Friday, December 30, 2005

Doing what's breast

I think it's mighty difficult as a new mom to not be obsessed with breastfeeding. Although I hardly remember the first fevered days at home after Clementine was born, I can dimly recall using the breast pump every two hours, even in the middle of the night, letting it suck on my increasingly tender nipples for ten minutes and feeling lucky if I were able to produce an ounce from each side (oh yes, I have the double pump and let me tell you nothing says sexy like being hooked up to one of those babies). I planned my whole day around pumping to get my supply up, and because I then had problems getting Clementine to latch and warding off mastitis and other awful breast infections, I continued to plan my life around my pumping schedule for much longer than most moms have to.

I never questioned whether or not I would breastfeed before darling C. arrived, and while I was struggling through those first awful weeks, I never doubted it would eventually work itself out. After all, the world tells you that breastfeeding is natural and wonderful and the only right way to feed your baby (at least that's what the world I'm a part of tells you). How can it really be so hard? Of course after months of trying, I realized Clementine wasn't ever going to latch and that I had some real decisions to make. I spent most of my maternity leave obsessing over feeding her. If I wasn't trying to latch her, calming her down from the fit she would throw when I did try or feeding her a bottle, I was pumping, pumping, pumping to get her milk. Was this a sustainable system? Supportive friends kept telling me I could quit any time and know I had given it all I had (one even suggested burning what she called "The Womanly Art of Unattainable Perfection" as a way of freeing myself), but I couldn't help but think I was depriving my baby of something she deserved.

I bring all this up because I've been reading a lot of other mommy blogs lately and see how many people struggle with breastfeeding, despite the notion that it is easy, natural and instinctual. I have read dozens of stories about women crying to their lactation consultants (was that even a common job title a dozen years ago?), worrying themselves sick and feeling like a failure as a woman for having trouble, and I've waded through lots of rhetoric on all sides of the issue. Breastfeeding is a hot political topic to moms, and no one is opinionless on the subject. I don't think I could ever find the time to recap all the arguments pro or con (because of course it isn't that simple), but I was fascinated to pick up my first ever issue of Brain, Child this morning (while pumping, no less--it's the only time I have to read these days) and see a hot debate on the topic in their letters to the editor. Apparently, the magazine had taken a stand on an AAP recommendation that adoptive mothers try to induce lactation and breastfeed, and that stand brought thunderous applause and boos from the many moms out there who hold their opinions on breastfeeding near and dear to their hearts. All of the letters were articulate, heartfelt and thought-provoking, and even if I didn't agree with the whole of any one, each had a kernel of my experience or truth within them.

So what I ultimately think is this: breastfeeding is one of the most personal decisions a woman has to make when she becomes a mom, and many things must be a part of her decision--the health of her child, the flexibility of her life and career, her mental health, her ability to breastfeed, etc. While for some people it is the easiest decision in the world to make, for others it is near impossible for a variety of reasons. Whatever. Women become impassioned on the subject, I think, because if they don't believe in their philosophy wholeheartedly, it negates all the work and struggle they have put in to feeding their kid and even in deciding what to do. It's a shame we find it so hard to support decisions that are different than our own, but I think I understand why/how.

Me? I'm still pumping. From time to time I see a mom effortlessly lift her shirt and nurse her kid, and I feel a little twinge of jealously and regret. I still try to work on Clementine's latch, but she still resists, and I have honestly given up hope. It sucks. Every month I say I will quit, but I've kept at it so far. I don't know why exactly, but it's a mixture of a sense of responsibility and guilt and desire as far as I can tell. I'm just trying to figure it out, and I'm not going to give up pumping until I do.

Thursday, December 29, 2005

Better late than never

Should be working (still) but am having too much fun wandering around other blogs. Always fashionably late to every party (a 10 p.m. show never starts til midnight after all), I never knew how much of this was out there. Check out my brilliant friend Nick's post from a while ago about my darling C., keeping in touch with old friends and making one's way in the world.

A quick word on toys that sing

They suck!

I can't get the damn songs out of my head!! I used to groove on great bands, now I can't stop singing the Huggable Globe song: "Three little friends set out to see / just how big the world can be..." If I ever figure out the more technical aspects of blogging I'll post a little snippet so you can groove to it too.

Stuff, stuff everywhere

It's a little too late in the week after Christmas to still have gifts piled all over my living room, but piled they are. How will I incorporate all of it into our house which already seems to be bulging at the seams with all sorts of shit? It's not that we have all that much stuff--I just need some sort of organizational makeover. My kitchen cabinets could store a lot more (and it would be easier to find stuff) if I had a day to do just that. I need time to hang random art that is lined up along the floorboards or stacked in more piles in every room. At some point, I should probably also put away the box of maternity clothes sitting on my floor and re-incorporate my pre-pregnancy clothes that are in a box right next that. It's convenient having them there, but our bedroom (which is still unfinished after the great baby-redecorating rush of later summer) is starting to look like Nate's garage. This is not good.

And then there is Clementine's room. How much of a mess can a kid that young even make? We have managed so far to keep the giant glut of huge plastic toys that seems to plague every toddler's house under control, but that isn't saying anything for clothes. Between the gifts, my impulse purchases and the hand-me-downs, Clementine is a clothes horse in the first degree. What's worse is that she is growing out of her 0-3 month clothes, fully wearing her 3-6 month duds, dabbling in 6-9 month stuff and in possession of a whole lot of stuff she can wear between 9 and 24 months. As one perpetually challenged by organization, I'm having a hard time figuring out a good system of rotating out the old and in the new, especially considering I want to hang on to the old in case we ever take this trip again. I need Martha Stewart to come do some serious overhauling--storage boxes, labels, markers and all--so I can whip darling C.'s room into shape.

Working from home this morning (can't you tell?). I've been spoiled by all this flexibility and only just remembered that Nate will be returning to work next week, leaving darling C. at the dreaded day care. I am stressed out about that all over again and still trying to convince myself I NEED to work. What I know for sure is that Clementine had an awesome day yesterday, slept a little better than she has and grew bigger and cuter while she did so. I again find myself wondering why anyone but her parents should get to experience days like this.

But whatever. Back to the grind so I can take a long afternoon break to spend some of that Christmas cash. We're off on a week-long camping trip this summer and it's time to stock up on all the stuff we'll need now that we are us + 1.

Wednesday, December 28, 2005

This baby rocks


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No more whining here. Sure, parenting is tough, but it's all worthwhile when you have the CUTEST BABY EVER! This gummy, grinning, giggly girl has been super sweet tonight (between bouts of screaming in teething pain). How did I ever get this lucky?

Regression

Being a mom makes you public property: ask anyone who has ever been pregnant or with a kid in a public place. People you don't even know feel free to touch you, counsel you, scold you and ask you extremely personal questions. At times it's annoying, but most of the time it is just dependable, a little odd but very tolerable. I understand the impulse, too, as I once saw a woman at the mall with her newborn and her breast pump (neatly disguised in its clever backpack, same as mine, which is how I recognized it). It took all the self-control I have not to double back to ask her if her kid was having trouble latching and whether she was pumping instead of traditional breastfeeding (like me). I think the important part of that story is that I DIDN'T ask. I didn't assume, like so many people do, that this is an appropriate way to talk to a stranger, even if I was dying to know why should would be carrying such a clunky thing around with her and where on earth she thought she was going to use it in the mall.

