Here we go again

I have been very good about the whole day care situation lately if I do say so myself. 6 months ago I was a neurotic mess, but I've lived through those days of hand wringing, the great bottle propping incident and those few weeks Julie walked around like some strange Frankenstein in dark glasses after an eye lift because I have seen how social day care has made Clementine, how good with other kids. I've also seen how much she really likes Julie and how sweet Julie is with her. Yes, there is some denial on my part in order to make it out the door each day--I have to just let go of the things that they do differently and try to focus on how good this is for all of us, even when it doesn't feel that way.

And then on Friday (why is it always on a Friday?), I popped in early and found a scene so disturbing that I'm not sure how to handle going back. When I pulled up, Julie was hanging some silk flowers on her door. No big deal--I often find her upstairs when I come in because she has some helpers to give her a break now and then. But when she looked at me askance and said "I just popped up to hang this very quickly," I knew I would find the kids in the basement unsupervised. No big deal, I know--I leave Clementine in a room by herself all the time. When I got downstairs, though, I found Clementine in the high chair with Cheerios. OK, you can call me overprotective or neurotic here, but she is 1 year old--I never ever ever walk away from her when she's eating, especially to go to another room where I wouldn't be able to hear the quiet sounds of struggle she makes when she chokes on something.

As if that's not bad enough, the high chair is positioned right across from the giant (and I mean GIANT, as tall as me) television, which is on. I know they watch some Sesame Street from time to time, and I've even stomached some Clifford. We don't do TV ever in our house, but this is one of the things I've made peace with at day care--they watch the tube a bit every day. But Clementine right across from it really bothered me, especially when I noticed it was on the country music channel. Don't get me wrong, I love me some Johnny Cash, Loretta Lynn, old school Flatt & Scruggs, and I'll even stomach the Dixie Chicks since they ripped their careers apart standing up against the devil George Bush. But this is not what gets played on the country music station any more than Bloc Party or Sufjan Stevens get played on MTV. No, it is burly men in hats waving the American flag and telling you to leave if you don't like it. And at that particular moment, the video was one about the tough life of soldiers. How do I know? Because there was a montage of injured and bleeding people, soldiers crouched down with weapons, explosions and then rows and rows of gravestones at Arlington. There sat my sweet little girl calmly eating Cheerios and slugging at her bottle, watchin death and destruction on the TV.

Leaving beside my horror at this as a day care environment (but only for a minute), this is why I most object to TV. Sure, part of it is that I think kids shows are insipid, awful brain rot that make kids whine about having a Dora party or shriek in order to have an Elmo doll. But part of it is really how little control you have over what your kid sees when you turn her over to TV. It's not just the advertising, which is awful and can expose kids to all sorts of materialism, not to mention unpredictable and often inappropriate themes. It's the programs as well that can forward all sorts of stuff you may not want your kids exposed to yet. And I'm not talking about Buster having two dads, though I do have the tiniest bit of understanding for those parents who objected to that--not because it's OK to be a bigot but because you should get to have those conversations with your kids on your time). And before I sound even more sanctimonious, it's not that I object to all things you can do with a TV--I object to the live feed and the way it interferes with family time. We are more than happy to know a frazzled sitter can pop in a pre-approved movie (some excerpts of Yellow Submarine, for example), and we love that she watched Pee Wee's Playhouse when she stays with my friend Laura.

To get on to the more pressing issue of my unsupervised and eating child watching the world blow up and all the bloody casualties, I was clearly horrified and have no idea what I said beyond "Oh my goodness, I can't believe you're letting them watch this." There was some exchange I can't quite remember now, but I think I wasn't as strong as I wanted to be. She said she just likes for there to music for the kids, especially because Clementine likes to dance so much (yes, I think she tried to make it C's fault). I was so paralyzed with anger I got the hell out of there and have been freaking out from time to time ever since. I know it wasn't intentional, but this adds up to something that feels less than good. Maybe I was willing to overlook some of this before because Clementine was younger and I wanted to be sure she was somewhere that she would be held and paid attention to. Now I'm starting to change my tune on the whole objection to the day care center. Certainly they don't have TVs, right? But then they have other evils, I'm sure.

I could launch into yet another tirade about how this whole thing just isn't working for me, for us. Both of us working full time jobs is not helping us be the parents we want to be, much less helping us keep up a house, eat nutritious meals and have clean clothes. But I can't focus on that because I fall apart a little every time I do. Instead. I've decided to embrace my non-existent Jewish roots and head out of town tomorrow with my fabulous friend Laura and her son. We're going to celebrate Yom Kippur up north and put off thinking about work, about day care one more day.

