Tantrums.

Mr. Grumpy

Tonight I force-fed M chocolate frosting.


Chocolate frosting, people.  I did so because it was the end of the meal, time for dessert, and M pitched a fit over, well, I don't know what over.  I offered him a cupcake, and I think he thought I said cookie, so when I showed him the cupcake, he went ballistic.  He pitches epic fits over everything.  If I don't unpeel his banana fast enough, or the right way, if the banana cracks in half while he is eating it, if I tell him not to eat the rice cake in the living room, if he can't reach the book he wants, or can't figure out how to climb on the couch, or if he can't go outside to ride the tricycle because it is wet or rainy.  Pretty much anything that thwarts his will produces an epic fit of screaming, throwing himself on the floor, kicking, smashing anything in sight, throwing things, throwing food, general violence.  You get the idea.

M the Barbarian

My husband and I are tearing our hair out over him, because he's been like this for a whole year. The change caught us off guard, because he was such a happy and contented baby.  He slept through the night very early, was happy to play with toys, happy to eat, just happy to be here.  And then he turned one and got mad.  And then E was born and he got madder.  He stopped sleeping through the night and began waking like a newborn.  He started having terrible tantrums about everything, and becoming a picky eater after eating everything.  Or refusing to eat all together.  Frankly, we just don't know what to do with him.  H gave us plenty of trouble, but it was of a slightly different variety, and there were different phases of it.  There was never the underlying rage that I get from M.  Plus, H was (and is) always well behaved in public.  M, not so much.  We keep wondering when this phase will end, because we have no previous experience to go on with this type of thing.  I shudder to think that we might be in for two more years of it.  It's not that we don't set limits (we set plenty of limits), or that we don't enforce them (I feel like I spend my days saying no or redirecting); we are just so tired of all the tantrums, and the screaming, and the general carrying on about every.darn.thing.

M's general intransigence is one of the major reasons why I let him have a pacifier whenever he wants, and why he still gets a bottle several times a day, plus at night when he is falling asleep (but with water, not milk).  Those two things are sure to calm him down in the midst of the storm.  Sometimes it just buys me five or six minutes of calm before the next tantrum.  Or enough time to go to the bathroom.  St. Theophan the Recluse wrote that we as parents have a sacred duty to teach a child to tame his passions, and I do think that is important, but honestly, I'm having a hard time understanding the implementation.

I want my children to be well-behaved, self-controlled, compassionate human beings who can participate meaningfully in the life of our family.  I want them to be able to put aside their own desires and needs (at least temporarily) for the greater good of the family.  I know that these are adult sorts of ideals, but I know that the time to shape them is now.  I know I can't expect perfection at this age, but I'd to be able to at least expect reasonable behavior some of the time.  Most of the time I feel I am dealing with a complete barbarian who not only speaks a language nearly incomprehensible to me, but his customs, culture, and ideas are foreign as well.  I don't understand how to help him assimilate.  His great sucking need for me and my husband's attention and time, to the exclusion of all the other members of the family, is difficult to deal with on many different levels.

The bright side of this whole thing is that E has gotten much easier in the last few weeks, and isn't screaming in tandem with M.  She still goes crazy several times during the day, gets up a lot at night, and remains needy in the way that babies under age one are, but she seems more content with life.  The general chaos level comes down a notch when she is content, even if M is not.  As long as we can keep her healthy, that is.  But that is another topic for another day.

I wish I could write that I have learned some big lesson, or have a nugget of wisdom to pass along, but honestly, I've gotten nothing. Nada. Zip. Zero.  Just the hope that things will improve some time soon.

Herding Cats, or Traveling with Littles

I made the (slightly insane) decision to travel to my parents' with all three kids a few weeks ago. By myself.  I should state for the record that my children are 4, almost 2, and 7 months.  And we were flying on an airplane. Oh, and I was in a boot for a stress fracture.  Good times.  I was able to get a non-stop flight, and the flight to my parents is only about 2 hours, but then there is a two hour drive from the airport to their place.  So a good day's travel, when you count in the time to get to the airport on our end, and needing to get there early for check-in, etc.  We've always flown with our kids, and taken big trips with them, so actually, this trip wasn't really so different, but I've been compiling a list of tricks and tips to flying with small children, especially solo.  So without further ado, here they are! (you're welcome).

