August 16, 2012

Sleepwalking

My side of the family does a whole lot of strange things, but to my knowledge, sleepwalking has never been among them.

My uncle kept goats instead of a lawnmower for decades. They munched enough to keep the kudzu under control, but damn, those things were mean.

I grew up thinking it was normal to call the remote control a magic stick (no, I am not making this up). It made for some awkward moments at friends’ houses, and I still can’t listen to that 50 Cent song without thinking of my family passing the remote around during TGIF programming. And I’m pretty sure that’s NOT what 50 has in mind.

I fall down a lot. Not because of any condition, just because I’m clumsy. At any given moment I’m sure to have bruises blooming like tattoos all over my legs and arms from falling up the stairs, down the stairs, off a stationary chair whilst sober, or tripping over a shadow that looked like the dog. I wish I were making this up. When we’re with friends and have had a drink or two, I’ll usually stumble, because that’s what I do, and it’s up to Mark to convince them. “No, really, she’s not blitzed. She’s always like that, I promise. She sprained her wrist last month when a bird was nesting in the wreath on the front door and I opened it and it flew out. She just kind of shot backwards, hit a wall, and fell down. No, really!”

My mother once took the cat to the vet, sure that he’d broken his paw, only to find that he’d stepped in chewing gum.

Oh, and yes, I have driven away from a gas pump with the pump still attached to my car.

Anyway.

NONE of those things are as bizarre as sleepwalking. A lovely little trait which my daughter appears to have inherited from my husband. It’s not uncommon on his side of the family, and as recently as six months ago, Mark found himself sleepwalking around our house.

So to their family, this is a fairly normal thing.

To me, it’s kind of like keeping vampire bats as pets.

But I digress.

We went on a family vacation to the beach a few weeks ago and had a lovely time. The house we rent has two floors, and our little family stays on the bottom floor. The floor plain is arranged so that to go upstairs you have to walk outside, up a flight of stairs, and in the front door. I believe they used to call these in-law apartments or something similar.

This is a fairly quiet beach, and our routine has been to put the kids to bed, set up a baby monitor, and go back upstairs. If they need us, we hear them and go down. (Of course, when they were younger, one of us stayed down there the whole time, but for the past two years we’ve felt comfortable with the monitor arrangement.)

And I was fine with it this year, until we were watching a movie, and my sister-in-law said, “Oh, my gosh, Angie, Anne is over there!”

Sure enough, my daughter was walking, clad only in a nightgown, through the foyer and down the hall to the kitchen. Mark and I ran to her and he scooped her up. Her eyes were open, but she was completely asleep. He took her back to bed, and I proceeded to freak out.

The scene inside my head was something like this:

She could have walked out into the street! She could have walked across it to the beach and into the ocean and drowned! She could have gotten lost. She wouldn’t have known to tell anyone where she was staying. Oh, sweet Jesus, she could have gone out the back door and down to the dock and fallen off into the canal and there was an alligator in there yesterday morning … she could have walked up the wrong stairs into the wrong house and what if she’d run into a pedophile? Or a gang of teens drunk driving a golf cart and texting? Those things can go so fast and the headlights are awful and ohmigod what is that crushing weight on my chest? How did we not hear her making any noise?

The rest of the family assured me that she was fine, that none of that did happen, and that if anyone had found her, they would have had the police right on it and figured it out. All I could think was, where did I put my Xanax and I wonder if you can tattoo a name and emergency contact number on a five year old?

I didn’t sleep at all that night, and of course ended up with a horrible migraine the next day. All I could think about were the what ifs.

The next night I was fully prepared to stay downstairs, but Mark convinced me that if we locked and deadbolted the doors, they would be fine. And that if she woke up and tried to open the door, we would at least hear the noise. We tested it out and decided it would be sufficiently noisy if she did try to unlock the door, but I had a hard time relaxing upstairs.

There were no incidents the rest of the trip, but Anne has started to sleepwalk almost every night, into our room around 10:30 or 11. Glazed, she doesn’t even say anything, she just opens the door and stands there.

I took the kids to the pediatrician today (the twins have twin sinus infections!), and made sure to talk with her about the sleepwalking. She said it happens when kids are overtired (no kidding! She’s out of bed all the time!), and to try to get her back on a regular sleep schedule, to try melatonin. And that kindergarten will help.