Your (cat) name here

We did a lot of stuff this weekend, much of it very fun. [Big aside here: the Ferndale Art Fair, which was very cool. But what is it with hip parents and their slippery aloofness? I was so happy to see all these people out with their kids, listening to music, perusing art, letting their tattoos and wild side of parenting hang out, but they were such islands! It's like when I was living in Thailand, going days sometimes without seeing another foreigner and would catch a glimpse of one across the market and want to run up and say "Hi, how are you? Isn't this amazing or weird or wonderful or awful and can't we just say some words to each other in English and be happy for one minute before I go back to eating pumpkin curry and fish paste and trying to understand the difference between 'Glai mai ka and gleye mai ka'?" But invariably they would diss me, allow their eyes to skid past as if seeing another white person in a small town on the border or Thailand and Burma was about as orginary as seeing a gecko or a rat. Maybe I'm wholly ignorable no matter what the context, but I was so bummed to be near so many hip parents this weekend and exchange not even a knowing glance. Honestly, the mom-jeans moms were more friendly and encouraging of my own sweet Clementine who wanted to desperately just to dance and frollick with other kids. I guess I'm just a loser, but why oh why oh why is it so hard to get to chatting with other parents?]

Anyway, in all the hubub of hanging out, doing our weekend shopping, catching up with friends here and in Ann Arbor and just generally enjoying each other, we decided to adopt a cat from the litter next door, which is quickly heading to the Humane Society if no one steps up. We have been sad without Kitty since we had to put her down, and since Clementine LOVES cats and sits at the window saying "Hi!" to all the strays, it just seemed like a good idea. Isn't he cute?



But as we are trying to name him ('cuz "Lion," the name he came with, just isn't cutting it for me), I'm realizing I may not be a pet person. I mean, I loved Kitty, but now that she is gone I feel more guilt about her than true honest-to-goodness missing her. I feel like we didn't take care of her, that she was suffering from lack of affection, that we could have helped her prolong her life. All of this is silly--it was her time to go--but now that I've got a new cat in my life, I'm starting to see some patterns. For one, I can't give the damn thing a name and can't bring myself to call him anything but Kitty. We've tested out lots of names, but none of them seem right, or, if they do, I forget about them right away. It's odd. I even called my niece last night to get her help (she names all Clementine's dolls, which is how we've ended up with Whatti and Clyde and Zach), and after conferencing briefly with what I can only assume are the spirits, she whispered to me, "Auntie, I think his name is Maygo or Taygo or Raygo...maybe Shaygo." She could not be swayed, and neither could I. I tried Maygo, but really it just came back to Kitty. My sister called back with another Abby selection: Manny Maygo, but I am still not able to just pick something and move on.

Am I are creeping, feelingless pet owner? Am I unable to form attachments to animals? What's going on?

I should report that Clementine is over the moon with her latest friend, and they have great fun dining together and playing on the floor. He even likes to supervise her bath time:



But, Internet, let me get to the point: what should I name my new cat? Can someone help me find a name that sticks?

Sweet, sweet sleep

It should concern you that it has been a week since I last posted, especially since the last post clearly indicated that we were suffering from some profound retribution (for what I'm still unclear) in the form of lack-of-sleep torture. It should concern you because it is not that I didn't want to post, to say hi, how are you, we're peachy. I did, really. I wanted to do lots of things, but instead I got very little sleep AND had the flu (and still had to go to work one day) AND...did I mention the not sleeping? OK, I guess we just had the flu and NO SLEEP, which doesn't sound very dramatic, but I just didn't have time to do anything else except work when forced to and apologize to Nate for calling him a lazy motherfucker the night before when we were not sleeping. See, we are very preoccupied these days with sleep.

But things are looking up.

I don't dare once more put it out on the internet that a certain darling little girl slept all the way through the night last night for fear of being smote, but as we work out the teething, the elimination of overnight feeding and the rest of the kinks, I do feel like there's an end in sight. She's not going to get it right away for now and ever, but in the same way that we are asking her to at times be flexible (weekends when we keep her out just a bit past her bedtime and hope she doesn't totally melt down in a bar or restaurant where we're trying to pretend that nothing has to change about our lives just because we're parents), we have to be a little flexible with her. Aren't I little Susie Sunshine? It's either that last night's marathon 8 hours has gone to my head or I'm feeling guilt for one of the many times in the middle of the night last week I thought to myself that I could almost (ALMOST) understand where people who shake their babies go wrong. You can only spend so much time on the very edge like that before you really start to lose it.

Hubris

hu·bris [hyoo-bris, hoo-]
n.
excessive pride or self-confidence; arrogance.

I asked people at work today to think of great acts of hubris. Some mentioned Ulysses and other Greek mythological characters, my friend Dave had some very specific football reference that involves 1993 (I think), the Superbowl and someone who thought he'd made a touchdown celebrating a little too soon, and of course there is George Bush, the WMDs and all the subsequent nonsense that has us at war in Iraq. Know what no one mentioned (and now it seems a little petty since I've brought up the WAR and all)? The great hubris of telling the internet your baby sleeps through the night when it was clearly ALL A FLUKE.

And how is hubris punished? Usually by great acts of retribution. Clementine slept perhaps two hours last night, and no matter how hard we tried she would not be comforted. She didn't want to be held, she didn't want to be snuggled or rocked or walked or left to cry or anything. She would occasionally sleep if Nate were sitting ramrod straight up on the couch, but that was it. Today we looked like zombie parents and could hardly get out the door. I never did find my wallet and take it with me, and I certainly didn't manage to get shoes on Clementine. It is never a good thing when I leave her at day care, and I have never for a moment believed that being at Julie's is better or as good as being at home. Today was a close call, though--I don't know if I would have stayed awake long enough to care for her today, or if I might have totally lost my shit if she didn't take a nap.

