Crib Sleeping

By: Megan Dobkin

“What do we do now?”

It is 11pm which, to my sleep-deprived husband and me, feels more like 3:00 in the morning.  In between us lies a 3-week-old Jake, swaddled in the Snuggle Nest – a co-sleeping aid that provides a walled incline for the baby.  Jake has been restless all night, but now he is outright crying.

He just ate.  He has a fresh diaper.  He had some gripe water, so we’re pretty sure it isn’t gas.

“Let’s try the co-sleeper.”

As soon as we settled Jake into the co-sleeper next to the bed, he settled down and fell into a deep sleep.

It’s been like this for awhile.  He’s only liked the co-sleeper when it has all four sides up, i.e, standing alone, NOT when it was actually attached to the bed.

It took us another week or so before we finally admitted that Jake was, in fact, more comfortable having his OWN SPACE.

We were not prepared for this.  Being the over-researcher that I am, I had spent the latter part of my pregnancy reading up on a grand spectrum of early childcare books.  My husband and I were moved by the concepts behind Attachment Parenting, and I read them all: The Continuum Concept, Jay Gordon, William Sears.  We were very taken with the concept of being the baby’s consistent pillars for as long as he might need.  Not in that RUNAWAY BUNNY way, where the parent keeps following the kid who just wants to explore.  But in a way that would help build a sense of security, allowing him to feel free in the outside world.  “We are here.  We are in no rush to stop being the ones on whom you depend.  You decide when you are ready to explore.  We will be here if you need us.”

I breastfed for as long as I could.  I wore Jake in a sling for the first year of his life.  I gave him infant massages at night before bed.

But that little bugger just did not need us while he slept.  Perhaps a different baby would have.

So, in this way, I am really not Pro-Co-Sleeping.

Nor, am I Pro-Crib-Sleeping.

I am, however, PRO-LISTENING.

It was the best and most fundamental lesson I have learned so far as a parent.  Two and a half years later, the need to listen and be flexible still comes into play at least once a day.  Like when I have decided that Jake and I are going to have a really fun afternoon at the museum, but he really is just in the mood to stay home.  Or when I don’t think he has eaten enough, but he tells me “all done.” And like when I try to put him in a nice button-down shirt for our holiday card, but he has other fashion plans.

They all come into this world as different beings with different needs.  All we can do is better understand our own interests and philosophies, and then listen really closely for theirs.

PRO-LISTENING.

All around.

vs.

Co-Sleeping

By: Rebecca Martin

We have two cribs in the garage. They are wooden, perfectly set up, gathering dust and webs. One of them was a gift; the other we bought at Babies R’ Us when I was overcome by a feverish nesting urge, unaware at the time that I was four hours away from early labor. We didn’t plan on it, but two babies (still in the bed) and two cribs (still in the garage) later, we are a fully committed, co-sleeping family.

It just felt so natural to have Noah, our first, cuddled between us in our bed. Someone told me it’s best for babies to hear the heartbeats of their parents through the night. Maybe they fall asleep to the rhythm, or maybe it’s like a cheering section saying “Yay! You were born! Keep going! See how great it is to have a heart?!”

We bought one of those “snuggle nests” so he would be safe between us, and read all the articles on how to do it right. Everyone was so worried about rolling over on baby, but that just didn’t seem possible, with the way our sleep lightened (for better or worse) to awake at our baby’s smallest need or movement. And once I discovered the wonder of night nursing –where I could just roll over and we could all stay in a semi-dreamy state of sleep –I didn’t want to move him to a crib where I would have to actually wake up to get him. I felt so overwhelmed at this new person being here with me permanently; to sleep with him helped me tune in to his needs and helped me to feel more confident about reading his cues. It deepened our bond.

Somehow I thought we would still use that shiny crib and get back on the path with most of our friends, but instead it became the best unfolded-laundry-holder ever. And Noah stayed in the bed.

We loved waking up to his smile. We loved being able to give in to the unstoppable early-parenting urge to check his breathing. We got to make a nest for him and it felt right.

