Jenn McKee's An Adequate Mom Blog

Lily needed a new pair of mittens, so this past weekend, Joe took her to the TJ Maxx near our house.

Joe told a Maxx employee what he was looking for and was led to a clearance bin (as usual, the clothing stores are liquidating the winter stuff in the midst of the season) in the girls’ section. 

According to Joe, the employee looked through the bin and said, “I don’t see any mittens in here. Guess you’re out of luck.”

Soon thereafter, Joe came across a clearance bin in the boys’ clothing area, and sure enough, there were mittens and hats in Lily’s size there. Joe and Lily picked out a set, bought it, and came home to share the story with me.

Seriously? Unless the hats and gloves in the boys’ bin have some weird penis-hook-up attachment that is necessary in order for the items to work, this baffles me. Lily doesn’t need every article of clothing to be pink and have some kind of fairy on it.

In fact, I’d really rather prefer it if they didn’t. What is it with these tired stereotypes?

The McKee/Grekin household had a tough weekend, beginning last Thursday evening.

Joe and I had arranged for Lily to stay with her grandparents while we went to the Michigan Theater to see its Sundance USA program, featuring the John C. Reilly/Marissa Tomei movie “Cyrus”; the film’s two directors and co-star  Jonah Hill were scheduled to answer questions after the screening. (I would have been covering this for AnnArbor.com, but as my Hanukkah gift, Joe had arranged for us to go together as a date night – thank God, as it turns out.)

By coincidence, Joe’s brother’s wife had a clinic visit scheduled at U-M around this time, so she, Joe’s brother, and their two daughters (8 years old and 20 months) had arrived at Joe’s parents’ place earlier that evening, too. We thought this was great – even more people to play with Lily and make her forget her parents had gone out.

But when we returned, the eight year old, Maya, said, “Finally, you’re back!” Why the “finally”? because since about 45 minutes after we left, Lily had started throwing up, and she had done so about six times.

The guilt and dread was instant as I crouched down to take a look at my awake, quiet child as she lay on her grandmother’s lap. Poor little thing. Suddenly, things that should have been warning signs came back to me. When I’d met Joe and Lily at her grandparents’ house, Joe had shown me that she’d thrown up some of the fruit snacks she’d eaten on the car ride over, but at the time, we just thought a piece had gotten caught in her throat, or that she’d gotten a little motion sick; and when we left, she didn’t cry, which has almost never happened (we just thought that she’s so comfortable with her grandparents that she wasn’t distressed.) Plus, Joe’s mother had tried to call our cell phones, but we’d turned them off, of course. Guilt, guilt, guilty guilt guilt.

The dread came from something more personal, which is: nothing, and I mean nothing, does me in like the sound and sight of someone puking. I lose all sense and reason when confronted by this, in part, I’m sure, because to me, pretty much nothing I’ve experienced on earth is worse than that experience. Just – ugh.

Joe’s father is a doctor, thankfully, so we talked about whether or not to take Lily to the ER, even though she was exhausted and hours past her bedtime. She wasn’t showing signs of dehydration, but Joe and I decided to take her in to make sure, and see if they might offer her any relief.

So after calling U-M’s Emergency Room and learning there was little to no waiting, we packed her into the car – I sat with her in the back, hoping against hope she wouldn’t puke again – and drove there. As I held her at reception, she started gagging again, and of course, she turned away from the towel I held up to catch it. I started crying, so panicked and worried was I, and Joe instructed me where I was supposed to take her to wait. “Where?!” I said, too loudly, and he repeated his instructions and pointed. One unfortunate thing I’ve learned from parenting: I am absolutely terrible in a crisis. I so don’t want to be that person’s who’s like, “We’re all going to die!!!” but apparently, I am. Read the rest of this entry »

During the week between Christmas and New Year’s, our daycare center was closed, leaving me and Joe juggling Lily while trying to squeeze in our work responsibilities. So one morning, I took her to Jungle Java – essentially an indoor park with a cafe – when it opened at 8:30 a.m. We had the place to ourselves, which was blissful, for about 45 minutes, and Lily could climb and go down the slide to her heart’s content.

But then an onslaught – perhaps a large playgroup or a birthday party – of young kids and parents invaded, and Lily suddenly found herself physically overrun and stressed. I started to lead her away from the equipment for a few minutes, so she’d get out of the overwhelming crowd, and I offered a few food options; but she became more hysterical rather than less. (As Joe and I say in these moments, “Lily has left the building.”)