When packing:

Pack light.  I usually pack three days worth of clothing for each child, plus an extra set of bottoms in case of accidents or diaper disaster.  I pack two sets of jammies, plus night time diapers/pullups.  I always bring just one day's worth of regular diapers, and plan to buy diapers when we arrive--it saves so much space!  (If we are going to visit family, I just order the diapers on amazon and ship ahead).  Ditto for things like formula canisters.  I bring enough for a day, and then plan to buy when I get there.  My kids have one pair of shoes per season, so they just wear those on the plane.  Thankfully the TSA guidelines have changed now and children under age 10 do not have to remove their shoes.  I usually take one medium size suitcase for all of us that I check, and then a backpack for a carry-on.  I put the boys' toys and books into H's school backpack and had him carry it, since he is big enough now to manage that.  When they were younger, I just put everything into one carry-on bag.  I also had a small canvas sack with snacks.  When we travel as a family, I take two small carry-on size roller suitcases (that we check), plus one carry-on backpack, one canvas bag for toys, the Volo stroller, the ERGO, and a plastic grocery sack for snacks.  If we are travelling with a car seat, we use a Pac Back to carry it.  Just beware that when you carry a carseat this way, you are VERY deep and have a wide turning radius.  If we have to travel with two car seats, we use the Pac Back and a handy little t-strap that attaches to any roller suitcase to turn it into a carseat stroller.  I also use one of those lightweight bags to wrap any car seats in before checking them so the seat doesn't get so dirty.  They pack incredibly small.

Pack smart.  I've never been one of those moms who travels with everything but the kitchen sink, and I don't do it when I travel either.  For the plane, I try to bring a small assortment of light books (those thin paperbacks are ideal, or those mini-board books), plus two toys each.  This past trip I brought about seven light paperbacks, four toy cars (they were in sets of two so the boys couldn't fight over them) and two squishy sponges (they are good for kids to have a tactile thing for their hands).  In the past, I've tried to get novelty items for the plane ride, but my older son has sensory issues and developmental delays, and new toys frustrate him at first.  It is better for us to take toys that are broken in a bit rather than having a frustrated child on our hands.  I also bring extra clothes in case of accidents or diaper disasters.  Pack the lightest thing possible--a sleeper for the baby (so you don't have to deal with separates and undershirts, and so forth), extra pants for the diapered toddler, extra pants and undies for the potty trained boy.

Pack food.  I don't let my kids snack at home, but I find that, with travel, having small snacky-type foods on hand can really help smooth transitions, waiting time, and other points of travel pressure.  This time I brought bananas, granola bars (the chewy ones, since they are slightly less messy), sippie cups (with water), and goldfish-type crackers.  On the way back, I substituted pretzel M&Ms and grapes as our snacks.  Try to avoid anything that needs a utensil (like yogurt) or leaves a lot of crumbs.  I also tend to avoid "little" snacks that just end up falling on the floor (like Cheerios).  We tend to book early morning flights, and so I usually plan to get breakfast at the airport, which, in addition to being a treat, has the doubly nice effect of giving the kids something to do for a while while we wait.

For the airport:

Dress your kids alike.  Preferrably in bright colors that are easy to spot in a crowd.  This past trip, I dressed both boys in red t shirts, blue jeans, and blue zip-up sweatshirts.  E was wearing a red/white outfit.  My kids all look alike anyway, but I've found that in airports (as on playgrounds), Popsicle colors are best.

Don't count on help.  But be ready to accept it if offered.  I've had flights where no one helped me (like when I was 31 weeks pregnant and traveling with H and M by myself; M was a squirmy 14 month old lap child and I had no lap).  I've had flights where the flight attendants thought it would be a good idea to keep the seat assignments that placed my husband, myself, my four month old baby, and 2.5 year old son all over the plane, and did nothing to facilitate seat changes until we made a major nuisance of ourselves.  I've also had flights where the flight attendants tripped all over themselves to help me out, offering to hold E while I used the lav, or giving me my on-flight seltzer in a cup with a lid without my asking for it.  But you never know what you are going to get.

Be a pack mule.  Whatever you carry on, you need to be prepared to carry it yourself through security and onto the plane, in addition to corraling your kids.  My general rule of thumb is to completely contain the most rowdy child (currently, this is M, the almost-two-year-old).  So my plan for security was as follows (and it worked out rather well): I put M in the ERGO on my back,* and E in the Maclaren Volo stroller.  (The Volo is, in my opinion, the best airport stroller because it is lightweight, folds with one hand, has a shoulder strap, and can hold a range of ages/sizes; just leave off the rain canopy).  H is now old enough that I can trust him to walk alongside and not wander off or take off down the concourse without me.  I put the backpack in the underbasket of the Volo (it was a tight fit, but worked), and hung the canvas bag of food from one of the handles.  H carried his own backpack on his back.  When we get on the plane, I put M in the seat, and switch the ERGO to my front and put E in there.  I gate-check the stroller.