Living in a one-bedroom house also supported this.  A kids’ room was not an option. But what started out as a space adaptation became a choice. I think we’re like animals -  we like to sleep in packs, we like to feel each others’ warmth. Maybe kids don’t really want to be down the hall. All those hours alone in a room, on some level, must register in a negative way. Whereas all those hours with the people you love, hearing their breathing, knowing they are right there, must register in a positive way.  It’s especially nice if the parent is away most of the day working; they get their secret sleepy baby hours. My husband surprised me -he ended up loving it as much as me.

Now Noah is four, and his little brother is 22 months old. We put the largest memory foam mattress we could find on the floor. We all pile on it, like a big raft in the middle of the room. My husband and I stay up later than they do for a little grown-up time and when we go to find our place, it’s amazing that two small boys can take over a whole bed. We did have a co-sleeper crib when our second baby was brand-new, mostly to protect him from rollovers from the big brother. But once it seemed like time, we were all back in it together.

This makes traveling much easier. Wherever we go, as long as there is a bed, no routine is broken. We go camping and throw a mattress in one little tent – just like home! So far, they seem to be more adaptable than separate-sleeping kids. And they don’t wake up as early. I feel secret guilty pleasure when people complain of early wake-ups from kids who maybe just want that extra cuddle.

As much as I love it, I do feel a little jealous when friends talk about putting their babies to bed, closing the door, and going to their own rooms. There are probably less kicks in the night, and it probably teaches kids to be independent sooner. But then, I think our culture rushes everything anyway, so slowing things down probably might bring it closer to balance.

If someone had told me when I was buying that crib that I would be like this, I would have laughed. But now I treasure the feeling of safety, the closeness of the family, and the fact that I gave into something that, even though I didn’t plan it, felt completely natural. I know the days of co-sleeping are numbered, like everything in this parenting journey. So for now, I am looking forward to another cuddly night with lots of warm toes in the bed.

Artcile from The New York Times

For over a decade, the issue of same-sex marriage has been a flashpoint political issue in the United States, setting off waves of competing legislation and ballot initiatives attempting either to legalize or ban the practice. Rifts have also opened among religious groups over the decision to recognize same-sex marriage or condemn it.

Proponents of same-sex marriage say that the institution is a unique expression of love and commitment and that calling the unions of same-sex couples anything else is a form of second-class citizenship; they also point out that many legal rights are tied to marriage. Those opposed to same-sex marriage agree that marriage is a fundamental bond with ancient roots. But they draw the opposite conclusion, saying that allowing same-sex couples to marry would undermine the institution of marriage itself.

Gay rights supporters felt the tide was turning in their favor for much of 2009. With President Barack Obama they felt they had an ally in the White House, and the movement was making remarkable progress in state legislatures, with lawmakers in Maine, Vermont and New Hampshire approving bills allowing gay marriage in 2009.

More on this article go to New York Times

By: Brandy Black

My daughter has taken to only wearing tank tops.  Every morning I try to slip a T-shirt or god forbid a long sleeve past her and she screams “Tank Top Mama, NEED the tank top, WANT the tank top!”  I can’t figure it out, but even through our rainy trip to San Francisco, she insisted on being dressed for the summer.  So I’m doing laundry like crazy and searching the stores for summer dresses and tops.  I have even tried buying very thin comfy shirts, which I prefer because I too run hot, but Sophia won’t have it.  I just know in a month when we are fully stocked for her new style and the sun is starting to peek out again, she’s going to want mittens and scarves.  Oh the plight of a toddler-bearing mama.

A week ago, in response to a question in Florida, President Obama declared his belief that LGBT Equality is founded in the Constitution.
The President then went on to acknowledge that Social Security short-changes America’s same-sex couples:

“…the notion that someone who’s working really hard for 30 years, can’t take their death benefits and transfer them to the person they love the most in the world, and who has supported them all their lives, that just doesn’t seem fair, it doesn’t seem right…”

Here is a video put together by Rock For Equality on Portraits of Discrimination

By: Ann Brown

I have issues with Giada. You know, Food Network Giada, the one whose recipes star her cleavage? The cooking show with the soft core porn lighting? The one where you can almost hear the bwamchickabombom soundtrack as she sinks her enormous teeth into the eight million calorie deep fried treat that she is surely going to spit out (perhaps into her cleavage) as soon as the camera pans away from her.