A big question I hear all the time these days is "Does she sleep through the night yet?" It's a fairly benign question, but the "yet" really rubs me the wrong way. It seems to be tacking on an expectation or a standard that infuses the question with judgment. Or maybe I'm just sensitive. No one wants to admit her child isn't keeping up with developmental milestones. Sure, since darling C. was about a month old, I could answer that she pretty much does sleep through the night, which would always earn me smiles and congratulations, as if I have some supreme control over how my kid sleeps. I don't abdicate my responsibility as a parent completely here, but I think with young babies, the ability to sleep through the night is more about their needs, temperament and personality, not some super-special parenting technique or regime I've implemented. But while I refuse to take credit for her sleeping through the night (Nate and I would often wake up after 6 hours sleep and feel incredulous at our luck), I can't help but feel like I'm doing something wrong now that she's regressing.

That's right--darling Clementine no longer sleeps through the night. Nate says she hasn't been the same since we took her to the Christmas party and witnessed her amazing meltdown, and I can't help but feel like it is thus something we caused. Shortly after her big night out, she started waking up every couple of hours all night and being a bit of a fusspot during the day. As Christmas rolled over us, the fussiness increased, along with the number of times per evening she awoke. Last night, she woke up every hour to fuss, squirm and sometimes eat. Where, oh where, have we gone wrong?

During these parental crises (OK, that might be a dramatic way of phrasing the times when things are a little less than perfect), I always start to doubt my instincts. Or maybe I just don't have any instincts and begin to shop around theories and ideas about how to solve the problem. Regardless, I find myself in a state of doubt, cruising the internet, asking friends and family, looking for books on the subject. I develop and abandon dozens of fix-it strategies in my head and do my best to keep the frustration at bay. Why is this? I believe parenting should be a fairly instinctive project, but I always jump ship on instincts and look for others to throw me a life line during hard times. Sure, a positive spin on that is the whole it-takes-a-village idea. But I fear this insecurity is due to the increasing scrutiny I feel in the world as a parent--the subtle cluck of a tongue, the raised eyebrow, the outright disagreement with other moms that makes me feel like my failure in this arena will result in my kid's ultimate fucked up life. Other moms (especially those who no longer have young kids) are a pretty judgmental lot, and it takes a lot more effort and self-confidence than I can often muster up after 4 hours of sleep to tune them out.

So just who is regressing here? Sure, Clementine's sleep habits have regressed to those of her newborn self, but what about her mom? I feel like I have regressed to my middle school days, allowing the pack to dictate how I should behave or allowing myself to be swallowed by insecurity whenever I take my own stand.

And none of this resolves why Clementine is waking up so often. She is teething and growing, which I imagine causes her more than a little distress and discomfort. The little bit of a schedule she was on has been disrupted by the holidays which may be throwing her out of whack. We're inconsistent in our use of her crib at night--could that be what's upsetting her? It's hard to not be able to reason with her and hear her pinpoint exactly what's wrong and what will make it better. It's also hard not to extrapolate and think that if sleeping is this hard for her now that we are launching ourselves into years with a difficult child. How can we be raising such a fussy little child?

For now, I comfort myself that this is just a stage she will grow out of shortly. People always have a hard time believing anything will get better when they're in the thick of it, so I'm trying to remember all the "dire" situations I've lived through in the past--breakups and embarrassments, fights with friends, depression. Still, I can't help but wish I had a magic wand...

Friday, December 23, 2005

Christmas Spirit

I don't know what it is about Christmas, but it was never really a holiday I could get into. Halloween, with all its creepy ceremony and tradition--the candy, the spookiness, the decorations, the costumes--is way more my speed, followed by Thanksgiving and all its good food. While I remember being jazzed about Santa and loads of presents as a kid, once that illusion was shattered for me the day became one tense, long day with lots of family, back and forth between parents and not much fun. I never understood why my mom wanted to put up a tree every year when it was such a pain to unpack all the ornaments and then repack them in a month or so. Why all the temporary decor? And why is it all so ugly?

Maybe it's having a kid, or maybe it's having my own house, but this year my inner scrooge is being beaten back by a burgeoning Christmas spirit. Granted, it's more the kitsch of it all than the Christ, but I'm kind of digging the opportunity to start some family tradition, buy some quirky ornaments and make this holiday my own. We have a red fake aluminum tree, a flaming tree skirt and a wacked out angel on top, and I've accumluated some family treasures and new additions to throw about the house. There are creepy elves from Nate's grandma on the stairs, some more elves beneath the tree and some carefully placed lights here and there to give the house a festive air. I made stockings out of a vintage bedspread, some fuzzy pom-poms and some colorful material scraps, and I've even wrapped presents for darling C., although her motor skills aren't developed enough to open them. Last night as we were falling asleep, I tried to think of some new traditions to start. Should we go out to a Chinese restaurant for Christmas Eve dinner? Should we leave for a Christmas adventure after opening gifts (in my mind this means Rome, but in reality this year it would be more like Grand Rapids)? Should I start some sort of collection for Clementine and add to it each Christmas? It's fun to think of all the possibilities.

I suppose this is a predictable outcome of having a family--it sort of breathes life back into things my jaded, independent existence had long since made irrelevant. Of course I could also be falling for the glossy Christmas card sentiment that this is the time all normal people of the world focus on family and tradition. Am I a total sellout for getting on the bandwagon, even if it is with ragged, hand-made stockings, a wacky tree and no religious connotation whatsoever? Hell, what does it matter? I'm mysteriously full of some sort of holiday spirit, and I'm determined not to overthink it. Tomorrow starts the first Christmas of my mommy life, and I'm going to find a memorable way for us all to celebrate.

Thursday, December 22, 2005

Inarticulate

I just read through the two blogs about my mom, fearful someday she'll learn about blogs, find mine and have a nervous breakdown, and I realized how poorly I describe the horrible-wonderful(?) thing that is our relationship. I sound so whiny and mean. How can words fail me so incredibly on such a huge topic (one which I think about and talk to my sister about nearly every day)?

The Sreamin' Meanies

Last night the devils carried my child away and left in her place a baby who screamed for hours and hours. I'm usually careful not to complain too much because a.) babies just cry and b). she's a relatively happy baby. Last night was a different story, though, and nothing I did worked to calm her down--not bouncing or jumping or swinging or laughing or crying right along or soothing or shushing or swaddling or bathing or taking off her clothes or putting them all back on or giving her Tylenol or applying Orajel or making faces or singing songs or walking outside or slinging her or running or stomping or even feeding her. She screamed and screamed like someone or something was hurting her, and every once in a while she threw in some giant gasps to rattle my nerves further as I wondered whether or not I could perform CPR if she stopped breathing.

The worst part of the screaming for me was fear of not being able to help darling C. The second worst part was that I was all alone in dealing with her. Apparently she was fussy all afternoon with Nate while I was at the hair salon (my first haircut since before baby) and out Christmas shopping with my mom. When we got home, Nate was on a dangerous ledge and needed rescuing. I sent him out to have pizza and as much beer as he could drink with the Lambertis, who are always our oasis, and I stayed home to take care of our screaming-so-hard-I'm-turning-blue bundle of joy all by myself.

But wait, you say. What about your mother? Isn't she in town?

Yes, my mother, who has had two children of her own and has certainly weathered a night or two of screaming in her time, was no help whatsoever. Maybe a seasoned veteren like herself has earned the right to tune out, but I clearly needed help. She, however, apparently needed to sit on the couch and watch Lifetime and eat pizza. Sure, every now and then she would toss a "Do you think she's cold and wants a blanket?" or "Do you want a bath, little one?" my way, but she never offered to hold the baby so I could eat or take a break. She didn't even come upstairs to see if I needed help with the bath or anything else, and when I started pacing around downstairs and glaring at the TV (which was now at such a high volume I could hardly hear the screaming that was happening in my very own arms), she was oblivious. When I snatched C.'s toys and stomped upstairs, she called after me: "Don't worry--she isn't bothering me, sweetie." What a f-ing relief.