Take the patdown.  I have had four children without drugs and breastfed three of them; I can handle a little patdown.  What I cannot handle is two children running amok while I try to corral the baby, the stroller, and the carry-ons.  I've always kept my children in the ERGO to go through security.  Sometimes they pat me down, and sometimes not.  Depends on the airport.  Since I travel with bottles, sippie cups, and E's medication, they always have to test everything, but I've never found that to be a big deal.  Keeping the rowdy child on my back makes everything much easier.  

*TMI alert.  I should add that I am completely versed in the art of using the bathroom with a child on my back, front, or both.  This is a crucial skill to learn when traveling with little ones.

Take potty breaks.  This sounds like a no-brainer, but if you have a potty trained (or training) child, it is best to take more breaks than you absolutely think you will need because it is almost guaranteed that your child will inform you that he has to go "really bad" just as the plane is taking off.  For a potty training child, even if he is accustomed to underwear, I think a pull-up is the sole of discretion in these matters, because believe me, you do not want your child to have an accident on an airplane seat.  Small children are prone to distraction and get messed up when out of routine, so even very reliably potty trained little ones can sometimes have problems when travelling.  Oh, and use the family restroom.  I can't tell you how many airports I've been in that don't have a changing table in the ladies'. (Seriously. What.are.they.thinking?)

On the plane:


Use a CARES harness.  Skip the car seat.  I've found that my older toddlers do much better on a plane in a five-point harness. The CARES harness gives you that without the bulk of a carseat.  They are FAA approved, weigh about a pound, and take up no space in your carry on.  We have two, although H is basically old enough to manage without it now.  I've always had the babies in the ERGO for flights.  The flight attendants do make you take them out for take-off and landing, but otherwise, it is okay to keep them in for the duration.

Distract, distract, distract.  We don't use media as a distraction device for our children, so for those out there who forgo the DVD player and iPad as ways to keep the children entertained, I suggest keeping the distraction level high.  I know it is exhausting and hard (especially when you are a traveller like me, who just wants to sit and read a book, or sleep on the plane), but believe me, the quieter you can keep your kids on the plane, the better the ride will be for everyone else.  People are more likely to help you out if your kids are well-behaved.  (Obviously, expectations of good behavior start at home, but that is a whole 'nother discussion).  I give out books, the small number of toys I've brought, I let them tear up the in-flight magazine, or look at the emergency landing fliers (my boys are totally fascinated with these), dole out snacks, and, yes a harsh word or two to keep them in line.  I'll admit, the flight itself is usually not that great, but it is still better than the two days of driving or week on the train that would be the alternative.

Be prepared for blow outs.  I don't know why this is, but I've noticed that babies are a little prone to diaper blow outs on airplanes.  I don't know if it is the change in air pressure or what, but be prepared.  I usually put a spare sleeper in the backpack I carry on, just in case.  A few plastic grocery sacks are usually a good idea as well, for wet or soiled garments.

Don't sweat the small stuff.  So what if your kid has to walk off the plane without pants, or a shirt, or is sitting in the stroller in just a diaper?  So what if they spend the whole flight munching on stuff you'd never give at home?  As long as your child is comfortable and reasonably quiet, don't worry about it.  I'm assuming that most of us are not traveling to Siberia in the depths of winter, so I think getting a change of clothing from the checked luggage on the other end will be perfectly adequate.

And when all else fails, just feign sleep and pretend the granola-smeared rowdy things in the seats next to you belong to someone else.

Learning to live with restlessness

I've moved more than 20 times in my lifetime.  Twelve of those moves have been in the last decade.  My husband and I have lived in the city now for five years, and that is the longest I have lived anywhere.  So it should come as no surprise that I periodically get itchy to move.  It usually happens to me at about the two year mark, but our two year mark in Philly passed with nary a twitch, so that kind of overshadowed any urges to move.

Now at the five year mark, I find myself increasingly restless.  There are things that drive me crazy about Philly, and there are things I love.  My husband and I have increasingly broached the formerly unthinkable "suburban question" as we run into the schools issue that plagues most city parents.  Do we stay in the city and take our chances on getting into one of the good charters, or pay an arm and a leg for private school (and when one starts thinking about doing this for multiple kids, it gets pretty expensive pretty fast)? Do we move out to the burbs for the good public school, but add in a train commute, less walk-ability, more isolation, etc. It seemed to go against everything we thought we wanted.  And yet.  The prospect of the suburbs was tantalizing also--a place for the boys to run around, the ability to separate them in the house, fewer stairs to navigate, easy parking, a garage...all the reasons people like suburban living, especially with small children.