My issues with her, however, do not stem from my knowing for certain (because I really, really think so) that she cuts out the necklines of her shirts. I mean, where the hell does she shop? No, my issue is that the barre has now been raised to the point where every meal is supposed to be delicious. And we believe that shit, we believe that we are deserving of a stellar dinner. And our kids believe it, too. And then we complain that our kids are picky and we are short order cooks for them.

Don’t get me wrong. I am not an “eat to live” person. Food is always on the top, say, three, things on my mind. I like to say that I sleep like a baby; that is, I wake up every two hours and cry until I get something to eat. So, no, it’s not that I don’t enjoy good food; it’s that we’ve bought into the image, once again, we’ve upped the ante. And a once perfectly acceptable dinner of dry-to-petrified chicken, nuked broccoli and leftover salad (with the dressing on it) is no longer perfectly acceptable.

Yes, I know that Giada is not to blame. I am the one – not Giada-  who asked my young children, “do you want pasta with basil pesto, sun dried tomato pesto or with alfredo sauce” as if giving them noodles with a jar of ragu was tantamount to serving pasta with my own warm urine on it. I’m the one who bought into the food lifestyle. Of course, Giada is not to blame.

Because it’s really that insufferably serene Barefoot Contessa that makes the rest of us feel like losers.

Still,I do not have the Contessa in my cross-hairs despite her extremely aggravating penchant for having it all- including a husband who is gone during the week, who leaves her blissfully alone with her six-burner Viking stove and her gay friends, a husband who comes home each Friday night only to be dispatched to bumble about the grocery store (and, btw, what kind of simpleton is sent to the market for a lemon and comes home with a grapefruit? I think gentle Jeffrey has wrapped his Beemer around a few too many telephone poles rushing home to the perfect baked chicken) or hanging at home bumbling about the kitchen, stealing tastes of a meal reminiscent of that weekend in Paris they shared (you know, the weekend she sent him to the patisserie for  an eclair and he came back with a Pygmy goat? Oh, dear, simple, stinking rich, adorable Jeffrey).

No, I have no issues with La Contessa. At least she keeps her shirts buttoned all the way to the top.

Ann Brown

To Doula

By: Heidi Biddle

I have been blessed with three babies.  Well, I say ”babies”, but they are nearly 17, 14, and 9.  I remember each one of their births like it was yesterday. Without saying I was naive, when it came to the births of my children, I thought I had it all planned out.

For my first birth, I wrote out a birth plan and looked forward to going through this with my support people.  I assumed the doctor would not only explain everything to us, but would also assist me through my whole labor and birth, all the while talking to me in a soothing voice, and urging me to go on. I thought the nurses would be there to support me and help me through this wonderful time. I knew that I wanted my husband, my sister, and my mom in the room when I had my baby-they would help me, too.  My birth plan was simple: “no drugs unless I am in pain and ask for some.” I prepared myself and my husband for what was surely going to be the most beautiful, sweet, peaceful, and incredible birth ever.

Then, I went into labor. I had an epidural at 3 cm. (as early as you can), but it didn’t work.  I felt it all, including the vacuum that was used to get him out.  My beautiful, perfect, cone-headed baby.

With my second, I got to the hospital at 8 cm. Then she just fell out! There was no doctor, no nurse – just my husband (who was freaking out and saying “is this supposed to be happening?”). Papers flying, husband holding baby in with his hand, my mom looking for help, and my sister -my poor sister -her jaw was on the floor and she looked as if she’d seen a ghost. Where were my support people?

By my third time around, I found a new doctor. I explained that I was a natural at this, and I knew how I wanted it. I wanted no drugs. My babies came fast!  My husband was going to catch this one, he was going to cut the cord, and I would have a mirror so I could watch my baby be born. I wanted my precious baby placed immediately on my chest – skin to skin – and I wanted to breastfeed right away. Period. I reminded my doctor of my plan at every single visit; this is how it was going to be. I explained that my husband was my coach, and we wanted to labor alone. It was going to be beautiful (in hindsight, I was my own doula!).  I wanted NO intervention.