I don't expect my houseguests to act as nannies or co-parent with me. But when said guests advertise to the world that they are coming to Detroit to help me prepare for and survive the holidays and when said guest is my parent, I do raise the bar a bit. Perhaps my mom's side of the story will be that we're terrible parents who have a baby that just cries and cries in protest, that this was a horrible visit and from now she'll stay in a hotel. Fine. As usual, we see things from two totally different angles. But seriously. What in the hell was that woman thinking last night? I want to believe she was just intimidated by the crying, impressed with my handling of it, perhaps even respectful of my parenting and not wanting to crowd. Knowing her, though, she was just trying to watch a Lifetime movie and wishing to hell that my kid would shut up.

Have I already said how devastated I will be if Clementine ever feels like this about me?

Wednesday, December 21, 2005

The mama lens

I don't know if I trust any of my warm and fuzzy, cried-all-the-way-home feelings about Brokeback Mountain, as it was and is my only adventure in moviegoing since I had a baby and watched my world turn upside down. But I can't seem to stop thinking about both the characters in the film, especially Ennis Del Mar. This happens every time a book or movie gets under my skin--the characters live with me long after their story; they creep around, perch just outside my life as spectral reminders of something I want to remember (but don't always do).

What I liked most about the movie is how rich Heath Ledger's Ennis is as a character, and I don't think it's so surprising given my myopic view of the world through the mama lens these days that his moments as a parent are the ones that give him the most depth and complication in my mind. One of my favorite scenes is when he is chasing his wife out into the street to continue a loud fight and tables his rage for a minute as he turns to his daughters, scared and immobile on the swingset, to ask if they need a push or something. Although a very small part of most of the movie, his realtionship with his daughters was a huge part of the heartbreak I felt nearly all the way through. Is this the new me? Normally it would have been the shirt--and you know the shirt I'm talking about if you've seen the movie--and his careless little slouch while wearing it on the mountain that would have haunted me long after the credits.

Insert Wicked Witch of the West theme song here

My sister and I constantly feel guilty about how crazy our mom makes us. She raised us as a single, working mother, and even before I had a kid of my own, that qualified her for sainthood in my eyes. But while I can recognize her amazing contributions to my life, I can't help but also recognize that she is crazy as a loon and getting crazier by the day. She and I have always had a turbulent relationship (even before my rebellious teenage years), and although the tension between us has retreated beneath the surface a bit, we have never settled into any sort of comfortable or adult relationship. For this and so many other reasons, her visits to Detroit are always...um...terrifying. Sometimes they're lovely and sometimes they're holy hell--one just never knows.

She arrived last night.

It would take a thousand blogs to even touch the tip of what it is about my mom that makes it so hard for us to get along (and I'm just as much at fault, I know--ask sweet Nate who watches me become an irrational crazy lady whenever mom is near). I'm not even trying to go there. What did occur to me last night, however, is the new level of both peace and anxiety having my own child brings to the mix. On the one hand, Clementine's new fear/dislike of everyone who is not her mom and dad makes my mom insecure and desperate...she acts out, and I want to kill her. On the other hand, when my mom starts to wander down her dark path (you don't support me, why do you think I'm fat?, I'll just wash these dishes, why don't we go get your hair cut?), I can throw darling C. between us and the rage bubbles back.

All that said, the other realization I came to last night is that my mom is not unlike a child. Perhaps dealing with her will prepare me for the trials ahead as darling C. forges her own personality and tests the hell out of her parents (as if she hasn't already started). My mom acts with little understanding of consequence, anything (no matter how small) can set her off, she's terrible if she hasn't had a nap or enough sleep, she's not afraid of yelling, crying or making an ass out of herself in public (sorry to last night's patrons at Traffic Jam & Snug) and she gets super defensive when she knows she's wrong. She cannot be reasoned with--logic means nothing to her--and you have to bribe her with sweets in order to get her talking to you again. She has little regard for anyone else's belongings (she breaks and spills things all the time when she's here beause she doesn't pay attention) and needs constant reassurance that everything she does is OK. From what I know of toddlers, she's right on their level.

I know I'm going straight to hell for these thoughts and feelings, especially because I know so much of her bad behavior comes from a good place--she just wants to feel loved and useful. I weep to think that some day darling C. will feel any of these things about me, and yet I wonder if it's inevitable. Do we become our moms? Sure, everyone has a story about the first time her mom's words come directly from her own mouth, but can it end there? How much of her insanity have I subconsciously absorbed and will I be able to resist any of it when it comes to my own parenting?

SO much more to say on this topic, but she lurks, she lurks. I must go entertain.

Tuesday, December 20, 2005

Adventures in babysitting

I made lists of phone numbers, left money for ordering pizza, laid out darling C.'s favorite toys. I made extra bottles, wrote out feeding instructions and walked the sitter through all of C.'s quirks and favorite things. I was ready for this whole babysitter thing, and I wasn't going to compulsively check my cell phone from the dark theater.

Except I never got that far.

I don't know if it was the face of a stranger, the feeling of abandonment or (most likely) teething, but Clementine awoke from her nap in a hell of a mood and began to scream instantly. We calmed her down enough to leave, confident that once the sitter was alone she would find a way to calm the baby, feed her, knock her back out for a nap (we had given her magic baby Tylenol--a nap in a bottle--for teething pain). But when I called 20 minutes later, the crying had not stopped. Could we enjoy a movie knowing that darling C. was in a fit? Would a babysitter ever come back if we didn't let her know we would bail her out when the going got rough? Of course not. So we sped home, stopping only for a pint of ice cream to enjoy on the couch when and if the crying ever stopped.

And although it was a lot of planning and anticipation for nothing, I wasn't disappointed. Sad and pathetic truth be told, I like hanging out with Nate and Clementine more than just about anything these days. Sure, there are times I would rather pull my hair out than spend another minute at home with them, and there are times I would rather cart around a herd of cats than strap her into her car seat and brave the world, but for the most part they are my new social universe and that's OK with me.

Guilty truth be told, it's not like it's all that relaxing to go out with Nate these days anyway. For one thing, if we're together and alone, who has the baby? I'm still in that phase (which I hear and hope does have an end) where I think we are the only ones who can take care of her just the right way. Moreover, when we are out together I sometimes feel like we are gliding through the outside world in a Clementine bubble. We never really free ourselves from thinking about her, talking about her, wondering about her, sharing stories about her. It's not a bad thing--in fact, it's wonderful and a perfect way to ease myself out of the house. But it doesn't compare to the babyless, husbandless escape that leaves me right up against the outside world, no bubble, no buffer. Those outings feel similar to living in a foreign country--I am a keen observer and yet an outsider. I can see and understand the world around me, but no matter how hard I try, I am never truly a part of it. There is too much of me elsewhere (at home) to ever join in fully and forget myself.

So the movie will wait. Or it will happen without Nate, which sucks but may just be where our life is for now. Why gripe? So we may not see a movie together anytime soon or eat in a restaurant together without a high chair between us. Sure, he won't get to see Blanche with me at the Magic Stick this week, but I'll let him take the Matisyahu show at St. Andrew's Hall next week. We won't take turns going for beer or holding each other's coats for bathroom runs or debating whether or not to buy the opening band's CD, but we do get something different and better. Or at least that's what I'm telling myself this morning as I type away while C. cries in the next room. Her dad has her, so I know she'll be fine.

Monday, December 19, 2005

Back again

A perfect winter day, a baby who is alternately happy and sleepy, a relatively clean house, lots of time to write and reflect. Is this a dream? I know better than to get used to it, but I can't help but feel for this one little moment like I have it all figured out: I can mother, I can write, I can rock, I can have a good time.