Until this weekend, I honestly couldn't say that I had an answer to that question.  I felt that the schools issue was a wash, since we now have several different school options in the city with which we are comfortable.  I knew that a suburban move would mean giving up our fantastic babysitter, and while I know I could find another one, I'm attached to my current one.  It is hard to find a sitter as reliable and easy-going as she, but it would be even harder to find someone who can also handle my intense, high-needs kids with aplomb.  We would probably have to give up our absolutely fantastic pediatrician, who currently has offices three blocks away and is incredibly available after hours and by e-mail.  We would lose the lovely neighbors on our block--relationships cultivated over five years time that now mean we can knock on almost any door on our block if there is a problem and have someone willing to help out.  We have no family in the area, so these sorts of considerations are important.  The whole thing just made me feel unsettled and awful.

This weekend solidified everything in my mind.  This weekend, E's current respiratory infection took a turn for the worse and I found myself bundling a fevered, vomiting, coughing, miserable child into a cab at 2:00 a.m.  We got to CHOP in under 10 minutes, and were being evaluated in triage by 2:15.  Because she was in respiratory distress, we were treated exceedingly fast.  She ended up being admitted, and I'm writing this blog post from her hospital room.  I realized that we need to stay in the city for her.  We need to be close to her doctors, to the hospital, because I know this isn't the last time we'll find ourselves in this position.  Her pulmonologist has repeatedly mentioned five years as the time it will take for her to be able to manage her condition without hospitalization.  I need to be able to take care of my other children, and being less than ten minutes away gives both me and my husband the flexibility to do that.  He works about four blocks from the hospital and, with his bike commute, it is easy for him to rearrange things to pick up H from preschool, or sit with E at the hospital, or whatever.  My sitter can stay all day at a moment's notice.  I can go home for a few hours to shower and make arrangements, fold laundry, visit with the boys (who get a little freaked every time we have to do this), etc.  This is what is working for our family  now.

I could see us shifting to a different house on this end of town at some point, but for now, our house is working for us, and our neighborhood is a great fit.  Yes, there are times I have Rittenhouse Square envy, and yes, there are times when I wish we lived in a ranch style detached house, but then I remember all the things I love about the city, and all the reasons to stay, and I realize that this is the best thing for us.  I love running into friends and neighbors at the local Whole Foods, or on the street, and I like that I can get places without taking out the car. While I don't love all the cab fares I pay lately, I realize that it is nice to have the option.  While I sometimes think it is harder to get out with three little ones, once I am out, I can go more places with them than when I am in a suburban setting.  So after tallying the balance sheet, and considering the pros and cons, I'm finally settled.  After living so many places, I should know by now that no place is perfect.  There will always be greener grass somewhere.  It is a matter of deciding what is most important and learning to live with the rest.

We are staying in the city.  At least for the moment.

Suspended Animation

Pampers smell like hospitals.

Three of my children were born in hospitals that used Pampers in the postnatal wards, and E has been hospitalized in two other hospitals that use them in the pediatrics wards.  We use a different brand of diapers at home, so the Pampers association is fairly restricted to hospitals.  I know a lot of people would find that disquieting, but I find it strangely comforting.  I am not afraid of hospitals or doctors, or procedures.  I've grown up around them.  My dad had four major neck surgeries during my growing up years; I worked in a hospital for several years when I was younger and, at one time, considered pursuing a medical career.  I understand the lingo, and can talk the medical jargon.  Hospitals are places where you go to get help for what ails you.

It occurred to me this week, sitting at CHOP with E after her Big Procedures, smelling that Pampers smell, that our lives are on hold.  We are on hold while we deal with E's recurrent respiratory crises and try manage all the health issues she has had in her short life.  Yes, we are fortunate that her conditions are chronic rather than life-threatening, and that she will eventually get big enough to manage her condition with less drama than currently, but on the other hand, we still have a long row to hoe.  The pulmonologist thinks it may be five to ten years before she is out of the woods, so to speak.  In the grand scheme of things, that isn't such a long period of time, but when every day feels like an eternity, it seems forever.  She is falling behind developmentally, and we don't know how long it will take her to catch up.  I try not to think about it too long or I just become paralyzed with fear and trembling.  I try not to think about anything at all lately.  There are too many scary things to consider, too many big questions that lurk in the corners of my mind, and I have to be strong.  My husband needs to me to keep it together, and my children need me to be there for them.  So I can't think about any of it except to push it away to a dark corner of my mind.  Because otherwise I might start screaming and never stop.