She is fast asleep tonight, though, and I'm not taking my chances and making any predictions. I just had a peek, and she looked so perfect all curled up in that big old bed, her face totally relaxed and the tiniest bit of spit gleaming at the corner of her mouth. It looked like bliss. While I have become very good at embracing the comical, stressed-out, what-the-hell-happened-to-my-life side of working motherhood, I started thinking tonight that I might be forgetting the slack-jawed awe with which I started this whole thing. Our first weeks home I was a tender, emotional, hormal mess more in love than I had ever been able to understand, more vulnerable to the world and its whims, more open to the possibilities. I was a gushing, sappy, adoring jumble of words and feelings, and I hate to think for a moment that I've let the difficulties, the hustle, the voices of reason, the predictable parent blinders or anything else dampen for a single moment the total wonder I feel when I'm in her presence. I need to remember to put the jokes aside from time to time and reconnect with that feeling. Sure, when I'm still putting on my shoes while tossing Cheerios into the backseat and answering work calls as if I'm already at my desk I have to laugh if for no other reason than to keep from screaming my bloody head off. But there are also the moments when I look back at her reflection in the rearview mirror and feel such a wave of familiarity and comfort. There's nothing funny about that moment.

Now with less kitchen sink!

It has been a very exciting day for us at the punk rock household--nay, it has been an exciting weekend. Today, after lots of hard work (all of which was done by Nate, although I did promise at one point that if we did this I would TOTALLY HELP; I suck), a big and wonderful breakfast at Club Bart, a long bike ride and a trip to the park, we drove the Mercedes around the neighborhood on straight vegetable oil for the first time ever. It was rocky at first as the system "burped," but it was shortly smooth and very tasty smelling sailing.



I daresay even Miss Clementine enjoyed tooling around on the inaugural ride, and we all know how she feels about the car (though that has kind of changed now that she has turned around and can face the world). She was either ecstatic at the idea of being the most ecologically conscious child on the block, smacking her head as if to say "My crazy parents," or she was practicing pulling a blanket up over her head when riding in the back seat of the french fry mobile on her way to school:



But mere mechanics is not all the weekend had to offer. Clementine and I enjoyed a great morning downtown with Hudson, despite the tomfoolery of social awkwardness near other parents I detailed below (and yes, in case you are wondering, I am totally ignoring the fact that I am such a loser an internet shrink sought out MY BLOG to give me tips on social interactions via the comments section. As far as I'm concerned, it just didn't happen). We saw a parade, went to Eastern Market to get all sorts of goodies (thank heavens that for once I had the stroller), played in the park, had yet another long bike ride and, much to my family's shock and amazement, took almost NO pictures. I don't think I'm cured or anything (I just uploaded three dozen more photos to Flickr--I have a PROBLEM, people, and I need HELP) and I certainly don't think Clementine had a single second when she was less than photogenic, but I managed to only photograph a very serious looking Hudson and a very serious spelling error all day long.





I like to think it was the spelling that had Hudson so worried, but I think it was really that he was horrified his parents seemed to be paying no attention to him as he ate grass--I swear, he practically mowed the whole park with his teeth. Were I not there to shirk social niceties in order to care for him, who knows what his fate would have been. Who knows??

But the really cherry on the top of our weekend cherry was a rousing trip to Target Friday night after discovering that the best Mexican food we've been able to find in Detroit is sadly not in the city. We've done Mexican Village and we love us some authentic ambiance, but the food at this place near the *gasp* mall was really the closest we've come to tolerable since Agave shut down, no doubt for having the biggest asshole greet people at the door and scoff at them if they ask for a high chair. But I digress. I think my Friday evening can only be described in song, so channel some Madonna channeling Eva Perrone and sing this to the tune of "Evita:" "Don't cry for me De-troit hipsters, the truth is I hardly miss you! There were my wild days, my bars and galleries, but now there are errands...on Friday evenings." OK, that didn't really work and I think it is now obvious that I'm losing my mind, but I had a great time getting lots of shopping done while the whole world was out having fun and living interesting lives. We're taking Karen (she of the shuffle board and booze and karaoke) down on this one, too--I think she had more fun with us in Target than she normally does when she's out with adults who stay up past 10 p.m. and can't tell you everything there is about breastfeeding and infant bowel movements. Proof that Target rocks just as hard as any youthful night out: costumes.



Yes, we are losers. But we're losers who all have new toys from Target and got a good night's sleep on Friday. How many hipsters can say the same?

We capped the weekend off with a quick trip to Ann Arbor for the judge's wife's birthday party. I haven't had many moments like this as a parent (or really in my life at all), but the second we walked in the door of the restaurant, I knew it wasn't the best place for us. We love Julie and were happy to celebrate with her, but no one (NO ONE) had brought their kids, and everyone was dressed to the nines. We weren't out of place--everyone was super nice to us because we have the cutest baby in the world, after all--but it was hardly the family gathering we had thought it might be. There were politicos there and lots of social connections to be made, and we were absolutely blindsided by it. We copped a seat in a corner booth and let Clementine try her hand at the very chic vegetarian finger foods all around, and then we very quietly and quickly made our exit--happy we could have been there to celebrate but happy also that a kid is always the perfect excuse to leave a party even without much social grace. The old me would have been a little mental over misreading things, over not "doing it right" or talking to the right people, dressing the right way. But here's a way motherhood has really strengthened and improved me: I simply didn't care. We are who are: flip flops and dress skirts, longish beards and babies at birthdays, and I'm fine with it. I'm actually a little proud of it. As we left, I called my friend Laura and invited my little family over for pizza and fun in their backyard. That's the kind of Sunday that never blindsides me.