I've posted today far more than I have in a week but wanted to check in one last time before I am off to the movies to share a poem I've been coming back to again and again in these past months. When I talk to my friends, I am sometimes apologetic about how much motherhood has changed me. To them, I want to be the same as I always was (only better maybe), but inside I feel completely new and different. Less exciting in the ways I used to be exciting, but bigger, more triumphant in new ways. I want to tell the story of Clementine again and again, even if you've heard it before. I don't care. I have never done something this huge with my life, this unchangeable and wonderful and terrible and amazing.


THE LANGUAGE OF THE BRAG
by Sharon Olds

I have wanted excellence in the knife-throw,
I have wanted to use my exceptionally strong and accurate arms
and my straight posture and quick electric muscles
to achieve something at the center of a crowd,
the blade piercing the bark deep,
the haft slowly and heavily vibrating like the cock.

I have wanted some epic use for my excellent body,
some heroism, some American achievement
beyond the ordinary for my extraordinary self,
magnetic and tensile, I have stood by the sandlot
and watched the boys play.

I have wanted courage, I have thought about fire
and the crossing of waterfalls, I have dragged around

my belly big with cowardice and safety,
stool charcoal from the iron pills,
huge breasts leaking colostrum,
legs swelling, hands swelling,
face swelling and reddening, hair
falling out, inner sex
stabbed again and again with pain like a knife.
I have lain down.

I have lain down and sweated and shaken
and passed blood and shit and water and
slowly alone in the center of a circle I have
passed the new person out
and they have lifted the new person free of the act
and wiped the new person free of that
language of blood like praise all over the body.

I have done what you wanted to do, Walt Whitman,
Allen Ginsberg, I have done this thing,
I and the other women this exceptional
act with the exceptional heroic body,
this giving birth, this glistening verb,
and I am putting my proud American boast
right here with the others.

Punk rock baby


Clementine

Tring to figure out how to post photos...this one is my new favorite!
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A milestone

Last night, darling C. rolled over for the first time completely unassisted! Sure, she's been flirting with it for a while and able to roll over on the bed when one of us is weighting down a side of it. But last night, she was on the floor and rolled from her tummy to her right side with no help whatsoever. When I flipped her over, she did the same thing again, this time rolling to her right. I'm a little geeked about the whole thing--who knew I'd feel so pleased and proud and at the same time so sad? It's amazing to watch her grow up so fast and strong, but it's sad to think she will never again be the wriggly, sleepy little package I first brought home with me.

Other firsts on the way! We have a sitter tonight, and I'm going to see my second movie in an actual theater in a week (the first two in more than three months). I saw the moving Brokeback Mountain last week with my friend Laura, but tonight I get to go with Nate. Who knows what we will see? We've talked about a double feature--we did that a ton in the weeks before darling C. arrived. I feel almost giddy with the possibilities. If all goes well, perhaps I won't have to leave Nate at home on the 23rd for the holiday benefit at the Magic Stick. Our favorite Blanche is playing with the Muldoons, Thunderbirds Are Now! and a ton of other great local bands. Is it too good to be true? Let's see what Clementine thinks of being left with a sitter before we make any other plans.

Party Girl

This weekend was my friend Karen's annual white elephant Christmas party, an event that was so much out-of-control fun last year that it gave me Clementine. Yep, although math is not my strong point, this time last year is when I unknowingly got pregnant, and since Karen's party was the event of the season (and one I'm a little hazy on, especially toward the end of the evening), I'm pretty sure that was the night I conceived--or I should say WE conceived, since I wasn't the only one in the room.

This year, Nate and I were determined to go and have the time of our lives, but we didn't know what to do with darling C. I have a former student who agreed to babysit, but we both felt strange being so far away for Clementine's first evening with a stranger and, truth be told, didn't relish the idea of leaving the party early to appear home sober and responsible in time for the sitter to make curfew. No problem, we thought. Let's just take her with us and crash on the couches in Karen's living room. We packed up her travel crib/playpen thingy, threw some clothes and diapers in a bag, brought a huge supply of untainted breast milk so I could drink and "pump and dump," and we were good to go.

As usual, Clementine had other plans. She was good at the beginning of the party, but when it was close to her usual bed time (11 p.m. if you believe it), she had a total meltdown. Infused with the party spirit (or the vodka cranberries Dave was mixing rather strong), I stayed in the party and let Nate bounce her around outside. This kept me from knowing how bad the meltdown really was until I heard her screaming and realized she had been doing so for nearly an hour and pretty much everyone at the party had heard her but me. In addition to feling like an asshole for ignoring her in front of all those people, I felt like I had toally abandoned Nate and let Clementine go to a dark, dark place while I sat inside and had fun. When I at last emerged, she had the reddest, puffiest eyes and the wettest face I'd ever seen. Her crying jag only got worse as I tried to take over, although she eventually fell asleep for a little while. She awoke much happier, although she then decided to delight us until 2 a.m. before finally falling asleep until 11 a.m. She's set herself on a college party schedule--we're just so proud.

I know these meltdowns are inexplicable, but I am nevertheless still trying to figure out the whys and hows. Is she teething? Is she sick? Was there an evil spirit at the party her keen babysense was aware of and we adults were not? She was a dear at brunch the next morning (I had my first margarita in over a year AND my first hangover) and for a while after that, but when we tried to get some Christmas shopping done, she freaked out in the car and spent the afternoon huddled with her dad at my friend Laura's house (we couldn't even make it home she was crying so hard) while I ran out to various stores to try to fill in holes on my list. And since then she has been alternately dazzling--all gums and grins and herky-jerky fun--and horrid. She's in some new bipolar phase that concerns me and frustrates Nate.

What can you do? She's a baby who knows what she wants, even if she can't communicate it. As much as I'm surprised by these bouts of the unexpected and sometimes horrible, I secretly marvel at her strong sense of what gets her going and what turns her off.

Tuesday, December 13, 2005

A working mom

Although I may never again have much time for myself (except between Clementine's 5 a.m. feeding and my 7 a.m. departure), working hasn't been quite as bad as I expected. I don't feel like I miss all of Clementine's day, and when I get home it is very easy to make the entire evening all about her. When I was home with her, I was trying to fit quick emails and chores in around my time with her, but I can knock a lot of those out at work and come home ready to be all about baby. Of course, that leaves little room for other things in my life like...well...a life, but I did find time last week to return to Punk Fitness and even hang out in a bar with a friend. When my life is super busy, I feel so much more organized and directed, and I think this whole working thing has helped me get some things in order.

Having said that, I'm still not sure it's all a win win win situation. Nate is home with Clementine now, so I get to hear about all her adventures and milestones, even if they are tiny and minute. That will certainly change when she enters daycare, but I'm trying to think that there are good changes inherent in her more independent existence in a larger, less Clementine-centric environment. It still gets me down, but I'm trying hard to be positive. Just factoring in the drop-off and pick-up times with my morning commute, the whole getting me ready and getting baby ready (then the actual work day) makes me feel like I'm going to spend the majority of my waking hours as a working mom thinking of the next thing that has to happen to keep the machine in motion, and that concerns me quite a lot. I've worked hard to help Clementine live in the moment with us, and I shudder to think of getting her super regimented and inflexible. I think that can kill a spirit pretty quickly, especially her developing one.

Speaking of spirit-killing enterprises: Christmas shopping. Why don't any of us have the guts to just tell people not to buy us obligatory gifts? I get the whole Christmas-is-for-the-kids thing, but so many people don't! I hate having to create a huge list of presents for people I never see and hardly know, and I'm sure most of them hate receiving those "thoughtful" gifts as well. Can't we just cancel it? The only reason we keep it up is because we get huge boxes of stuff every year and feel the need to reciprocate. It so totally goes against the meaning of the season.