I feel guilty because I just want everything to be normal again. I'm desperate for a good night's sleep.  I know I should be selfless, and giving without anger, but it is hard when every day is a battle of fatigue and crying and vomiting and medication schedules.  I want more time to myself, more time to feel like there is more to me than sick-baby-care.  I feel terrible for M, who is sandwiched between a high-needs older brother and sick little sister, and necessarily gets less attention.  He is acting out a lot lately, and I know it is because there just isn't enough to go around for him.  I try to spend extra time with him one-on-one, but there is only so much of me to go around.  I want to snap my fingers and have H be better instead of developmentally delayed.  He is getting better with age and therapy, but it is one more thing in our lives that makes me feel slightly nuts.

So for the moment, we are hunkered down, in bunker mode, just trying to survive this season.  There are good days and bad, good moments and bad moments, and I confess that I mostly can't see the forest for the trees, but I hope someday to be able to. I am grateful for a wonderful and flexible babysitter, who has been so available to us during this time.  I'm grateful for friends who have checked in, brought meals, offered listening ears, comforting e-mails, gave hugs, and generally helped me not to feel so isolated.   I'd like to be grateful that E's condition is chronic rather than life-threatening, but I'm not there yet.  I just want her to be better, to be healthy and normal.  Hopefully we'll get there.  And perhaps by then, I'll even be grateful for this season of illness and tests and doctor's visits.  But I'm not there yet.

Lenten is Come

I've never been one for moderation.

In almost every area of my life, I tend to go for the extreme measure.  I try extreme diets, extreme makeovers.  My first flight was to Russia.  Not somewhere close to home, but Russia, half way across the world (a country also given to extremes, come to think).  I never dated casually--I was always all in from the start.  I make big plans, and then crash spectacularly when they fail. I am often at odds with myself.

I joined the Orthodox Church, which was extreme at the time, given my upbringing.  And the Orthodox Church, it must be said, has many extreme elements--big liturgy, hard core fasting, and big time feasting.  We have big vestments, high hats for clergy, big soaring choirs, and intensely long services.  We also have small intimate services with a group of chanters and candlelight.

Great Lent is one of those times of extremis.  Much is expected of us during Lent.  We are to fast more strictly and for longer than any other time of the year.  We attend many extra services, and try to limit our social engagements during this season.  Lent requires a pretty extreme effort in order to truly enter into it and thus be prepared for the Resurrection of Christ on Pascha morning.  As a person who loves extremes, Lent is always an interesting time for me.  I tend to swing around wildly--first committing to extreme fasting (or not), and then failing, then trying to recommit (and usually failing that too).  I try to cut out the white noise, and don't usually succeed there either.  When I was single, it was easier.  Even when I was married without children, it was easier.  With three small children underfoot, one of whom has chronic health issues, it is hard to tone down the noise in my head (and in my house).  I don't feel very well myself these days, and as I sit on the eve of Great Lent, having stayed home from church for illness for the umpteenth time since E was born, I am thinking more about moderation.

I want this Lent to be something for me, mostly because I feel so utterly deflated inside.  I am all done in, as the British say.  I don't remember what normal feels like, and desperately want to recover it.  My first thoughts about what this Lent should be for me were, as usual, extreme.  I've read a few articles about total fasting in the last few days, and to not eat for several weeks seems appealing and appalling at the same time.  What if I could really kick the demon of gluttony once and for all?  What if I could make my pain go away?  I know that one day of fasting for a medical procedure was incredibly difficult; how on earth can I contemplate a week or more of such lunacy?  I still need to parent my children, and to be strong enough to carry them around.  I need to have calcium so that the stress fracture in my foot will heal properly and in good time.  How can I think of this?  I know it is extreme, and I know I can't think of this.  I need to put it out of my head and remember: moderation.  It is also tempting to throw my hands in the air and to just forget the whole thing.  I'm unwell, my food allergies are still in a fairly extreme state, I'm still fighting for a full postpartum recovery, and maybe this isn't the year to attempt anything this season.  But again, I have to remind myself: moderation.  Instead of contemplating extreme measures, which are sure to fail, given my mental and physical state right now, small measures would be a better step in the right direction.

So my resolution for this Lent?  Small measures.  Instead of making big plans, and then flaming out in a big way, I am going to take baby steps.  Maybe I'll fail, but at least with small steps, I don't have far to fall, but I  don't have far to get back up again either.  Perhaps by the time Pascha arrives this year, I can look back on these 46 days and say, I have fought the good fight, and I am winning the race, one small step at a time.  And if not, I can take small steps to pick myself back up and keep on walking.

The Siege

Much as with a battle, any time illness strikes a family, the family goes into bunker mode, and prepares for the bombs.  The house is closed to visitors, supplies are laid in for the afflicted, and the parents learn or relearn their roles in the battle against the intruder.  The days of siege are a heightened time, when everything seems to slow down or stop all together.