And speaking of proud, I don't want to brag or anything, but Clementine slept through the night last night. Yes, from 8 p.m. to 8 a.m. with only a whimper early on in the evening. I realize this is something most moms say about their 6-month-old babies, but I'm taking rejoicing where I can find it. Sadly Nate and I were too stupid to hightail it to bed ourselves to enjoy deep, uninterrupted sleep. No, we stayed up until 2 and thus didn't get any more sleep than we usually do. I've got my fingers crossed for tonight, though.

And STILL speaking of proud, did I tell you I discovered the secret of parenting?

Let her inherit my bad skin

Or my wonky eye. Or my propensity to cheat at cards. Let her inherit my good teeth or even my height (a little on the short side), but please oh please oh please do NOT let her inherit my social awkwardness. It will cause her enough distress to have a socially awkward mother who cannot make or maintain normal friendships with the parents of her playmates, so please don't make things worse by making her socially awkward as well.Please.

I was really thinking I had this licked--in fact, I went out this week with my friend Courtney and hung out with her friend Liz and had a great time. I even talked. I had things to say! I wasn't a freak show, and I totally made a new friend. So I know it can be done.

But then I went to this neighborhood celebration downtown and encountered a bunch of parents my age who had kids close to Clementine's age, and I was once again the quiet, unable to connect type who just gazes upon her child and follows her around in order to avoid social contact. It's not that I didn't try--I did. But I did some awkward shit in trying to connect with other parents (and I think therein truly lies the problem: my experiences with parenting are what I'm least confident about, so forming acquaintances based on this one common idea, that we are all parents, is toughest for me because I'm so insecure about what the hell I'm doing). One mom said, "I work for a judge," and I, desperate to connect on some level, said "I am best friends with a judge!" Leaving aside the fact that I was totally the girl in the front row of class screaming "Pick me! Pick me!" it's not like I lied--it's just that using the word "best friend" to describe important people in your life who are over 60 is totally weird and not quite right. If I'm not the "Pick me!" girl, then I sound like one of those girls in high school who calls her mom her "best friend"--even if it's true, it implies an inability to connect with people your age. Duh! I have that in spades.

To complicate matters even further, a few of these parents are bloggers, and I still haven't figured out how to handle that in social situations. Do I walk up to the woman I recognize from her photos and say, "Hey! You always write about how socially awkward you are...I'm socially awkward, too! Let's be friends!" Do I have to fess up right away: "I read your blog," so she knows I know? Instead, I handled it by NOT talking to her at all, by not introducing myself (Courtney did, but she's going to be mayor of friggin' Detroit some day because she knows people EVERYWHERE we go--we're friends because she has enough social skills to make up for my complete lack of them). I was better at talking to the parents of a little girl who is very close to Clementine's age. They blog too, but I only discovered theirs a few days ago and am not as steeped in their life and exploits. I did want to make out with the mom when she explained that her daughter didn't sleep through the night until she was 14 months--a kindred spirit! No, I didn't actually TRY to make out with her, but I did have to resist the urge to desperately clutch at her and her husband and say, "Please let us skip over these awkward first encounters--I am not good at these things. I am better with time. I am funny. My husband makes odd stuff and we are good for a laugh and our house is very fun to visit. It doesn't matter if you never really like me--we have kids, and I want my kid to play with your kid, who doesn't live in the hillbilly heaven where our house is, who wears Chucks and BabyLegs and is very cute, who won't teach Clementine to use racial slurs. Please, for the love of all that is holy, let us be parent friends and go to the zoo and eat dinner in restaurants at 5:30 so we can still do our bath and bed routine." Or something like that. Instead, I said "Nice meeting you" and followed Clementine around as she wandered through the park aimlessly after the dogs who were all there dressed up for the dog parade.

I feel bad that I'm not able to make friends who have kids because Clementine LOVES being with babies and toddlers and kids of all ages. Within a 10 minute drive of my house, I hang out with exactly 1 family with child. There are a few more kids in our life if I'm willing to drive further, and I don't want to denigrate the amazing friends I have with older kids or no kids at all--they are the light and love of our small, biological family-less Detroit lives. But who do I call on a beautiful morning to go to the park with us? Who has a kid that Clementine can tickle and hug (her favorite bonding activities)? Hudson is going to get sick of us if we're not careful.

I'm being pulled out the door to go ride over to our breakfast place. Nate is almost done converting our '83 Mercedes to run on veggie oil--if he works enough today, we'll have our inaugural ride by sunset. We're heading out to the a party with The Judge (see, I told you we're best friends) and his wife tonight--it's a surprise birthday, and SURPRISE! we don't have a gift yet. To do, to do. Happily it's distracting me from the fact I'm back to work tomorrow. Yes, we're back to that: I just don't want to go. Ever.