At 43 weeks pregnant (yes, that’s right, world’s longest pregnancy), I had to be induced. The doctor was afraid my baby would be 10 pounds. I cried all the way to the hospital…I didn’t want to be induced! I knew my baby would come when he was ready. I didn’t understand why they wanted me to get him out if he wasn’t ready. So what if he was 10 pounds?  I was sure my body could do it! I sulked all the way through the pitocin drip. I labored away with no pain meds. I was offered drugs frequently, and turned them down every time.  I owed this to my baby. I was 9 cm. dilated and ready to push when my doctor came in and recommended an epidural; he thought it would slow things down a bit and give me some energy for pushing (it turned out he was delivering twins right next door, and they were coming fast). I rolled over to my side, ready to do what he asked, because he recommended it.  Before they had time to administer anything, out came my baby’s head!  The doctor ran back into the room, caught my baby, cut the cord himself, handed him to a nurse to clean him up, dumped my placenta, then left to deliver the twins next door.

My husband missed the whole thing. My husband – who couldn’t wait to catch our baby -missed the whole thing. I missed the whole thing. There was no mirror, no control, no husband cutting the cord, no respect, no birth plan, no empathy, no baby placed skin-to-skin on my chest, and most of all, no 10 pound baby.  He was 7 lbs, 6 oz.

I can’t help but wonder how different these births -especially my third -would have been if I’d had someone knowledgeable in my corner who understood both the medical lingo and the process of labor and birth, someone who knew exactly what I wanted and would help me to achieve that.  Someone not emotionally tied to me, who would have stood up for me -my very own advocate. I vowed immediately after my third and final birth that I was going to do something about that.

When I meet with clients, they are usually only entertaining the thought of a doula.  They mostly want to know why they should hire another person to assist them when they already have a support person – whether it’s a spouse, a friend or a partner.  Furthermore, most couples believe that the doctor (whom they have grown extremely close to), midwife, and nurses will be in the room, by their side, supporting them through their entire labor and explaining everything as it is going on.  Experience has shown me that this is not always the case.  Next to the partner, a doula is the only person looking out for the mother’s best interests 100% of the time.  Whether it is a precipitous (very fast ) labor, or a 70-hour labor, a doula is there the entire time to help the mother achieve the birth experience she wants to have. While the nurses (and I have seen many good ones) do offer support, their primary job is to chart, document, and monitor both mom and baby at all times.

I help my clients come up with a birthing plan.  The parents outline their perfect birth and together we address the “what-ifs” (”should you end up having a C-section, let’s make the environment as pleasant as we can”).  Most people don’t think about these things on their own.  A doula also helps to remind the parents of the birth plan. When the unforeseen happens, or if chaos arises, the doula is an advocate -the ONLY advocate –for the parents. At a time when women are the most vulnerable, usually in pain, and the oxytocin (often called the ”trust drug”) levels are high, a woman will typically do whatEVER the healthcare providers say is best, which can often veer away (sometimes unnecessarily) from the original plan.

I explain to the partners that one of the many benefits of having a doula is it allows them to do their job –to love and support the mother.  Partners (men in particular) do not realize how hard it is to see the mother in pain;  they want to fix it, take the pain away. With a doula, the partner can focus solely on the mother and be reassured that everything else is being handled.  I remind the support person to eat, drink, and take care of themselves, which is the only way they will be able to take care of a laboring mom.

My most important job as a doula is to remind parents that this is their birth journey. You will never get a do-over on the birth of your baby. Doulas do not speak for the parents – doulas explain the parents’ options as well as the actions of the doctors, midwives, or nurses. We remind the parents to ask all the questions….what are the benefits? What are the risks?  My favorite question to remind my clients to ask: “What happens if I just do nothing?”