We've been under fire since Friday evening, when M woke up covered in vomit.  He threw up almost continually from 8 p.m. until about 1 a.m. when he fell asleep until morning.  We settled in and prepared for the bombs.  It was unlikely that anyone was going to escape unscathed, as our pediatrician informed us that the current stomach virus making the rounds lasts three days, and once the vomiting is done, the lower GI symptoms take over.  Super.  She was concerned about my five-month old daughter, who, in addition to being only five months old, has a chronic condition and is a bit sickly as a result.  She could dehydrate extremely quickly, and we needed to try and quarantine the sick.

My husband and I relearned our battle positions.  My role was to clean up and comfort the afflicted, and his role was to arm himself with a roll of papertowels and a spray bottle of diluted bleach to clean up whatever didn't make it into a receptacle.  My husband ran out to the 24 hour CVS and stocked up on pedialyte, peaches in heavy syrup (our pediatrician told us to give the syrup after vomiting as a way to boost blood sugar), chicken stock, and saltines.  In the morning, I made sure the washing machine stayed occupied, and he made sure that M stayed quarantined from the rest of the family in the morning.  By Saturday night, E was vomiting, and by Sunday, my husband was down for the count.  This morning (Monday), H threw up three times before breakfast, and so stayed home from school.  I'm still standing (at least for the moment), but expect to go down sometime in the next 24 hours.

My cooking plans for the week have flown out the window, and I'm trying to decide to whether to reschedule a planned trip to New York on Wednesday to see my allergist and EE specialist.  It was hard to coordinate with both doctors for the same day, plus arrange child care, so I'm hesitant to make the call right now while I still feel fine (exhausted, but fine).

The thing about sieges in battle is that eventually they end.  At some point battle fatigue sets in and there is a lull in the action.  Battalions retreat to a different location to regroup and renew.  The war isn't won, but there is a break in the intensity of the action.  But what happens when you can't retreat much behind the front line?

Since E's birth in late August, I have the sense that we live just beyond the front line at all times, and as such, have developed a kind of long term bunker mentality.  My elder son has some delays and health issues, and needs more help than a normal child his age, and my daughter has ongoing health problems that look unlikely to resolve until she is over a year old.  Combine that with the veritable petri dish that is preschool, and you have a recipe for disaster.  It is very wearing, all this illness.  I don't have much space in my head to think.  I'm extremely introverted (in the technical, rather than popular sense of that word), and the constant caring for sick people (and being sick myself on and off) is difficult for me.  I never have a chance to regroup and recharge.  I keep thinking that it has to get better, it can't just keep going like this, but we are five months in, and there seems to be no sign of a let-up.  It is all very discouraging for me.  I eat too much sugar and consume way too much caffeine in order to stay on my feet far longer than any sane person should be expected to, because every night is an adventure in extreme sleep deprivation and many afternoons are a scream-fest.  I expect to be interrupted at night by my daughter, but my middle son has been the source of most of our night wakings, and frankly, it is getting old.   I spend much of my babysitting hours ferrying children to various therapy and doctor's appointments, and have given up entirely on taking the bus to get my elder son from preschool every day (we take a cab instead).  I keep telling myself that I'll get back on the bus when we all get better, but it just never seems to happen.  (Especially now that I have a stress fracture in my right foot, probably from all the double baby carrying).  I'm cooking brainless meals most of the time, and resorting to things that can be put on the table in 15 minutes if possible.  Until this most recent battle, I was enjoying playing around with my daily look, but since Friday have lived in yoga pants and whatever shirts can be washed easily if vomited on.  Since I'm nursing around the clock again (after nearly weaning a week or two ago), I need easy access, and some of my retro-ish outfits aren't super nursing friendly.  I'm pretty sure even Lauren Bacall wore sweats during a household outbreak of stomach flu.

I really wanted this post to have a point, or to have some deeper meaning about being in bunker mode, but as I'm still in the midst of it, it is hard for me to have some perspective.  Perhaps once the siege is over and the battle is won (if not the war).  I write this if only to assure you that I don't in fact live up to my own standards, and that extraordinary times call for extraordinary measures.  Battle Stations!!

Wardrobe: Revisited.

Elegant Russians on the left, casual Americans on the right.
1998

One of the things that struck me immediately upon my arrival in Russia in 1998 was how nicely the women were dressed — from the high school girls on up to the babushkas, women left the house dressed up.  Or at least, more dressed up than anyone I knew back home.  When it got cold at the end of September, out came the elegant long wool swing coats, the felt berets, the Pavlovo Posad scarves. And heels, always heels—stiletto or stacked pump, it mattered not.  During snowy weather, out came fur-lined sturdy ankle boots.  