The goods

As evidence of the often hidden side of my truly bifurcated personality--one part goody goody corporate raider, one part independent writer/artist/rocker/wild child--my very belated Mother's Day tattoo, belated because apparently injecting dye into your skin while breastfeeding isn't recommended behavior. I think the reactions of the people I'm closest to also serve to illustrate my divided nature. People either love it and oooh and aaah when I show it to them, or they are horrified by how BIG, how permanent. Whatever. It's not quite finished yet--the stars need to be colored, and there's a background we didn't get done, but the general idea and Clementine-inspired nature of it are pretty clear.



And despite the fact that this is numero 5, I'm still not looking forward to the stern disapproval of my dad when he either reads this or has occasion to see me in a t-shirt. I'm embarrassed that as a 31-year-old grown woman I still let him have this much of an effect on me, but I guess it's just how it is. It doesn't matter in the end because I LOVE LOVE LOVE it, right down to the cat-eye shades on the sparrows and the itchy itchy scabs that I'm trying to keep at bay so it heals correctly.

Playin' Hooky

Blessed be the day care provider for taking off today for West Virginia, leaving me no other option than staying home with Clementine. As it turns out, I would have been off anyway as my boss turned to me this week in a particularly mind-numbing meeting to say, "You've had a rough go of it these last two weeks. Why don't you take Friday off to spend with your daughter." Did I say "Look at my calendar, bozo, I'm already outta here?" No way! A simple, "Well, if you insist" will suffice.

So here it is 9:30 a.m. after a miserable night's sleep (she snuffled like a woodland creature seeking out food all night long when she wasn't shrieking) and we've already had a wonderful time. The best part about it is that all the mistakes are mine today--she won't see a lick of TV, not even the "educational shows" that Julie justifies at day care, but I can't guarantee she won't hear the word "fuck"thousand times if we go anywhere in the car. Hooray for parenting. We tried some new foods for breakfast, but my little gal wouldn't even look at a scrambled egg and totally turned her nose up at peanut better. If I hadn't watched her emerge from own body, I would doubt she was my child on that alone. Peanut butter is my stranded-on-a-desert-island food, my comfort food, my go-to food, and I can't imagine my life without it. Sure, it means I've probably exposed her to allergies and will spend my whole life rabidly avoiding foods with traces of peanuts so she doesn't blow up like a balloon, but I love me some PB.

We've also already had a jammin' dance party downstairs. She picked out her record du jour, The Pretenders, and we did a host of dancing, including the Flashdance stutter step, some general body jerking, a cool head roll that looks a little like she's trying to learn to break dance and then some couples dancing, which involves her trying to throw herself out of my arms for a dip or a lift. She grabbed the maraca, gave me a tambourine and then we shook it with all we've got. I think this means no gym necessary today.

But what is necessary? I have one inclination to fill the day up doing all the stuff we never can together. It's too yucky for finding a good park now, but we can touch every single toy in the house before too long (even the annoying plastic ones), maybe go to Ikea to get some bookshelves, poke around the Book Beat for some new reads..who knows. At some point I guess she will be tired of me staring at her and petting her hair, so we'll have to find an adventure after napping. Oh, sweet napping. I've spent that time a thousand times over already--I will read, read, read, I will write to Dr. S about the sheath of poems she sent me so long ago, I will clean my office, I will write, I will blog, I will not check my work email, I will not preen in the mirror, staring at my tattoo for hours. Surely Clementine cannot sleep for the thousand lives I want to live during nap today.

A girl could get used to this, especially when she's had a week where she feels like her job is eating her soul and that she doesn't see her kid enough. I'm resisting the urge to whine, the existential crisis that comes over me in cycles now, but I love being home--not just to be with Clementine. I feel like my brain got turned back on this morning when, instead of getting in my car and autopiloting to work, I looked at a whole, blank day, just me and my daughter and started wondering how we could spend it. Free will!

OK, she's using the optical mouse as a telephone, crying "Hi! Hi!" into again and again. I'm off for something a little more imaginative.

Flashdance

First of all, I don't know why the hell I was bitching about being the mom tossing Cheerios into the backseat on the way to work. Sure, it's not the healthy let's-sit-down-and-eat-as-a-family breakfast Donna Reed had for her kids every morning, but what a boon to discover a box of not totally unhealthy snacks in your car when you're so hungry you could eat your own hand and have to get to a meeting in front of 100 parents and don't want your tummy to rumble. Once again, I bow in humility before the great parenting god who laughed at my Cheerio-to-go resistance. Will I ever not have SO MUCH to learn.

And speaking of learning, Clementine is picking up some cute and crazy things every day. When I got home last night she was so excited to see me that she did this crazy little foot stomping dance like the one in Flashdance. OK, so she didn't have the one-shoulder sweatshirt and legwarmers, but she had that little flutter step down. I was very flattered that the sight of her mother brought that out in her, but then her do it when she tossed a magnet into the kitchen garbage can and again when she saw her doll Whatti (named by my niece and I still don't have a spelling) and yet again after she tried to crawl fully clothed into the bath tub. So maybe it's not all about me, but it sure is damn cute.