She wouldn’t let me hold her, arching her back away from me, and food and toys were of zero interest. So I laid her out on the carpeted floor of one corner and let her scream while I sat on a nearby couch. I tucked my legs underneath my body and cupped my chin in my hand and watched my daughter cry and writhe inconsolably on the floor. I felt, as I always do in this situation, like Nero playing his violin as Rome burned. But really, what else is there to do in these moments? Read the rest of this entry »

So this came up more quickly than I expected. We caught Lily, a 20 month old, in her first conscious fib today.

Lily has lately, when asked “Are you poopy?” provided an accurate response. (We were shocked to learn that she’s enthusiastically started trying to use the potty at daycare, though Joe and I were thinking this was a year or more away.)

She did this today, too, answering with a “yes.” But when we said, “Well, we should change your diaper, then,” she said, “No!” “But aren’t you poopy?”

She paused briefly, then said, “No.” Right, kid. You’re cute, but you’re not getting away with that lie.

She tried it again later in the day, and Joe said, “We are in trouble with this one. She’s already trying to pull a fast one on us.”

Indeed. And all that stuff about children being innocents? I’m beginning to wonder.

So we’ve been spoiled and blessed up to this point with a little girl who, at about 8:15 p.m. every night, rubbed her eyes as you read her a couple of books, then, when asked by Joe whether she was ready to go up to bed, would say, “Yes,” and happily climb up into his arms.

Good times.

The last couple of nights, however, we’ve dealt with a lot of resistance at bedtime. Screaming to the point of gagging, mucous covering her entire face (and roping downward ickily), sitting up, refusing to take a pacifier (and the comfort it provides in moments of fear or panic for her), and calling for “Mommy” until, giving up, calling for “Daddy.”

Ugh. Last night, because of Joe’s work-related travel, I had to put Lily to bed, which isn’t the norm. And as anyone who’s been around really little kids knows, any departure from routine is a huge blow. So I held her hand until she was asleep, even though Joe generally sings a couple of songs and leaves, even if she’s awake. Up until this point, she’s fallen asleep on her own, sometimes pushing the button on the white noise machine/aquarium fastened to the crib until she drifts off.

Tonight, because she was screaming and fighting bedtime again, I offered to let Joe off the hook and let her hold my hand again. “She’ll come to expect and demand this every night,” Joe said, and while I knew in my gut this was true, I said, “I won’t do it every night. Just tonight.” Famous last words in parenting. Read the rest of this entry »

Sorry to keep those of you who have been tuned in to my saga waiting, but thankfully, the news is good: my tests for the BRCA1 and BRCA2 mutation – which indicates a greatly increased risk for breast cancer – were negative.

Not that you’d get that this was good news from the tenor of my appointment. I was led back to an exam room at U-M’s Cancer Center pretty immediately, and as I nervously pulled my scarf and coat off, the counselor said, “Well, I have what I think is good news for you.”

Instantly, I felt the cautious beginnings of relief, thinking, “There’s no way you could make this statement if the results were positive.” But then, I remembered articles I’d read about genetic testing in the past, wherein, in one case, a woman’s results were inconclusive, revealing a mutation that doctors couldn’t identify or define. But before I could think this through – this wouldn’t really be described as “good news,” would it? – the counselor told me that my results were negative, and that my BRCA1 and BRCA1 chromosomes were fine and functioning normally.

HOORAY!!!  Um … right?  Like, time to break out the really good wine, yes?

Not based on the downbeat, muted atmosphere of the appointment. Everything was couched in, “This is good news, but we’ll still want to watch you carefully, make sure you have a doctor giving you a breast exam every six months, etc., etc.” Right. Got it. That was pretty much the plan anyway. But hey – I was just thinking. Could I celebrate and mentally kick up my heels for, like, thirty seconds? Read the rest of this entry »

It’s true. The University of Michigan Hospital – being the gigantic institution that it is – simply TELLS you when you have an appointment, so I’ve received notification that I’m to come in on Thursday to learn what my genetic test results indicate.

Though the day I provided the necessary blood sample was a bit sobering, the test has largely been out of my mind in the interim – a good thing, since worrying would influence the outcome not at all. Yet what I’ve found surprising is my readiness, my outright eagerness, to tell people that I’ve had the test and am awaiting the results. I’m not sure why this behavior has kicked in. Maybe I feel like the more times I talk about it, the more I’m absorbing the reality, and thus preparing myself mentally for either possible outcome.