I didn’t put it together until recently that the street style of many Russian women (at least at that time) was very reminiscent of the 1940s.  I loved it.  My jeans always seemed a poor relation next to these elegantly dressed women.  I know most of them didn’t own many clothes, but the ones they did own were high quality and had a classic style to them.  Many women, even high school girls, wore skirt suits on a daily basis.  As I’ve thought recently about developing my personal style sense, I keep returning to those mental images.  I like being dressed up, and I think there is a certain amount of civility in public life that accompanies more formal dress that is lacking when everyone is wearing sweats and a t-shirt. 

The Eleanor Dashwood dress, 1997

I've always marched to the beat of my own drummer when it comes to personal style.  When I was in kindergarten, and all the other little girls were coming to school in trousers, I wanted to wear only dresses (and was quite emphatic about it, according to my mother).  I wore knee-high boots and fitted turtleneck sweaters from the 1970s long before it was even remotely fashionable, not because I'm so fashion-forward, but because I'm a bit anachronistic.  When I got a little older, I became enamoured of costumes from different eras, and even went through a brief Eleanor Dashwood phase in high school, where all I really wanted was to look like Emma Thompson in Sense and Sensibility (and even had a dress to make it work!)  We won't talk about my Braveheart phase.  Let's just say there were war braids involved and leave it at that, k?  And I'm sure there are a few college chums who remember my happy pants (jeans that I cut into flares and added crazy printed fabric in the V of the cut. When jeans were still fashionably tapered and stretch pants were in).

It should come as no surprise that I grew up to be a historian.  One of the things I've always loved about history was the living into of it.  I love to imagine myself in earlier eras and to learn about how people lived.  I've always felt a bit out of step in the post modern era, and it has always seemed to me that I would have fit better in an earlier age.  (When I'm tempted to wax nostalgic about living in, say, the Elizabethan era, I remember that I would have died a thousand times over without the modern miracle that is synthetic epinephrine and am kept basically functional through daily antihistamine use). But I digress.

I wrote a few weeks ago about the battle I have with my closet. What I really want in a wardrobe is the minimum number of items I need to be both fashionable and functional and that look well on my figure (which at the moment is a rather curvy 14-16, depending on the garment maker).  I’ve realized over the years that I struggle mightily with casual clothing—I just don’t do it well.  I end up feeling like I didn’t bother to get dressed, or that it is too fussy or something.  I’m most at home in clothing that is slightly dressed up, and as our society doesn’t dress up for much of anything anymore, it is hard to pull it off and feel good about it.  Especially when today’s dresses typically end several inches above the knee.  Not only is that a singularly unflattering length on almost everyone, it is hard to run around after little ones in a dress or skirt that length.  I get why moms complain that they can’t wear skirts with little children. 

Russian chums from university.  I think they were rehearsing a skit.
But how many 19 year old boys do you know who dress that nice every day?
And how about that classy outfit on Olga? 1998

One of my goals for this year was to really get a sense of my own style and run with it.  My closet is a mishmash of pieces bought here and there that I liked (but mostly didn’t love).  There is no stylistic cohesion—I have a few pieces that I would define as “sporty,” and the rest of it is just basic long sleeve shirts and a-line midi skirts and a few pairs of jeans.  Trouble is, I’m not really a “sporty” kind of girl.  I like dresses and heels, necklaces and earrings.  My hair is long (and my husband likes it that way), curly and generally unmanageable for current trends.  I usually end up tying it up in some unimaginative way just to get it out of my face and grabby little hands.  Shorter styles look terrible on me because my hair is so curly. 

My other goal, once I defined my style, was to refine my wardrobe into a capsule that was both functional and made me feel good about what I was wearing every day.  I wanted to be able to pull something out my closet in the morning without thinking about it too much—I’m finding that my current hodgepodge of clothing and styles require a lot of thought in the morning.  There are many lovely modern styles that I like very much, but almost everything designed post-Mary Quant is meant to be worn on a coat hanger-type frame, and that is definitely not me.  It takes a fair amount of shapewear, clever accessories and layers to make those styles modest, nursing friendly, and figure-flattering.  I’ve tried fitting into current fashion—I want to feel “cool” as much as anyone else—but I just can’t pull it off for the most part.  I’ve allowed other people’s fashion choices to dictate my own, rather than deciding if something fit my style or not.  So I’ve decided to stop trying to fit in and start dressing to fit myself.