Those who know me know that I am very passionate about what I do.  I feel very strongly about women and the healthy function of our bodies.  We were meant to birth.  And I have no regrets about the way I birthed my babies.  The only regret I have is not educating myself about pregnancy, labor, and childbirth. If I could have ten more babies, I would, and I would have a doula every time.   Now, as a doula myself, I am the liaison between parents and their perfect birth. You dream the dream, and I help make it come true.
More on Heidi Biddle at Your Birth Journey

OR

Not To Doula

By: Ernessa Carter

Here’s the thing about being a woman who knows she wants an epidural, taking pre-natal yoga classes in Silver Lake: You’re the only one.

So here’s me having to listen to a zen-ruining running monologue from every single prenatal yoga teacher about how certain exercises could help you through the worst of the birthing pain and prevent epidurals. And how yoga helped you to really BE in the experience of giving birth, even though I saw no reason at all to really BE one with the pain, just because that’s how my ancestors did it. At a few points I wanted to ask the prenatal yoga instructor to just shut up, so that I could get my stretch on in peace, but that wouldn’t have been very yogi of me, would it?

After class was even worse. I wanted to make friends. I didn’t know any other moms in Silver Lake, and this seemed like a great place to strike up friendships with like-minded people — only they weren’t like-minded. In fact, it was hard for me to join the conversation when it so often went like this:

“How are your doula interviews going?”

“Great! I found this really wonderful woman named so-and-so, but she doesn’t know if she’s going to have my due date open yet.”

“Oh, I’ve heard great stuff about so-and-so. Doesn’t she use a tub?”

“Yes, and she also chants out these primal rhythms…”

“Oh, she sounds nice. Mine does massage, but she doesn’t chant.”

Okay, obviously I can’t join this conversation, because just the idea of a stranger in the room giving me gentle encouragement while I’m in tons of pain makes me want to rip her head off.

Also, deep down inside, I’m just too nice. I would feel bad about snapping at someone who wasn’t married or related to me. Even if they were getting paid to get snapped at.

But most of all, I didn’t want a doula because there was absolutely nothing a doula could do that my husband couldn’t. Also, my husband wouldn’t insist that I do breathing exercises when I didn’t want to. My husband would rub my back just like a doula would — even better: he wouldn’t rub my back, because I don’t like to be touched when I’m in pain. See, he already knows that, whereas a doula doesn’t. No matter how nice she is, she would try to help me when I didn’t want to be helped and push me when I didn’t want to be pushed. And quite frankly, that’s my husband’s job. He already sorta said he would do everything a doula would in his vows, and I wanted him to make good on his promise.

He did everything right. He retreated when he was supposed to and though we had attended birthing classes, unlike my first charge nurse, he didn’t try to force me to do the stupid breathing exercises, when I told him I didn’t want to.  He didn’t question my need to blog through my contractions, but he did forcibly take the iPhone away after my epidural, so that I could get some sleep. He didn’t sleep, though. And he was by my side as soon as I woke up. He held my hand and changed the TV station and fed me ice chips and promised me Fig Newtons as soon as I was done with the labor. “You’re doing so well, honey” he answered, when I told him “I can’t! I can’t!” And then he cried when our daughter Betty finally came bursting into this world. Now would a doula have done that?

I watched him over at the scale, giving Betty soothing words as she screamed about getting weighed. And though I did most of the heavy lifting, I knew he was just as happy as I to finally meet her. That’s when I realized something for the first time in nine months: It was his pregnancy, too. And his support during my labor had created a bond that would never be undone. Be it Death or Divorce or Disaster, we would always have these hours holding us together, a forever memory. And I’m so happy I didn’t let a doula cheat me out of that.

Ernessa T. Carter is the author of the novel, 32 CANDLES, which will be released by HarperCollins/Amistad on June 22, 2010. Pre-order your copy on Amazon here.

More on Ernessa Carter at Fierce and Nerdy

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Email us your birth story and we may post it the week of Mother’s Day

momsday@thenextfamily.com

By: Ann Brown

Dr. Strangemom

I need to keep some things to myself. I am beginning to notice the looks people give each other when I start spouting off.  For instance, I have two topics that never go over well at dinner parties.