In a way, I feel like whichever answer I get, I’ll reflexively think, “I knew it!” As in, “I knew the family history was too dominant for me to escape this,” or else, “I knew I was kvetching needlessly.” Inevitably, either response will be emotionally dishonest, since I have never found myself to have great (or any) powers of intuition. Read the rest of this entry »

I think it’s healthy – proof of a well-adjusted adult, honestly – when someone recognizes and makes peace with their personal weaknesses.

I used to get all bent out of shape, for instance, when I occasionally went bowling with friends, hit a few pins, and then rolled a succession of gutter balls. I’d curse and chastise myself, and get angry and grumpy. As a competitive person who’s used to figuring out how to do things well, I felt embarrassed by my pathetic performance.

But thankfully, while once teetering on the brink of another bowling funk, I asked myself, Who cares about whether or not I’m good at bowling? I only do it about once a year or so, and my friends don’t care. Plus, I’ve never had anyone teach me how to bowl. So how and why would I expect myself to do it well?

And just like that, I embraced the fact that I suck at bowling. But more recently, I’m thinking that I’ll have to do the same regarding my potential as a stay-at-home mom. Not that I’m entertaining the idea of making this move, or daydreaming about it  – far from it – but because Lily’s daycare center closes up from Christmas Eve through New Year’s Day, I’ve lately been confronted by my shortcomings in this arena. Read the rest of this entry »

Recently, because of my job at AnnArbor.com, I got an amazing opportunity: I spent an afternoon on the set of the feature film “Cedar Rapids,” which was in the last few days of filming in the area. The film stars Ed Helms, Anne Heche, John C. Reilly and Kurtwood Smith (Red from “That ’70s Show”), all of whom were involved in that day’s shoot.

Being a fan of Helms, both from “The Daily Show” and “The Office,” and Reilly, who’s just an terrific actor all-around, it was exciting to stand a few feet from them as they rehearsed, then filmed, a scene around a hotel’s indoor pool.

Normally, when a film with big-name stars comes to town (thanks to Michigan’s aggressive tax incentives, this happens often nowadays), here’s how things go: if I’m lucky, I get the name of a publicist, and often, they blow me off. But recently, I’ve been really fortunate. David Schwimmer, in town to direct “Trust,” held a press conference and let us see a couple of sets for the film; and the publicist for “Cedar Rapids” was the most helpful, friendly, and facilitating one I’ve dealt with yet.

I’d arrived at the Clarion Hotel, where the “Cedar Rapids” crew was shooting, and Jeremy, the publicist, let me watch what was happening throughout the afternoon while introducing me to a locally-hired actor; Kurtwood Smith; the costume designer (who also worked on “500 Days of Summer” and was fabulously fun to chat with); a producer, Jim Burke; and the director, Miguel Arteta.

At that point, it was nearly 5:30 p.m., and I told Jeremy that I needed to go. I’d been at the site for about four hours, and normally, I wouldn’t even have been able to stay that long, since I usually pick up Lily from daycare at around 4:30 or 5 p.m. But Joe had scheduled a pediatrician appointment (to get her second swine flu shot) late that day, so I figured I’d already stolen an extra 90 minutes from that.

But then Jeremy said, “Oh, you have to go? I was hoping to sit you down with some of the other actors.”

Oh, crap, I thought. I’d LOVE to get the chance to talk to these movie stars, and the bigger the stars, the more Internet traffic my piece would be likely to get. But it sounded like it would be a while yet before such an interview could take place, and it wasn’t a sure thing, so in the end, I told Jeremy, “I’d really, really like to, but I need to get home to my little girl.” Read the rest of this entry »

Today, before work, I stopped by the University of Michigan Hospital to have blood drawn for genetic testing – specifically, for the nefarious BRCA1 and BRCA2 mutations they’ve identified as substantially increasing a person’s risk for breast cancer.

The process itself is so mundane as to seem anti-climactic. I mean, here I am, taking a huge step toward knowledge that has the potential to change a great deal in my life, yet I just smiled at the kindly U-M parking attendant (who I’ve come to like in my few previous visits) and confirmed that I had an appointment; I took the elevator two floors up to the first floor, wondering again why the first floor isn’t the ground floor; I was led back to an exam room, by a chatty woman named Kara, where I read and signed a consent form; I met another woman who wrapped a tourniquet tight around my left upper arm and flicked the skin on the inside of my elbow for quite some time (which is typical) before I felt the quick bite of a needle and watched my dark blood flow quickly through a line and into a test tube.

And that was pretty much it. Kara explained that she would send out my blood sample later today, because she wouldn’t want it to freeze before it got picked up; and she told me that though it normally takes two weeks to get results, it might take longer just now because of the holidays. Which I expected. Read the rest of this entry »