In the meantime, we’re supposed to be sure to set the alarm on the house every night (which we do anyway), lock all the doors (again, we already do), and be sure to let anybody she might be staying with know that she sleepwalks and to do the same. Which I’m sure my sister would have appreciated before she found her on her stair landing while she was keeping them last month. (Sorry, hon!)

Really, until she walked out of her bedroom, out the front door, up a flight of stairs, and into the main beach house, it didn’t occur to me that what she was doing was sleepwalking. I thought maybe nightmares or night terrors.

But no, she’s sleepwalking.

So tell me, please, if you have kids who sleepwalk, how do you keep them safe? What do you do at home, and what do you do when you travel?

August 7, 2012

Caffeine addicts anonymous: a 12 step program

It’s official. I’ve been off of both Diet Coke and coffee for an entire year.

This feels like an achievement right up there with giving birth.

And every time I tell someone, “Oh, I’ve given up coffee. And Diet Coke,” they gasp, “WHY?”

Every morning when I see the coffeepot sitting forlornly on the counter, I kind of wonder the same thing. Our freezer smells of coffee, and sometimes in the afternoon, I’ll open a bag of Fresh Market ground beans just to inhale the aroma of the forbidden.

When I see a can of Diet Coke, I salivate. A year later, and the beautiful sound of a can opening makes me drool like Pavlov’s dog. Even if that can contains beer, I imagine the blessed taste of dark, cool Diet Coke. We watched The Thomas Crown Affair the other day, and the scene that made me pant was not the sex scene on the stairs and in the study. It was the scene in which René Russo gets a Diet Coke from the vending machine and downs the whole thing in two gulps.

In coffee shops I now order tea, but while I’m in the blessed sphere of caffeine, I savor the coffee scent so much that I almost hyperventilate in my attempt to obtain a contact coffee-high. I’d kill for a dark, rich espresso. Or a cup of Fresh Market Christmas Blend.

So why did I give them up?

Migraines and general health. This time last year I was having an average of 23 migraines a month. That’s not a life. It’s a living hell. And while caffeine can help a migraine in the acute phase, daily caffeine consumption can cause migraines when you don’t get your fix.

So I quit.

My neurologist and I have worked on a plan that’s gotten me down to an average of a blessed 9 migraines a month. It’s heaven compared to last year. (Still not fun, but it’s all relative.) Since stopping, I’ve made a lot of other dietary changes as well, but I feel like I should mention that I’ve lost (and kept off) 20 pounds. My skin is clearer than it’s ever been. I’ve saved hundreds of dollars that I would have spent on lattés.

Quitting both coffee and Diet Coke, however, is not as simple as saying, “I quit.” I’m convinced that Diet Coke still contains some form of actual coke. It’s that addictive. And coffee? Just as bad. When I’m around an aluminum can or a coffeepot, I feel like an alcoholic in a bar.

(Sidebar: all joking aside, I am absolutely NOT likening either of these to having to deal with the horrors that are alcoholism or substance abuse. Having cut two simple substances out of my life, I have more respect now than I’ve ever had for people who have gotten sober.)

In the grand tradition of addiction breaking, I offer you my personal 12-step program for quitting both coffee and Diet Coke.

Do not go cold turkey on either drink. You are likely to feel like death and harm someone.
Enlist your spouse’s help. This is going to be hard enough to do, but will be practically impossible if your honey is brewing up giant cups of joe in the morning or lugging home soda by the case when it’s on sale. Try to do this together, at least on the coffee front. If he’s not with you, then ask that he buy his coffee on the way to work, at least until you’re over the hump.
Start by adulterating your coffee. Week by week, replace some of the regular with decaf, until you have a pot full of decaf.
Give yourself time – time, as in a few months to do this, especially if you’re a several cups per morning type of person. Your body has been reliant on this stuff for a long time.
When you hit full decaf, replace your coffee with something like Teeccino herbal coffee. It’s caffeine free, available in hazelnut, and actually tastes and smells like coffee. (You can find it at Trader Joe’s.)
During the coffee drop-down, start turning down the volume on your Diet Coke. This all depends on how many you drink in a day. I was the kind of person who grabbed one each time I walked out the door, so I began limiting myself to one per day.
After a while on the Teeccino, you may want to start adding in some herbal teas, or even some black teas.
If you add in black tea, remember that it has caffeine (though considerably less than coffee). Try to limit it to a cup or so per day, or you’ll find yourself addicted to tea instead of coffee.
Start upping your water intake, big time. Get a Camelbak or other water bottle and take it with you everywhere. You won’t believe how much water your body really wants. Soda and coffee do not hydrate. Your body is parched.
Got your water bottle? Time to ditch that last Diet Coke. Drink your last one, and don’t buy any more. You can’t drink them if they’re not in the house.
When you’re out, order water instead of soda. You’ll save a ton of money. And no, don’t drink rum and Coke. That counts. Try a vodka tonic or a martini or a beer instead.
Stand back and watch your body thank you. If you’re anything like me, your headaches will improve. You may lose weight. Your skin may look clearer than it ever has.