One, is that sometimes when I am in the same room as a man, I fantasize about kicking his ass. Is that  twisted? Hear me out. I don’t wantto actually kick his ass; in fact, I know that unless he is dead drunk and tied up (not that I’d ever fantasize about that) I probably couldn’t do it anyway. I honestly don’t want to hurt anyone. I won’t even wear sheepskin. I just wonder ifI am capable of doing it, you know?

This post, however, is not about that little quirk. This is about the other one:

I believe that- given enough time and the right teacher – I can learn to do anything. Yes, anything. Well, no, not anything – not shit I am just physically incapable of doing, like pole vaulting or reconciling my checkbook. But pretty much anything else. Like……learning to do heart surgery……or speaking backwards….or building a rocket…drafting a Senate bill….I believe that is within my grasp. Key to my position, keep in mind, is the caveat of infinite time.

Probably half of what I can’t do is a result of my lack of interest. I possess an embarrassing dearth of curiosity. I think it stems from my fear that if I use up brain cells for shit I don’t care about it, I will be left unprepared when, say, my life depends on learning a secret code word or when I am called upon suddenly to name the Supreme Court Justices or when I have to remember which kid is deathly allergic to bee stings. A decent amount of brain space has to be kept available for that kind of information.

It was hard to be a mom of two curious children who wanted to, I don’t know, learn things. The first years of motherhood filled up my brain with dinosaur songs and I am here to tell you that if you think algebra is useless in later life, try finding a reason to remember this:

My name is Stegosaurus, I’m a funny looking dinosaur,

And on my back are many tiny spikes and on my tail there’s more

My front two legs are very short, my back two legs are long

My body’s big, my head is very small, I’m put together wrong.

By the time my son’s dinosaur phase was over I was alarmingly low on brain space.

The most effort I put into supporting my children’s intellectual curiosity was to buy those laminated place mats with Flags of the World and The Solar System on them. And even then, when they got funky, I threw them out and bought earth tone hemp ones from The Pottery Barn.

Here’s what the books don’t say and what friends won’t tell you when you are pregnant: it is really boring to raise smart kids. They want to talk about the shit they learn. They want you to listen to them. And you have to mute the TV and pretend you care that the rings of Saturn are made of ice and dust. I remember when my kid was about five or six years old, he came home all whipped up about a new dinosaur that had recently been discovered. Or renamed. Or exhumed or quilted or something. As he recounted with wide-eyed excitement the plethora of details of the new dinosaur, I tried – really tried – to pay attention to what he was saying so I would have something to add or ask at the end of the lecture. My head started to explode and finally, I murmured, “excuse me, sweetie” to my precious son, opened the freezer door, stuck my head into a bag of frozen peas and mouthed the words, “shut up, shut up, shut up, shut the fuck up!” until I was able to turn back to him, smiling.

I have always felt bad about doing that. Until a few days ago when I was telling my son all about my new blog and I saw the look in his eyes. The shut up shut up shut up shut the fuck up look. And I knew that, more than twenty years later, I was boring him to death.

I feel better.

Ann Brown

By: Allison Norris

All dolled up and ready to go, I met my “fill in” babysitter at the door. She had never watched Bay before, so I was nervous. She was going to be the one putting him to bed and I was just sure that he was going to scream the entire time… not that he ever has before, but you just start to imagine everything horrible that could go wrong.

She read all of my 3 pages of written instructions and assured me that they would be fine. Believing her, I decided that we could leave.

Baby Daddy (BD) bought us tickets to one of my favorite shows, Vicci Martinez, at the Triple Door downtown. I let him open my station wagon car door for me and even let him drive. We pulled up to the valet and BD let me know that he’d rather do valet than have to walk, no matter what. Liking this statement in my three inch heels, I wobbled my way inside the venue.

Waiting at the hostess desk, the woman in front of us was spelling her last name over and over, louder and louder,

“C-H-R-I-S-T-E-N-S-E-N” as if the hostess would magically find their reservation easier.

“Ma’am, what show are you here to see?”

The woman looked at her with a blank face, “uh, shoot. It’s the 16th tonight, isn’t it. Our show is on the 23rd. I am just remembering.” She let out an embarrassed laugh and turned around.