My Russian sister, Katya.  1998

I’ve always been drawn to the WWII era fashion-wise.  I think there was an easy elegance to women’s fashion in that time period.  Fashion was frugal, and women had more limited wardrobes.  Sometimes, an excess of choice is not a good thing, especially where cheap fashion is concerned.  I also think it is easy to look at fashion of an earlier era and think it is too fussy or hard to wear every day, or whathaveyou, but in fact, many of today’s fashions have roots in the late 30s and early 40s.  The modern shirtwaist dress, the a-line midi-length skirt, the basic button down blouse, the circle skirt, and the elegant peplum all have roots in that time period.  And it is all what you are used to.  I wear tights almost every day during the winter, and I’m sure to some women, tights are an unbearable encumbrance.  I sort of feel that way about most pants—modern styles hit me at my widest point and as such are not only hugely unflattering, but also constantly falling down, so I walk around all day hitching up my jeans so as to prevent an unseemly display.  (Yoga pants are pretty comfortable, it must be said, but they’re, um, yoga pants.)

So I’ve decided to go retro.  I’m going to embrace the hourglass, release my mental image of a coat hanger as a feminine ideal, and try something new.  I’m taking the rest of this year to transition my wardrobe into something evocative of the late 1930s and early 1940s.  I admit, it will take some mental reconditioning to see myself in a circle skirt and not cringe at my hips, but I’m determined to let go of some of my image issues.  A few caveats.  I know I will not always be consistent—I have a couple of outfits that I just love and feel great in that are more 1970s than 1940s, and I intend to continue wearing them.  I’m also still on the fence about my skinny jeans—I like them, I have two pairs that fit as well as any pair of pants ever fits me, and I’m wondering if I can retrofy them.  So I’ll keep them around for a while.  My plan is to take everything out of my closet that doesn’t fit the era, put it in storage for six to nine months and see if I miss any of it.  My guess is probably not.  Mostly I’m excited to try something out and see how it goes!

My Barefoot in the Park dress, 1996

And since you’re probably dying to know what I’m aiming for as a capsule wardrobe, I’ll tell you!  I came across a few great blogs that gave a lot of great tips for styling the 1940s, including this blog, which listed actual wardrobelists from the late 1940s, as well as the typical day for a 40s housewife (I find it hilarious that she only has to nurse her baby 4 times, at 6 a.m., 10:30 a.m., 2:30 p.m. and 10:30 p.m.  Oh how lovely that would be!) I came across a fantastic blog by a British blogger, Charlotte, who wears full vintage every day.  Seriously, I want this woman's clothes.  Fabulous.  She has lots of great tips for getting started in vintage (either the real thing, reproductions, or just a general vibe of an era), how to pick what looks good on you, and what sorts of things to look for.  She is mostly a 1930s/1940s girl, and I had a ton of fun reading about her adventures in vintage fashion whilst administering late-night nebulizer treatments to two of my children. She is my new style icon. The style links on her sidebar were equally useful and now my Google Reader overfloweth with great ideas, circa 1942.

Moscow, March, 2003

Hats/Coats

3 felt hats

1 straw hat

1 winter hat

Longer black and brown leather gloves

Light jacket

Trench coat

Wool coat

Heavy winter coat

Dresses

3 winter day dresses

3 fall day dresses

3 summer day dresses

1 cocktail dress

Skirts

Pencil skirt

Circle skirt

Pleated plaid

Tea length a-line wool or garbardine skirt

Blouses

Long sleeve button down with turned up collar

Cap sleeve button down

Sweaters

2 long sleeve button down fitted cardigans

4 ¾ sleeve button down fitted cardigans

2 short sleeve button down fitted cardigans (summer weight)

2 pullovers

1 turtleneck

Trousers 

1 high waist wool trouser (ala Kate Hepburn)

1 high waist olive khaki peddle pusher

Shoes

Heeled black Oxfords

Chunky heeled Mary Janes

Black pumps

Brown pumps

Flat brown oxfords

Galoshes

Accessories

1-2 brooches

Pearl necklace (I have a nice faux strand from my grandma with earrings to match)

In the Tien Shan mountains, Krgyzstan.
For the record, my skirt was kirtled to keep it dry.

I fretted for about two seconds about whether my list was going to be practical with small children, but then I remembered two things.  1) Women have been raising children in dresses for most of history without problems, and 2) I climbed a mountain in Krygzystan up to 10,000 feet in a long skirt. (Where we were going up 100 feet in elevation at points).  I also hiked all over Scotland on my honeymoon is a VERY long skirt. It was fine. So I can do this in a dress.  I've been doing it in a dress for some time, but hadn't really committed to a total look.  

Honeymoon in Scotland.
And yes, I hiked more than 20 miles in that skirt.
Super comfortable.

 So, I'm going to give it a good go.  I've got a few wish-list items picked out from various etsy sellers, and now that I have a general sense of what gaps are in my wardrobe, I can be choosy and specific about what I purchase this year.  And hopefully by the end of it, I'll have a manageable wardrobe, rather than just a closet of clothes.