And just think of what you can do with all that money you’ve been spending at Starbucks.

What do you think? Will you try to kick coffee to the curb? How about Diet Coke?

July 23, 2012

Moms give kids a shot@life

We take it for granted

Like most mothers in the US, I’ll never forget the first well visit to the pediatrician. The infamous first vaccine visit. I have twins, and a veritable swarm of nurses injected their chubby little legs at the same time. Surely their howling was audible from the waiting room.

Of course, I cried, too. The nurse looked at me and said, sympathetically, “It’s always worse for Mom!”

But that was only part of it. I was also crying because I was so grateful to live in a place where obtaining these life-saving shots for my babies was so easy. So expected. So routine.

We take it for granted. While we worry about monogramming Sunday dresses and choosing the right preschool, in other parts of the world, mothers 15 miles to obtain the same life-saving vaccines we take for granted.

Vaccines are that important

What we’ve come to consider a nuisance (the mild fevers and fussiness after a vaccine appointment) pales in comparison to the alternative: measles, pneumonia, bacterial meningitis, polio, and rotavirus.

Every child deserves a shot at learning to play, joining the team, working to become MVP.

Every child deserves a shot, and a lollipop.

But worldwide, 1 in 5 children does not have access to the vaccines they need to live long enough to even learn to throw a ball.

Approximately 1.7 million children around the world die each year from a disease that could have been prevented by a vaccine.

To put it in starker terms: every 20 seconds, a child dies. A child dies because they didn’t get a shot. For measles. For polio. For pneumococcal disease. For rotavirus.

All of this is shocking, but the most surprising thing for those of us in the United States may be the prevalence of polio, a disease we largely assume to be antiquated, if not eradicated. Yet it is commonplace in Afghanistan, India, Nigeria, and Pakistan, and making increasing reappearances in Angola, Chad, and the Democratic Republic of the Congo.

What affects a child’s chances of receiving these life-saving vaccines? Research has shown that it may not be what, so much as who.

Who? Mothers.

In countries where gender equity is at a high level, where women are more educated and have access to the same types of opportunities as men, vaccines are more widely distributed.

And the more educated the mother, the more likely it is that her child will be vaccinated and have better health outcomes in general.

What would I have done if I’d had my two infants in a developing country? Knowing what I know, having the sense of enfranchisement that comes with growing up as a woman in modern day America, having been lucky enough to go to college and law school, I would have sought out vaccines.

But if I didn’t have those advantages? What advantages would I have passed along to my babies in the form of vaccines?

I honestly don’t know.

To find out more about how you can help a child have a shot at life, visit www.shotatlife.org, a campaign of the United Nations Foundation.

A donation of $20 can vaccinate a child against the four biggest vaccine preventable diseases–and save a life.

July 16, 2012

Whiskey Tango Foxtrot?

Meet “all”

You know how they say nurses have seen it all?

Well, I think customer service reps have heard it all.

And I’m pretty sure I can count myself in both groups of “all.”

With the nurses, simply because I’ve had children. And with the customer service reps, it’s because I have no military experience.

It’ll make sense in a minute.

When you call Apple for the first time about a product, they invariably ask you for the serial number. Which would be fine, except that Apple’s serial numbers are riddled with letters.

This is why they record calls “for quality control.” To laugh at them later.

My most recent conversation with an Apple rep went something like this:

“Thank you for calling Apple, my name is Chuck, what product do you need help with today?”

“My iPhone.”