But I digress. I've gotta get moving. I worked from home this morning and need to get to the office to finish my day.

Tuesday, December 06, 2005

Wriggly, Giggly Little Thing

So I'm awake, I'm showered, I'm ready to go to work and I take one last look at my little girl and I can't quite walk out the door. After a night of stomach crunches (is she getting in shape or just trying to bypass the natural order of skills and learn to sit straight up?) and wiggling, she has found a way to free herself from her swaddling at last. Instead of just loosening the blankets, she has pulled her arms out of the sleeves of her PJs toward freedom. Then she slapped herself in the face enough times to wake up. How can anything that happens at work today compete with that?

Monday, December 05, 2005

D Day

Today I go back to work. I'm done whining. It's hard, it sucks, but it is reality and I have to deal with it. I think it's time to take Ann Crittenden's The Price of Motherhood back to the library and stop thinking about it--she makes too many true points about how the inflexibility of the modern workplace makes it impossible for women to feel like they're giving the best to their children AND their jobs. I want to believe things can be different for my family, and at least this month they are. Nate has taken a leave of absence from work to stay home with Clementine, so the shock of returning to work today is a little less traumatic because I'm not starting the day by leaving her at daycare.

Last week I think I settled on the daycare we'll be using. I almost drove right on by when I noticed the taupe (is there any car color that reflects less personality than taupe?) minivan with the yellow ribbon (cross cut out of the center) magnet on the back, but I realized I really was making too many snap judgements and needed to let it go. Other than the daycare assistant/minivan owner's WWJD bracelet, there was little to object to. The kids seemed happy and Julie seemed to love what she does. I guess that's all I can hope for. I did have some objections to her decor--the upstairs was so darn middle American and 70s that I actually winced a little, but remember I was doing my best to refrain from judgement. I can't imagine what people see in my decor, so let's just move on.

We took Clementine to a poetry reading last week, and she behaved wonderfully. I think she picked up on the whole vocal vibe because as she sat sweetly on my lap, she began to coo in response to the poems. There was a particularly horrible local poet as part of the reading in the round, and as I tell the story now, she filled her diaper when he stood up to read--the kid's got taste. Given her touchy temper, I think he's lucky that's all he got. The evening was capped off with Sekou Sundiata, who is one of our favorite readers. He has put together a community potluck kind of approach to poetry circles and groups, out of which the presentation we attended emerged. Although the fussy sound guy int he back wasn't thrilled with my cooing daughter, I thought it was a totally appropriate place to have a kid. I can't wait to take her to her next reading--if only Detroit weren't starved for poetry.

Clementine has really rounded some big corners in terms of her behavior and tolerance. We took her to Chicago this weekend and she totally behaved in the car! Actually, she slept most of the way, which meant we could listen to real music instead of her comforting static. It was lovely and a bit of an ADD-fest, as there were so many bands I was aching to hear. I'll confess I am trying to form her taste subconsciously with all the hope in the world she'll one day insist on playing something like The Ramones in the care as opposed to The Wiggles. We went to my niece's 3rd birthday party, which was probably her dream come true--a great setting, tons of kids and lots of scream-and-run-around-until-you-drop kind of fun. It kind of made me want to get my tubes tied. I couldn't help but think of college frat boys, especially the party-hard TKEs at my alma mater. They had terrible reputations, but one-on-one were actually nice, sometimes even intelligent guys. The minute more than three or four of them were in a room together, though, they turned into animals with lampshade on their heads--chugging beers, slamming cans on their heads, peeing on walls. There were times the frenzy of the kids playing at the party reached that same level of hysteria (without the beer of course), and it mystified me and Nate. Luckily for us, we have a few years before figuring out how to mitigate that beehive. For now we can imagine a party with Clementine and her peers--they would slouch in their various seats and swings on on their floor mats, cooing, crying and eating. The loudest part would probably be their parents competitively comparing milestones and nighttime terror stories.

I'm off to work now after taking a few more minutes breathing in every detail of my little girl. How will I ever stay focused on what I'm doing at my job when there's so much I could be doing at home??

Tuesday, November 29, 2005

Tick tock tick tock

That's the sound of the last few days of my maternity leave ticking away. Just as Clementine settles into a routine, just as I think I'm really getting the hang of it, I'm being yanked back to work.

Before having a kid of my own, I kind of resented the way people with families had an airtight excuse for not working late, taking extra holidays, getting special release time, etc. Now fate is smacking me in the ass for that. I'm devastated at the thought of turning over the best part of my day to my job and the best part of Clementine's to an outside caregiver. It seems so wrong, so counterproductive, and I still haven't figured out what I should do about it.

Nate is staying home for December so we don't have to fret just yet. I plan to propose to my boss an arrangement that allows me to work from home two days a week, but he has hinted that it isn't likely to fly very well. It seems most workplaces would rather lose moms entirely than be flexible enough to let them balance home life and work. I don't want to work fewer hours, I just want to work some of them from home and some of them in the evening when Clementine's dad can care for her. I want to put my family first but not have that sacrifice my commitment to my job. It seems possible to me if they are willing to be flexible and trusting, but how many workplaces are flexible and trusting?

Have baby, will travel

Since Clementine is no fan of the car, we haven't strayed too far from the Metro Detroit area on a regular basis. I imagined my maternity leave would be a world of adventures and exploration, my baby sleeping soundly in the back seat while I discovered new towns and fun places to visit. Little did I expect that even a trip to Target would be impossible without a constant distracting wail from the backseat. My mom tells people that I'm getting what I deserve: I was a hellion of a child in her book, and so it serves me right that my wanderlust would be squashed by a willful infant who just wants to stay put. Whatever the reason, my baby is a homebody. Nevertheless, we packed her up the day after Thanksgiving and took her to Cleveland for the Bazaar Bizarre and a show at the Beachland Ballroom (to be fair, these were things her parents wanted to do and weren't entirely kid-friendly).

It turns out the hardest part of the road trip was really the preparation. We're not innocents who think a baby can travel light like we do: a sweater and a toothbrush and we're good to go. But nor were we prepared for the amount of deciding and hemming and hawing we would have to do to get her stuff together. Do we bring the bouncing, vibrabrating, bubbling seat? How many diapers does she need? How many outfits do we pack? Should we pack a medicine kit? Should Mr. Night come or just her stuffed carrot? By the time we packed her up, we were tired, totally off-schedule and just a little harried. We decided to bring as little as possible (leaving her white noise CD behind seemed brave since she has never fallen asleep without it), but it still filled up more than half of the back of my friend Laura's car.

Clementine slept more than I thought she would, cried just a bit to let us know she was serious but was generally a lovely baby. She went with the flow, hung out for hours in the gallery where the Bazaar Bizarre was held, despite the fact that her mom sold very little (not even one "George Bush hates you" onesie, which was surprising). She even survived the epic searched for restaurants that took us to various odd choices, including a very chic Greek place that was really not a great place for babies. In turn, I learned that traveling with a baby can be easy if you're relaxed about it and how to change her diaper just about anywhere, including balanced across a toilet and on a stack of magazines. It was fun for all.

My friend Laura offered to sit with Clementine in the hotel Saturday night so Nate and I could see two Detroit bands at the Beachland Ballroom: Blanche (a perennial favorite) and The Dirtbombs. We had a tremendous time, although I was sad Clementine couldn't come and meet Blanche in person--she accompanied us to many of their concerts before she was born. Apparently Clementine was sad about that as well, as she had a bit of a meltdown at the hotel without us. Laura soldiered on without calling us, but we felt pretty bad the next day. I can't wait until the weather is warm and we can enjoy all our favorite bands outside with our little girl, leaving no one home to miss out.

Next weekend we are going to push our road trip luck and head for Chicago. Five hours in a car--who knows what can happen?!