What's not cute is this ugly sleep phase we're going through. Nate and I have been wimps up until recently, feeding her all night long whenever she fusses just to buy us some extra Zs. Not only do I think she uses the bottle for comfort she prolly doesn't truly need, but I'm so damn tired lately that I end up spilling milk all over me and the bed, meaning if I don't change the sheets right away the whole room spells (this whole cow's milk thing is soooo different than breastmilk). So we've stopped bringing a bottle to bed, which last night meant about two hours of whining and tossing. She rarely wakes up all the way, but she tossed and turns and kicks and screams and whines, and I can't believe any of us an get up and walk the next day. I'm seeing it as a duty to get through, though, because I think we all deserve a night's sleep. No, I'm not sleep training her or letting her cry it out hard core (she's still in our bed, after all, and I'm done apologizing for that), but I'm going to see if a few more days of bad sleep might take us to a new level of good sleep. I'm holding out for a hero here.

I gave myself a little post-nursing, your-kid-turned-one, express yourself present yesterday and have a whole new trick up my sleeve (literally). I'm pretty psyched, but I have to go back for another sitting to finish the whole thing off. I can't decide if I'll post pics when it heals up or if I'll wait until I finish it. For now, I'm going back to bed to see if I can't squeeze in another 30 minutes before the get-to-work rush sets in.

Some days a working mom can't win

I swear I'm not trying to be the world's biggest whiner, but I have had one of those days. You know the kind. I woke up late, the baby woke up even later. I ran through the morning feeling like I was forgetting something, couldn't dress myself, choked down some coffee (yes, back on the caffeine), thank heavens Nate dressed C and somehow scooted us out the door. But I had to write a check for the day care lady at the first traffic light. That made me remember she was totally out of Clementine's diapers, so I pulled over at the nearest Rite-Aid where I realized Clementine hadn't had breakfast (she was going nuts at the candy bars), so I threw in a box of Cheerios and spent the remainder of our drive tossing them back to her and damning my stick shift for making morning multi-tasking so hard.

I threw her in the door at day care because I was so late for work and then realized I didn't have my camera for morning convocation. Damn. Luckily, Karen had left hers at my house and it was rolling around in my backseat for a week waiting to be returned. So I grabbed it, made it to the ceremony, couldn't get anything to work right and eventually made it to my office to find 445 emails in my account--so much for even using the photos to write a story. Granted 100 of the emails were from a few weeks ago, 150 from last week, so it's not like they cropped up over night, but I had to get serious about answering them. But then there is the generic email I have to answer, another account with 60 emails. Writing? Photos? My actual job? Who has time? I'm tech support now.

I spent the rest of the day frantic, a to-do list spiraling out of control and my perspective waning. How would I ever get it all done? I hate when it gets like that, my fingers madly typing, my whole self overwhelmed. My friends pop by my office and I can't even look at them except with these crazy eyes that scream "Stay away! I'm MAD! A lunatic!" And then I get so wound up I think I have to quit my job immediately because nothing is worth this kind of stress, not to mention being the last mommy to day care to get her love, with whom I have spent a whole 20 minutes of time today. This is where things get dangerous and I think of all the things I haven't done with my life (a book, my writing, more travel) and will now never do. Not because of my kid but because of my job. And then, there you go--I'm whining again. I feel trapped, overwhelmed. These are not new feelings--they are at the heart of my struggle as a working mom.

But then I go get darling C. from day care, and she runs over to give me a hug and a goofy grin. Today she has learned where her tongue is, so when you ask her she opens her mouth and is so damn proud of herself she can't keep from laughing. The whole day melts away, and I'm sane and happy and myself. OK, not entirely true. I took a brief detour into the garage when I got home to sit by myself in Nate's convertible and *gasp* smoke a cigarette. I don't smoke (and neither does Nate anymore, yet there were emergency cigs tucked away in a glove compartment), but it seemed like the right thing to do. Very dramatic. I was very proud of myself.

But THEN things were better and I put on my sweat pants and took care of my family and was just so grateful and happy to be home. So today sucked more than most, but because of it the evening was better than most. I have to call it even, huh?

My loverly sister posted some fabulous pictures of her brood today. Don't you want o go take a peek?

The Birthday Bash

Almost a week later, I have cleaned the cake frosting off the baby monitor, thrown away the wrapping paper (though the toys are still all over), organized the cards and finally sorted through all the pictures I took of the big day. It was more than I could have ever hoped for in a birthday party and faux baptism (which I've taken to calling a blessing because it makes my mom happier).

Last Sunday, the weather was perfect and we set up for the event by dragging all of the bicycles from our garage and getting them spiffied up for the bike parade. Clementine, whose obsession with bicycles grows stronger every day (when we get home at night she runs over the garage, bangs on the door and says "bi-bi-bi"), was thrilled to see some of her friends even brought their own bikes. She was checking them all out before we took off:

People rode tall bikes and long bikes, folding bikes, Taxi bikes, Stingrays, trikes and all sorts of different contraptions. Even my mom rode one, ever in the spirit (maybe because her new boyfriend was along?):

After our parade, Clementine donned her Tiger hat, which is a Chinese folkloric tradition--apparently babies wear this hat on their one year birthday to catch all the heavenly goodness falling from the sky between the tiger's ears. Thankfully it had a tie, so it stayed on her head for the duration of the faux baptism ceremony despite her best efforts to remove it. Clementine, you want that heavenly goodness, don't you? Good. Put it on.

