t enjoy telling this story and I’m sure I won’t enjoy the influx of angry emails I’ll be getting from my fellow crunchy friends. Having said that, please restrict your remarks to email form; I’m not up for phone calls or visits.

I feel like I need to give a little background to clearly illustrate the magnitude of the inconsistency of thought on my part that led to something very bad happening. Everything that I do, as a parent, I feel that I do in a thoughtful manner. I discipline my kids gently because I constantly read tons of books and empirical studies that show that corporal punishment and yelling don’t work in the long run. I don’t vaccinate my kids because I’ve read numerous reports and empirical evidence stating that kids whose parents have Crohn’s disease and other familial risks should not be vaccinated. I’m a professional who has a piece of paper that says that I know how to teach and counsel children. I choose to breastfeed my kids (however briefly for two of them) because I’ve read and researched and I feel it’s the best choice.

There’s another parenting choice that I’ve made, but on this choice, I’ve ignored every article and study I’ve read about it. I made this choice because many of my friends make this choice. I let my babies sleep in my bed. Friends have told me that babies are fine as long as the comforter is light, as long as there’s a bedrail (or in our case, a co-sleeper) on the side of the bed, and as long as you don’t use an exorbitant amount of pillows. When I have discussed this topic with people who have very strong opinions on the matter, they have told me, “A baby is actually SAFER in her parents’ bed than in a crib.” They feel that empirical studies have been skewed by the fact that formula companies are out to destroy the family bed, thus leading to the demise of breastfeeding and ultimately lining their own deep pockets.

My husband would often comment that he feared that one of us would roll onto the baby. I told him that that was bunk, because Dr. Sears said that we wouldn’t, as long as we’re not on drugs. Several times, one of us has awoken to find ourselves almost rolling onto the baby, but we figured that we never would actually roll ALL the way onto the baby--- because Dr. Sears said we wouldn’t. I read a study JUST LAST WEEK that noted that babies are safer in a co-sleeper or cradle in their parents’ room, and should not be in the bed with their parents until they are older than a year. I laughed at the study and made some comment about formula companies influencing studies. Keep in mind, I always require hard numbers and real evidence to make parenting decisions, but here, I decided that my friends must be right (not all of my friends, mind you; not even most—I can imagine a few friends reading this and thinking, “I NEVER said that!”). In the end, it was my choice and I believed what I wanted to believe, regardless of clear evidence to the contrary of my belief.

My bed’s comforter is not a heavy down comforter. It is a very light, breathable comforter. I use breathable pillows, and I don’t have many pillows on the bed. The baby is only three months old and can’t roll over, so I just move pillows away from her.

Last night, Reagan almost died. I would have to say that she was mostly dead, definitely closer to dead than alive, when I found her. I had nursed her to sleep and dozed off myself. Someone needed me upstairs and I went up, and then stopped to answer the phone before going back downstairs. I wasn’t gone long--- a comparable time to leaving the bed to check on another child, or to use the bathroom. While I was gone, Reagan inched up to near the top of the bed and wedged herself under a pillow, a very light pillow.
I found her completely blue, seemingly completely lifeless, and covered in sweat. Her eyes looked like little pinpricks and each eye stared in a different direction. When I grabbed her, she didn’t startle. She was floppy, like a doll. I started screaming and she didn’t notice. I couldn’t hear any breathing at all. I ran upstairs and got Mark and Al (Chris was on his way home from school) and we all tried to get her to breathe or look at us or make a sound while Mark called for an ambulance. She didn’t do anything. While Mark was on the phone with emergency response, we started to hear little breaths. She still was blue and floppy and her eyes were still tiny dots, but she was breathing little tiny breaths. Usually, if I make a noise during the night, she wakes up and cries. But this time, I was screaming for Jesus to help her, and screaming to my father-in-law to intercede for his granddaughter, and Reagan didn’t even wake up. Mark and Al spoke, yelled, tried to arouse her, and nothing happened. We put her on the floor and yelled and blew on her and prayed. Her heart was still beating and she was breathing a little, so I didn’t think CPR would do anything. The ambulance people arrived and gave her oxygen and I don’t even know what else. A policeman stayed with the kids while we got into the ambulance. Her arms and legs were still blue when we got to the hospital.
After lots of tests and waiting and annoying Reagan to try to perk her up, we were released in the early hours of this morning. She is absolutely fine now. The doctors said that with babies this young, it’s all or nothing—they either die, or they live to be absolutely fine; recover with no damage, no development problems, nothing. This morning, she was smiling, babbling, nursing, and just being her usual self. At the doctor’s office this afternoon, he told us that it doesn’t take long for brain death to occur; she could have been dead.

In college, I learned in one of my psych courses about something called the availability heuristic. Humans use all kinds of methods of judging the danger of a situation, called heuristics. The availability heuristic means that we may assign a lower risk to a behavior or danger than we statistically should, based on what’s available to us in the news, in our personal lives, or in stories we’ve heard. Most of us don’t know of a baby who has died in her parents’ bed, so we don’t think the danger is real. Most of us have friends who have strong opinions on parenting, who will opine for days on end about how putting a baby in his or her crib is tantamount to child abuse. So we make our judgments based on what’s available to us. I don’t like to think about what happened to Reagan last night. I can’t get the vision of her, blue and lifeless, out of my head. But I’m writing this so that all of my friends, family, and friends of my family and friends can think of Reagan. Now you know someone whose baby was almost dead because her mother carelessly left her in an adult bed, assuming that there was no danger.

If I had returned maybe a minute later, she would have been dead. I’m told that she’ll be fine now and will develop normally. But she was blue and unconscious for a very long time. Someday she might struggle in math. Or maybe she’ll have speech problems. Or maybe she’ll have poor balance, just like any kid. But now I’ll always have to think, “is this because I left her to almost suffocate to death in my bed? Is this because she laid under a pillow without oxygen, wondering if her Mommy was going to show up to save her? Is this because she spent hours looking like a floppy doll, with eyes staring into nothing?” I will always love my children, no matter what their strengths or challenges. But with Reagan, now I’ll always have to wonder if I could have done something to prevent it. So I’m telling everyone. Babies can die in adult beds. Yes, babies can die in cribs, too, but studies show that babies are safer in a co-sleeper or crib or cradle.

To anyone who feels that it would break their heart to put a baby in a cradle or co-sleeper, I need to tell you from my own terrible experience: the sad feelings of seeing a baby sleeping alone in her cradle are nothing compared to the trauma of seeing your child unconscious and blue. Sleep with the co-sleeper attached to your bed and keep a hand on the baby. Or, if it suits your fancy, stay awake half the night and let baby sleep in your arms, while you sit and watch her sleep. Cuddle your baby all day long and wear her in a sling. Rock her to sleep. Just please, be sure that when you finally put your baby down to sleep, put her in an empty cradle/crib/co-sleeper, with no pillows, blankets or teddy bears.

If you are one of my family members or friends who doesn’t have a baby, you can tell your friends or family who have babies. Tell them that you know a baby whose mother ignored the findings of reputable research reports and ignored her own instincts and her husband’s instincts because she’s a stupid sucker for peer pressure, and a beautiful baby almost died because of it.

A lot of my friends ask me for parenting advice because I have so many children, and because I treat and teach children for a living. I like to think it’s also because my children are bright and sweet. So, to all of my wonderful friends who tell me that they’ve learned something about parenting from me, I humbly ask that you also learn something from my magnificent stupidity.