“Ok, give me your Apple ID and I’ll pull up your file.”

This much I could handle.

“Now please read me your phone’s serial number.”

“OK. It’s (and this is made-up, people. Don’t go trying to register this thing anywhere) 1234, L as in … um, ‘lesbian,” 56, D as in, um … ‘drunk,” 78910 J as in, oh, hell, what–oh, yeah, J as in ‘Jesus,’” I could hear Chuck trying to repress his laughter, and it only made me more flummoxed.

“Ok, so then after J, there’s B as in um, that word for a woman that rhymes with ‘witch?’” I took it from Chuck’s gasping for air that he got it. “Then we’ve got S, as in ‘SNAFU,’ like me attempting to read you this damn thing, and F, as in ‘Fu…’ um, you know, the F word.”

“Ok, that would be F as in ‘Foxtrot?’” Chuck broke in.

“Yes,” I said. “Foxtrot. Totally would have been next on my list.”

“Uh-huh. You wanna read me the rest?”

“G as in–”

“Golf,” Chuck said.

“I was gonna say ‘Goiter,’ but ok, ‘Golf works. Then T as in–”

“Tango.”

“You’ve really got a thing for ballroom dancing, huh?”

“No, I have a cheat sheet.”

“It’s a good thing! ‘Tango’ beats the hell out of my word, which probably would have been ‘Torrid.’”

It ain’t easy being blonde

Later, after Mark got home, I told him the story. “So basically, you have to add Apple to the long list of places you can’t call again,” he said.

“It’s not a long list. I don’t do that much embarrassing stuff.”

“How about the time that you called that restaurant to recommend they drug test their employees?”

“Oh. Well, that was completely justified. I don’t remember why, but it was.”

“They inverted your French onion soup.”

“Right! What kind of idiot does that? Cheese on the bottom? Then bread, then soup? You’d have to be high.”

“Which is what you told the manager, if I recall correctly.”

“This was different. Tell me you’d know the whole alphabet in military-type terms.”

Two lawyers try to figure out the military radio system…

“Of course I would.” Mark put on his smug face.

“A–Alpha

B–Bravo

C–” he faltered.

“You see!” I smacked him on the shoulder. “Tell me you wouldn’t have said ‘cupcake.’ Oh, God, I think there was a ‘C’ in my serial number and I said ‘colon.’”

Mark raised an eyebrow.

“Moving on, D–Dog, obviously,” he said.

“Unless you wanted to use ‘drunk,’ ‘dick,’ or ‘drumstick.’ Or ‘disco-stick.’ Because Lady GaGa has totally contributed that much to our lexicon.”

“E–Easy.”

“No, it’s not! You try thinking of something like ‘esophagus’ on the spot.”

“Honey, ‘Easy.’ Like Easy Company?”

I felt very … female.

“F–Fox.”

“No! No! It’s not ‘fox!’ It’s not ‘fuck,’ either. It’s ‘foxtrot.’ So you know ‘W’ has to be ‘waltz.’”

“G–Golf.

H–umm …. Hero.

I–Island.

J–Joker.

K–Kangaroo.”

“No. No way is it ‘kangaroo.’ ‘Klingon’ would be much better.”

He ignored me. “L–Lazy.

M–Mountain.

N–Noodle.

O–Opossum.”

“That might explain a lot of accidental bombings.”

Mark continued. “P–Possum.”

“Like I was saying ….”

“Q–Q-tip.”

“You cannot be serious.”

“R–Radio.”

“Don’t you think that word’s already taken? For something kind of important?”

“S–Snake.

T–Tango.”

“This is ridiculous. Are people supposed to listen to our radio traffic and think the guys are all hanging out dancing the foxtrot and the tango?”

“U–Uniform.

V–Valley.

W–Whiskey.”

“No, wait a minute. If we know we have tango and foxtrot, why isn’t ‘W’ for ‘waltz?’ What happened to consistency?”

“I don’t know, but ‘W’ is definitely ‘whiskey.’”

“X–x-ray.

Y–Yankee.

Z–Zulu.”

“Do you want to look it up and see how wrong we were, or make up our own more ridiculous version to use with customer service people?”

Mark raised an eyebrow again.

“Ok, you look it up, and I’ll make one up.”

Marital compromise at its finest, folks.