I knew I wanted to do some sort of blessing for our girl because, although we have no intention of baptising her, I do want to provide some sort of foundation for spirituality and divinity, for asking questions and believing in things. I asked guests to being a small symbol of a wish they have for her future, and I also asked them to write in a little book what they might be willing to teach her as she grows older. I started the ceremony by reading Sylvia Plath's "Morning Song," a poem I read again and again when I came home from the hospital with C., and I somehow managed NOT to cry, not even when I read the last line, which always gets me. On cue, Clementine started to sing a little as I read about her clear vowels. It was very sweet.

Then we went around the circle and presented her with our symbols. I gave her an unpolished Petosky stone so she would always remember where she came from, what her earliest adventures were and to look for beauty everywhere, even in an unpolished stone. He dad gave her a tiny old wrench, which she popped into her mouth right away, so she would always be able to solve her problems. She got a Buddy Christ from my sister and her family, a Bible from my mom, a Tiffany luggage tag from Aunt K., a rock in the shape of a C and some dream coins from the Lamberti's, flowers, a Virgin Mary nightlight, some funny glasses and a picture from her boyfriend Hudson, and she got inspirational books, a collage, poems, a special chair for contemplating, lovely little toys, some poems and stories, a promise for fishing lessons from Uncle Dizzle and lots of wonderful goodies I'm sure I'm forgetting. Even her Nonny and Grandpa sent something from Arizona to wish her good reading. After the presentation, I read Margaret Atwood's "You Begin," another great poem, and our Clementine was blessed, baptised, welcomed and ready for cake.

She wasn't sure what to make of the cake at first, but she took to it pretty quickly and managed to get frosting EVERYWHERE.

I know that's part of the fun, but she's not real fond of being cleaned up, so her head was all sticky for the rest of the party until the sugar rush faded and left her crazy tired, the kind that makes it seems like she's having more fun than she's ever had before, but then in the blink of an eye is crying and screaming and just so ready for bed, guests be damned.

My family took off after the party came to an end, which meant we three had Labor Day to spend together not doing much. You would think I could have sorted pictures then, but there were SO many. Click on any below to go see the overindulgance than is a first-time mom with a digital camera.

Another series

Cousins once again together, once again we parents search for a shot of the three of them. This is the third attempt. First there was Washington D.C., then there was the park and now the pre-birthday celebration:

I'm starting to think this is the Holy Grail of family photography. Three children, one camera, all of them looking in the same direction, all of them eyes open and maybe even smiling--it shouldn't be this hard. I'm wondering if we're going to have to involve medication or television if we ever want this to work. I kind of like the foibles better than I would a real shot, though.

A day at the zoo

I'm a such a nerdy first-time mom. I took over 200 pictures of Clementine's birthday party and faux baptism!! By the time I can post them all and write about it, she will be graduating from college. It's either that or I'll post from work. What am I thinking? I can't even remember to eat and pee at work these days, so maybe I'll have to pull an all-nighter. I had a dreadful day at work--more than any one person can do in a week, much less a day. Plus the assistant I was about to hire took a job somewhere else. PLUS I hit a dumpster with my car trying to get out of a parking place. Hell's Belles I need a drink.

But before that, let me extoll the virtues of the zoo. We are fond of it, even if Clementine could care less about the camels (though she is starting to take an interest in the penguins and makes the baby sign for dog whenever she sees anything with fur). If nothing else, it is a great place to go for a long walk far, far away from my white-trash ghetto of a neighborhood (did I tell you about the bullet in the roof of my car yet?? Yeah.). Before the birthday bash, we took the whole gang there for a little stroll.

Not only did we walk with the roos and spot the mountain lions, we also got to hang with the tragically hip playgroup, a group of parents with Bugaboos, rock-n-roll hair and more black clothing than an undertaker's convention. While normally I would look at those kinds of people with recognition and longing, watching them talk on their cell phones while they pushed their $900 strollers and fluffed their hair made me loathe them. See? I can competitive mother like the rest of them. It should be an Olympic sport.

I should get back to the hundreds of birthday pics calling my name, but I can't stand the thought of being in front of the computer another minute. Check back soon for party pics. They're really effing cute if I do say so myself.

One year old!

Dear Clementine:

Warning: here comes the schmaltz. Last night I had a lot of good stuff to tell you, but a rough night's sleep, an evil day at work and a private birthday celebration have knocked it out of me. What remains borders on greeting card but comes straight from my heart.

