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??