Wednesday, November 16, 2005

BFD

Yes, it's true: I have a Bottle-Fed Daughter, BFD. I suppose it could stand for BreastFed Daughter just as easily, but it does not. Just becasue it's a bottle doesn't mean it's formula, but an obnoxious woman in Target today just assumed as much as she sneered at me: "Did you at least TRY to breastfeed?" Caught off guard, I was nice to her in response and explained Clementine's difficulty latching, my long nights with my breast pump, my concern. Of course, five minutes later I realized I should have said:

"Not that it's any of your business, bitch, but after a week of her screaming every time I put her to my breast, a week of her losing weight instead of gaining it, three visits with lactation consultants, endless phone conversations with nursing friends, hundreds of pages in various parenting books and ounces of milk on my clothes, in my hair and on my furniture, I gave the kid a bottle. She was starving. The bottle made her happy. I spent weeks after that enduring the screaming, using nipple shields and surgical tubing and frustrating the heck out of myself to get her to latch--all of which was unsuccessful. Now, in addition to feeding her a bottle, I also spend a good portion of my day pumping breast milk, showing committment to the whole breast milk concept that doubles yours. So don't assume that because I'm giving her a bottle (or becasue I'm dressed like an unshowered slob) I am some sort of degenerate parent. I am doing my best and THANK YOU for the f-ing support."

I remember going places with my sister when she was pregnant and feeling shocked at how people looked at her and felt free to comment about what she wore, how she walked, how she dressed, etc. When I got pregnant I was ready for that kind of public involvement--everyone has an opinion about baby's sex, how much weight mom is gaining, when the baby will come, etc. What I didn't realize is that pregnancy was just the beginning of my very public life. Now, everywhere I go people feel free to give me advice and to judge me. She's not wearing enough layers for this cold, she's wearing too many layers to be indoors, you shouldn't carry her around because you'll spoil her and on and on and on. I've heard it takes a village and all, but I don't think this is what that saying means.

And it's not like I'm not already totally mental about the fact that she won't latch. I watched a woman at the gym the other day flop down and nurse her kid like it was nothing--it left me zinging with jealousy. Of course, I rushed home to try to latch Clementine with NO LUCK. I realize that ship has sailed, but it's still hard to accept. In my perfect picture of what motherhood would be like, I was sitting comfortably with my little girl as she nursed her heart out. Now that most of my pre-motherhood illusions about motherhood are shattered, I sit next to a slurping breast pump and watch as ounces of milk pour out of me. It's not what I pictured, but it's good enough.

Clementine is ready for her bath! Such an easy ending to every post--I defer to her.

Wednesday, November 09, 2005

Solo expedition

It wasn't due anything in particular, but I needed to get out of the house on my own tonight. Without the potential time bomb in the backseat (see previous post on how much Clementine hates the car), I remember what it's like to just cruise around, blast some music, sing along and enjoy red lights. Who cares where I end up when I'm just trying to clear my head. For a while it chills me out, but soon enough I feel drawn home. I want to see her all-gums smile when I walk in the door, I want to feel her hand clutch my finger as I feed her, I want to smell her sweet little head.

The hippest radio station in Detroit

Forget the hot local band scene, your iPod, your carefully crafted mix CD. Clementine has turned me on to the hippest new radio station around: 101.7. Never heard of it, you say? Sounds like static, you say? Exactly. Nothing says cool mom like tooling around listening to static. It post-punk, beyond music. Too cool for words.

Clementine has made sport of dispelling many of the notions of motherhood I had before giving birth--peaceful, easy breastfeeding, for example. She'll have none of it and would much rather watch me pump and then take my milk from a bottle. Packing up and hitting the road like a couple of vagabonds is also not on her agenda. Horror of horrors, she has decided she hates the car. Hates it. Screams bloody murder almost every time we get in.

I've tried just about everything to get her to feel calm and relaxed, but listening to very loud static is the only thing besides pulling over and getting out or having someone ride in the back seat with her that works. And it only works part of the time. You can imagine how relaxing it is for me to drive with a screaming baby (she sometimes cries so hard that I end up crying, though that hasn't happened for a while) and static so loud I can hardly think. Upside: keeps me off my cell phone and close to home. Downside: makes me feel crazy and sometimes a little trapped. I often wish I would get pulled over just for the satisfaction of getting out of a ticket. Who would have the heart to push a woman all the way over the edge instead of just letting her teeter there in her car with the static and the screaming?

A few weeks ago, we took a jaunt up to work to visit my friends and coworkers. Clementine was O.K. on the way up--just a little fussy. She screamed and cried so hard on the way back, though, that I ended up stopping at my friend Laura's house because I was afraid Clementine was going to choke or stop breathing. Yes, she was crying that hard. I was so beside myself that in removing her from the car seat, I left my coat on Laura's front lawn and my purse spilling out the side of my car.

What is the universe trying to tell me? How could I of all people end up with a baby who hates the car? Nate and I have planned out half a dozen road trips we want to take her on in the first year of her life and now we can't go anywhere without one of us in the back. It's very Driving Miss Daisy. Except of course that no one screamed in that movie and there was never a half-crazed mom in the back seat trying to use a breast pump in a moving vehicle while looking for a pacifier and trying to keep her baby distracted and happy all at the same time.

Motherhood is so glamorous.

Tuesday, November 08, 2005

More BS from HR

I felt bad after bitching about HR yesterday because they called me back to say that they had indeed been in the wrong and were granting me another full week of leave. Don't let the language confuse you--"granting" makes them sound nice, when really they misread my midwife's note and are just giving me what I deserve after all.

As I softened, however, I got an email from the HR department to the "community" of workers. Here it is:

NON-FACULTY AND NON-UNION EMPLOYEES:

I have been contacted regarding whether the community will be "closed" on Wednesday, November 23rd given that there will be no network functionality from 5:00pm November 22nd through November 23rd.

For clarification, the community will not be closed. Those employees eligible for CTO who do not work on the 23rd, will be expected to use CTO.

Please let me know if you have any questions.

So although no one will be able to use their computers and there will be no students on campus, we will all still need to report to work to sit around and twiddle our thumbs. No, why grant a holiday to your hard-working employees the day before Thanksgiving? Why try to spread holiday spirit when there is still so much the employees can do (such as filing and cleaning and talking on the phone)? If you really feel you cannot stand such a tedious day or if it seems like a waste of daycare, use a vacation day to stay home. We want you to work. We own you.

I know from an HR or management perspective I am being overdramatic and a little bit unrealistic. But am I crazy to think that a little generosity and humanity on the company's part might inspire a little love in return?

Monday, November 07, 2005

Here come the crazies (again)

When I was pregnant, I was prepared to be weepy and crazy hormonal. I will confess to crying at Oreo commercials, TV shows (mostly sit-coms), movies and even the odd movie trailer (tearing up at the preview of the Life of Yao was my real high point). After Clementine was born, I also cried--cried when I first held her, cried when I studied her face and felt my heart would break from so much love, cried when I realized one day she would feel pain I couldn't stop. Those were happy-sad tears, bittersweet little bubbles of hormones as I slowly woke up as a new mommy, madly in love and totally freaked out. There were other tears: frustrated tears when Clementine wouldn't nurse, tired tears at 3 a.m. when I thought Nate was the biggest jerk alive (he wasn't, nor was I the biggest bitch as he might have been imagining--we were just really, really tired). I've read the books--these tears are all to be expected, and I've now had a few weeks without any crazy crying jags out of nowhere.

Until today.