Last night your dad and I stayed up late and talked about the night we experienced one year ago, the night you came into the world. When we tell the story to other people, we always talk about how I didn't know I was in labor, how quick it all went once we decided to get to the hospital, how easy the labor seemed in retrospect (though I think there are still a few nurses at the hospital who have their own stories of how not easy I was making it). What we don't talk about with other people are the hours the three of us spent after all that, after the nurses and midwife left, after all the drama of your arrival. Remind me to tell you about those sweetest of hours someday, as they are the closest thing to nirvana and pure, true I've ever experienced. I can't wait to sit down with you (when you are at a point that you understand more than where your tummy and ears are) and tell you all about the moment my whole life changed. Before you came along, I thought I had everything all figured out, and I was even a little cynical about life. But you have, from the moment you arrived, opened me to a world I can't explain to anyone else (though look how hard I try), and someday I hope I'll be able to explain it to you.

Tonight for your birthday your dad and I chased you around the house, took you on a bike ride, watched you eat lasagna and then surf on your Sit and Spin (you seem unclear on the concept of "sit") while saying "Hi Daddy" and "Mamamama" before bath and bed time. Who would have thought that in just a year you would learn to do so many things like recognize us, smile, move your appendages and eat real food, much less roll over, crawl, walk and even talk? You are a miracle, and every day with you is amazing.

I started these monthly letters to you late and then let them drop off the last few months. I had high hopes for this one-year note being the end-all, be-all, but I think I've realized in the last year that when trying to balance all the stuff I want to say to future you and spending time with the actual you, I need to always stick with present Clementine. It's not that I want these precious first moments to slip away or run together (though they are) and won't sacrifice time at work or with your dad to record this for us, it's just that I am so happy being with you and thinking about you that these letters don't seem so important. When I was still settling into this role of mother, still working out the kinks and feeling like I was the first woman in time to ever ever be a mother, they were helpful for me, like a diary or journal. As I grow more confident, I need that outlet less.

But I still want to treasure this one-year anniversary of you, and I'd like to take a minute to tell you some things. I have no idea what the future will bring to either of us. What I do know is that you are the single best thing I've done with my life, and bringing you into my wonderful family with your dad has brought me nothing but happiness and unfathomable joy. No matter how either of us mess up, how we drift apart (or don't) or what we become, I will always remember the first moment I held you in my arms and fell in love with you. You can do nothing to change or sever this, and you must always know I love you no matter what.

See, I told you this would be cheesy. What mom doesn't feel this way about her kid? Still, I want it on record that I will strive to let you feel this love every day. I make all decisions with you in mind (but not in a creepy, I'm-nothing-but-my-kids kind of way) and really can't wait for all our future adventures. I'm sorry I'm so lame and haven't said anything more meaningful here. I want to get back downstairs to sort through the millions of pictures I took this weekend at your birthday party, and I need to clean up the kitchen from dinner. See, kid? This is life. I'm so happy you're a part of mine.

Happy Birthday, peanut.

Love,
Mama

Cleaning house

365 days ago I was in labor and just about to actually admit it. I had been in labor all day but was out shopping with Karen and thinking that I had some strange incontinence problem--not that my water had broken.

We've had one hell of a weekend--a birthday party, a special parade, a faux baptism that was lovely, an actual Labor Day parade and another birthday. Needless to say, my house is a wreck, we're all living on a massive sugar high and no one is excited about returning to the grind tomorrow. I'm about to go kick some ass in my kitchen but had to hit the hard drive first and post some photos from our camping trip a few weeks ago. I took about a gazillion pics of Clementine's awesome birthday party and had to make way to post them in the next day or two.

But before all that, let's look back at some of the cutest Clementines of the last few weeks. Wearing the same shoes as her daddy:

Dancing like a fool at the Ukranian Sunflower Festival to the Polish Muslims:

Wearing the badest dress ever:

Kicking Aunt K's butt at all games while camping:

Click on any of these for an overdose of darling C.

I'm going downstairs now to talk to Nate about where the last year has gone and how much we love our little girl. Much birthday posting will follow.

Memorable firsts

It's the big birthday weekend, my mother is already here and I'm dead tired. We will no doubt spend a good deal of time reflecting on the last amazing year of Clementine's life, so I'm glad we started off the weekend with a very memorable first. While I was at the salon getting my eyebrows a much-needed grooming, Clementine shoplifted. That's right, when we got back into the car and a mile away I noticed she was chewing on something new. It turned out to be an $18 barette. Yes, $18. Of course she stole it--she didn't want to have to cash in her college education to pay for it!

Now she's a wanted criminal. Some may say it's negligence on my part, an early sign of the terror she will be or the beginning of her life of crime. I prefer to think she was making a statement about the absurdity of our world when people are paying $18 for a barette. Seriously.

Nah-nah-nah-nah! Hey-hey-hey! Goodbye!

It's officially over. Last night was my first since beginning the weaning process that I didn't end up soaking myself with unpredictable leaks. I keep thinking it's over, but then I'll be in the middle of an important meeting or standing in front of a huge faculty meeting and then BAM! leak, leak, leak.

But here I am today ready to throw my breast pump out the window! It's finally over, and I can't believe I made it as long as I did. So long sucka:

Rest assured Clementine will still be breastfed through her first birthday, my only goal. I have enough milk to float a small ship, so now instead of pumping, I'm just defrtosting.

Let us not speak of my now miniscule breasts. They look so sad and deflated. I am sad and deflated, but now my T-shirts look a lot less Pam Anderson, and that's just fine by me.