Our turn, finally. “Hi, reservation under Norris…” Her fingers punched away on the keyboard.

“What was that last name, one more time?”

“N-O-R-R-I-S”

Just then BD stepped forward with an important question, “Who is playing tonight?”

“It’s Joseph Arthur, sir.”

Not so much Vicci Martinez.

Just then a heat wave covered my skin and a sinking feeling consumed my gut. How did we mess this up? I was the one who got the babysitter, so I guess it’s my fault for just assuming it was on a Saturday night? Defeated, we left and went somewhere else for dinner.

I had asked my regular babysitter to watch Bay while we were at the concert in an email and wrote down “Sunday, Jan 16th”… which, of course, the the 16th was on a Saturday. Confused, she just never responded and asked me in person which date and day I had actually meant. Not double checking, I just PICKED a day and went with it.

I saw my regular babysitter a couple of days later.

“Lindsey,” I ask, seriously.

“Yes…” she chirps back. I swear she sings when she talks or is a Disney character or something – I just adore her.

“You have another task to add to the list – other than making sure my laundry is put away…”

She looks at me concerned, wondering if her $12 an hour is going to seem smaller because of a new task.

“I need you to keep me sane, ok? If I start sounding crazy, please tell me. Please?”

What is she supposed to say to that… is she supposed to tell me that I sound nuts most of the time?

“Haha… ok, Allison.” She sounds timid and changes the subject.

By: Cyndi Whitmore

Scenario: My sitter is black. Priscilla has been babysitting for me since Tyler was 2 mos old. So as not to deal with the hassle of receipts, I pay her by check with the note “childcare” and the dates covered in the memo section. Every month for 3.5 years I’ve written her a check drawn on Wells Fargo Bank. Almost every month for the last two years she has been cashing these checks at the same branch. On the third of this month she went to the branch and dealt with a white male employee whom she’d never seen there before. It so happens that while she was in the bank, I was at the drive-thru teller getting cash. The teller asks me, as my cell phone is ringing, if I’ve written a check on this account recently that someone might be trying to cash… I said yes, my sitter, check # such and such, for $XXX. She’s says OK, just checking… of course I miss the cell phone call. After I finish my transaction I leave and check my voice mail. It is the bank employee my sitter was dealing with, calling to verify the check. He leaves a number for me to call him back. I got his message within 5 minutes of him leaving it and called the number back, twice… the first time letting it ring for about 3 minutes, the second time I let it ring for nearly 4 minutes. He never picked up the phone… but kept my sitter waiting there until the branch closed (over 20 minutes). She had her ID, she was fingerprinted, my account had over $2000 in it, and if the nimrod had scrolled back through my account, he would have seen that a check for that same amount is cashed (usually at that branch) between the first and fifth of EVERY SINGLE MONTH. After speaking with her later that evening I find out she was not able to cash the check and that she was told by this employee to come back tomorrow but that she’ll need to make sure I’m at home because they will still need to verify the check. Well, since I had dance class the next morning I called their 24-hour customer service to find out a) why she hadn’t been able to cash the check and b) to ask them to note in my account that I had called, been verified through their automated system, and given the OK. I never got a satisfactory answer for the incident. At first it was pointed out that the check was for a large sum.  I pointed out that a) it may have been a large sum, but it’s certainly not an unusual activity for my account, and b) that I write a larger check every month for my rent and have never had a problem there. They said, well, it’s because she tried to “cash” it instead of depositing it… I pointed out that she “cashes” it every month since she’s never had a checking account the entire time I’ve known her. It was pointed out that I’d recently had a couple overdrafts… I laughed and pointed out that that is not new or unusual activity either… I am terrible at keeping track of my check book, they make a fortune off of me in NSF fees, and should be perfectly happy to suck up to me for making them easy money. Then I was told that it would not be possible for them to indicate anything on my account and I would indeed have to sit at home in case they needed to contact me. I had a fit… and it took two or three steps up the hierarchal chain AND me pointing out the potential race issue before I finally got someone to say they would call my branch the next morning and make sure my sitter would be able to cash the check.

Curly Mama

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