Today we returned to the pediatrician's office, a place I remember hazily but fondly from Clementine's first few weeks of life. The first time we went, it was a family affair and our first outing since bringing Clementine home from the hospital. The second time, Nate had gone back to work, Clementine was still losing weight because she wouldn't nurse and I babbled my head off about every single feeding, every pattern, every problem I had encountered to my daughter's very understanding doctor. Yes, he sat and listened to me for 20 minutes and comforted me and acted like I wasn't crazy or boring or just like every new mother he had ever dealt with. Needless to say, I heart my pediatrician.

And I trust him, too. I went today knowing that immunizations were in order but that he would be willing to support me if I chose to hold back and wait a while longer. We talked a lot about them, he gave me some of his theories and I ultimately decided to start with the DTaP and Polio today and read up on the others before next month's visit. He then excused himself, joking that he never gives the shots because it is important for the babies to like and trust him--he has hentchmen to give shots on his behalf. Should I leave also? I half-joked, not wanting Clementine to associate me with even a second of pain. But before I knew it, there were the nurses leaning over my little girl, asking me to hold her hands out of the way before they counted to 3 and stuck needles into her thighs in a synchronized torture dance that made Clementine instantly turn red and wind up for a big scream. Of course before all this happened, I burst into tears for the first time in weeks and, truth be told, I cried harder than Clementine.

After the shots, the nurses left me to dress Clementine and get her calmed down. This was a difficult task, as I could hardly see from the tears that were pouring out of my own eyes. I quickly gave up and sat down on the floor to hold my baby and weep with her. Why was I crying? I don't know. Yes, it's awful to see your child hurt, but will I be like this every time she skins her knee? I was nearly inconsolable for a good long time, although eventually Clementine got it together and I was able to look into her puffy, red, tear-stained and still beautiful eyes and pull myself together too.

I'd be lying if I said I didn't cry some more once in the safety of my car. Or that I didn't check on her every five minutes as she napped this afternoon, looking for the dangerous side effects of immunizations like fever or convulsions. She seems fine--much better than me, in fact.

And so another whole day slips by without much accomplished. It's crazy how much a baby slows down your life. Normally, I would have tried to fit in about 10 errands, lunch with a friend and a haircut after a morning doctor's appointment. Today, I was happy with just that little bit of excitement and a whole afternoon of watching my kid as she napped.

Human Rejects

or Half Retarded

or Holy Ridiculousness

These are just some of the nicknames I've come up with for HR--not Human Resources as they claim but Horribly Repulsive or Hairy Rears. The HR department has called me more times during my maternity leave than my boss has. One might think I was involved with some complicated scam to deprive the place of manhours by the way they track my moves and continually call with requests for more and more documentation. Perhaps they think I'm in cahoots with crooked doctors and medical billers and have pretended to have a baby just to collect my gloriuosly high salary while kicking back on the couch and eating bon-bons. It's the place's one failure--there is no humanity in human resources.

Sunday, November 06, 2005

More than a mom

It happened today. For the first time in the entire life of Clementine, I think there were at least five whole minutes today that I wasn't conscious of being a mom. I spent nearly the whole day away from her (she stayed home with her dad and grandpa who is visiting from Arizona), and at one point I realized I had a whole thought that in no way related to Clementine, breast milk, getting home, post-pregnancy, my future as a working mom, etc. In Nordstrom Rack I dedicated myself wholly and completely to finding a good deal on some amazing piece of clothing, and for a good five minutes I was so lost in flipping through the racks and boxing out overanxious shoppers that I think I wandered into a no-baby zone in my mind. I felt instantly guilty and at the same time comforted to find out those zones still exist.

Of course, right now I don't want to spend a whole lot of time there. I like looking at my kid and marveling at her facial expressions, cooing sounds and superior growth and development. When she's not with me, I like thinking about every cute thing she does, recalling her every feature and trying to smell her on my clothes. It sounds dippy, yes, but it really is more exciting than just about anything I've ever done so why not revel in it just a little bit? Despite the mooning, it is cool to think there will be times when I can retreat just a bit--even if it's just for a minute--and not try to look at my whole life through the lens of Clementine and motherhood. I'm not talking abandonment (this is the guilty, justifying voice in my head jumping on the defensive), just a part of myself that remains for me, helps keep me centered and sane and even makes me a whole person, a whole woman and a great example for my daughter. Now if only I can make that retreat time happen in front of a computer and far away from my charge card something better than a great pair of jeans may come of it. I know they say shopping is therapeutic, but who would have thought I could get all that from the experience and still have the sanity to just say no to the off-the-shoulder purple sweatshirt with skulls all over it that I thought might help me make the perfect statement of my carefree motherhood. My friend Karen and I are always concerned with those pieces that ride the line between terrific and terrible, fabulous and horrible, and I'm proud to say that I figured it out on my own for once. Or did I? Maybe it was fabulous...

In other news, we're off for Clementine's first round of immunizations tomorrow. Most people look at me like I'm a loon when I express trepidation about these shots--it's one thing to let her sleep in your bed, but what kind of nutjob doesn't protect her kid from disease? I get it. I know we've all had them and that they are a good idea and mostly safe and there is a less than 1% chance of anything going wrong, but still. I don't want to see Clementine suffer or be uncomfortable, and I certainly don't like that there is even a small risk of something happening to her. I was just reading an article by a woman with a 15 month old who hasn't received any of her immunizations yet and I confess to being a little curious. I'm going to read a little more about all this tonight and talk things over with my doctor tomorrow--he seems open to the more natural approach.

As for my waning intelligence that I complained about in the last post, I am coming to embrace my new mommy smarts. Mere months ago, I knew little about immunizations and certainly nothing about fearing them. See--smarts gained. And more seriously, I didn't know how hard it is, how truly hard it is to be a conscious mother (how ironic that I started this post celebrating a moment of losing that consciousness!). It's so much more important to think about TV and the Bush administration and food additives and workplace politics and all the ways women get the shaft when they are out trying to "have it all" with their shiny post-feminist badges securely in place now that I am a mom. I may not be as smart as I once was in terms of contemporary poetry, but it's true that I am expanding my mind in lots of new ways. And just in case there is a bit of the poet left in me after all, I'm taking Plath's Ariel to bed with me. I can't wait to revist her mother poems.

Friday, November 04, 2005

I used to be smart...I swear

As one who always seems to come late to the party, I have only just now truly discovered how large the blogging universe is. Maybe I just didn't care before, but it is stunning to find out that blogs are so much more than celebrity gossip or a way to keep track of my friend Nick. One article on parenting leads to a blog which leads to 25 other blogs and on and on and on. I read myself dizzy this morning, part enthralled and grateful to find so much out there and part jealous that so many other people seem to "get" this whole mothering thing so much more than I do.

And when I came back to it this afternoon, I stumbled across the blog of a poet I knew in graduate school, which lead to another poet I knew and eventually a whole bunch of poets I knew, know or don't know it all. It doesn't matter, the jist of it all is that I realized whith a gulp and a sigh that I have let a whole part of me slip almost completely away. The defensive side of me says who the fuck cares? A lot of what I uncovered was the kind of academic masterbation that made me flee academia in the first place. But I also found poems and thoughts and ideas and...and...and I realized that I, too, used to think. I used to read poetry and devour it. I used to know the names of most poets writing and publishing and I used to have opinions on difficult poetry, confessional poetry, MY poetry.

It would be easy to say it is all gone--like my muscles that are slowly dissolving as I celebrate 9+ weeks away from the gym. That would be a lie. It is there, the abilty to engage with that world again, but I feel such strong resistence and don't know where it comes from. I can't help but think I'm not as smart or as talented as my peers from grad. school, that they would laugh to see what my life has become since I so defiantly turned away from them and the goals we were all setting as writers. I fled because I thought I knew a better way--and now they are still there, thinking and writing and living, and I am in such a different place. It's not a bad place--being a mother has brought me back to intellect in so many ways. It has made me question and wonder and think and look for different perspectives. It has made me search and seek and, most of all, want to write and communicate. But it ain't poetry.

So, yes. I used to be smart about some things. I used to write poetry and think about it every second. I couldn't have an interaction that didn't start to fit itself into a poem as I processed--a toll booth collector, my students, a trip to the grocery store. Is that smart or am I talking about creativity? And what is the difference between that and this new urge to record, to translate these experiences I have as a mom? For one, when I was a poet I knew things, I thought I had answers for everything. I wrote from a place of knowledge and had theories, ideas. Now I write from ignorance, confusion, a desire just to get the details down. I have no confidence (now that I think about it, I haven't had much confidence since I left the sheltered world of academia) in this new role, and so I blog. I don't even really know why.

If there's one thing I know, though, it's that I used to be smart. I swear.

Thursday, November 03, 2005

Ashes, ashes

I fell down. Yesterday. While holding my baby. Oh. My. God.

Of course she's fine, but I don't know what has been worse for me--the bumps and bruises (I fell down many stairs, righted myself on the landing and then fell forward to the floor) or knowing that so far I have been the most dangerous thing my daughter has come into contact with. Forget disease, accidents all the other horrors my paranoid new mommy mind can come up with--Clementine must beware her clumsy, clumsy mom. Yikes.

Happily, Karen came for a visit in the afternoon and confirmed that 3 o'clock on such a traumatic day is not too early for a cocktail. Besides, it was cider, which is almost like apple juice for grown ups only it calms you so much better.

Wednesday, November 02, 2005

The daycare dilemna

Clementine is sleeping and I know I should be making use of this time to call some more daycare providers to see if any of them have openings for infants, much less if I like them. Everyone was urging me to start this process before she was even born, but I kept putting it off. Denial is a powerful tool in my hands and I'm happily wielding it now as I try to figure out what my next move should be.

I had no idea I would feel this conflicted about daycare, and it's throwing my whole sense of mothering and working out of whack. Before I actually had a kid, I knew hands down that I would always be a working mom--it just seemed like the normal, inevitable, even logical thing to do. Now that I have Clementine and have watched her develop over the last two months, I'm starting to see how very important every single second is. She changes with almost every experience we have (not every second, of course, but certainly daily), and I hate to trust that time to anyone else. To be honest, it's not only about trust--why should anyone but me or Nate get the best part of her days during a time in her life when she is becoming who she will be forever? Moreover, why should a job get the best part of my day or Nate's? What do we have left for each other come 5 o'clock--a few hours before bed where we can scramble to spend time with one another, clean the house, do laundry, cook, be social and have a life? Let's not even factor into it the things Nate and I do for ourselves creatively--write, make art, work in the garage, work on the house.

And about my job. I'm not a career woman in my head, but here I've ended up with a career. Truth be told, I don't much care about my job when I'm not there, but I have this overwhelming work ethic when I am and I get sucked in. It's like when I am around a football game or a baseball game or something; normally, I wouldn't care and would certainly never seek out the opportunity to watch them, but when I'm in front of one, I can cheer with the best of them feel like something DEPENDS on the outcome. It's the same with work--the job could evaporate tomorrow and my sense of myself wouldn't change at all. Nevertheless, when I'm given an assignment or a job I can't help but do it and do it right. Even before I got pregnant, though, I was looking around and wondering how I got to this place that is as far away from what I imagined of my life as possible. I was starting to feel bitter about the whole wake, work, eat, sleep, wake, work cycle that consumed me Monday through Friday. I used to be a poet--where did that go? I thought leaving academia behind would help me find a real world connection to poetry, but instead I got lost in the corporate universe. It's not so bad when I'm in the thick of it, but with a little perspective it feels...well...it feels like something I want no part of. Having a kid has really redefined the importance of work for me.

But that doesn't mean I'm ready to just chuck it and stay at home. There's a frightening look in the eyes of some of the stay-at-home moms I see in Target as they wander through the aisles. Their lives are their children, which is a wonderful notion but doesn't leave them much of their own stuff. I don't want that either. I want to have something, some kind of work, but I want to have time and flexibility, too. I see the temptation to hole up inside motherhood and insulate myself from the world and its responsibilities--I don't want that. I don't want to use this as an excuse to withdraw. I just want to find a balance between putting my kid first and having a life, a job, something to do.

What I'm skirting, of course, is my desire to get back to writing. I never really gave it a shot when I fled academia to try and make it work in the real world. It's not like I think poetry is a career or anything, but freelance writing is. I used to make sense of the world through writing, and I think the fact that I've lost that connection explains a lot about how traditional some aspects of my life have become. I've stopped questioning, stopped being instrospective and am just taking that broad, paved, unmistakable and easy path through the world.

So, how do I balance all of this and what do I ultimately do about daycare? There is so much guilt on both sides of the issue--I'd feel guilty leaving Clementine and I'd feel guilty stepping out of the workforce all together and depending on Nate to help us survive. This sucks. But avoidance helps. Writing this instead of calling daycare providers is so much more enjoyable, even if it leads to a serious responsibility hangover later.

Tuesday, November 01, 2005

8 weeks old...

...and we're just finally getting into a groove.

Before Clementine was born, I thought I had all the answers. Although pregnancy took us by surprise, it's not as if we were totally unprepared. We had a house, jobs, love, a stable life. How hard could adding a kid to the mix really be? Fewer concerts and nights out, less running around and drinking, but what a cool family life we could have in exchange for some of that. I had a great pregnancy, a pretty short and easy labor and then...well, then things all fell apart. I don't think I had thought about what would happen AFTER the baby was born--that's all instinct, right? How hard could it be?

Now that it's all behind us, I think it wasn't all that terrible. But in the thick of it--troubles nursing, illness, fussiness, incessant crying, no sleep, endless visitors, newfound insecurity, doubts about my ability to parent, doubts about Nate's ability to parent, solitude, etc.--I thought it was the hardest thing I've ever done in my life. I remember a friend who had been through all that and then some telling me, "Amanda, in a year your life will be so much better." A year? Why do people do this, I wondered.

But the cloud lifted. It was never all bad because I had this beautiful little creature depending on me, getting to know me and helping me get to know her. Sure, we struggled, but the good times were always there and became more plentiful as I began to relax and think again that it's all instinct and how hard could it really be? I let go of the parenting books, and my anxiety disappeared. I let Clementine take over and things got so much better as I followed her lead and worked to hush the voices of common knowledge that came at me from all sides, each with its own agenda.

In general and in theory, I've never been one to subscribe to common knowledge theories. But every time my life gets a good shake up (a baby, graduation, a job change, marriage), I do freak out a little and try to find a book or a theory or a set path to explain it all away. It's a weakness I always end up regretting: that moment of insecurity leads to so many more when I abandon my own ideas and try to plug in the theories other people have developed. Luckily, I have a good safety net of people (starting with Nate, who is way smarter than I ever give him credit for being) who bring me back to myself, remind me that things work out and urge me to get back into my own head.

And so it is that Clementine is 8 weeks old today and we are happily chilling out in front of the computer thinking about all that has happened to us in such a relatively short period of time. She has been all smiles this morning, and I've been grateful for every second we have together. There are lots of things I'm still trying to figure out; as content as Clementine has made me, my life still feels like it's in upheaval. I have lots to figure out in the coming weeks. (How) will I go back to work? How do moms balance work and a life (especially a creative one) and a kid and a marriage and still feel like they are giving each one the best they can? How will I put Clementine in day care? Do I even want to work? Why do I feel guilty either way? How can I be the best mother for Clementine and still give myself time to be me?

Ah, she fusses. Enough introspection for now.