Good day, sunshine

Darling C. was the cutest, happiest, smiliest little gurgling baby this morning. She was cooing and singing up a storm and alternating between lovingly stroking my cheek and combing Nate's beard. Seriously, she was the model baby, the one we all dream about, the one that sets of even the toughest cynic's biological clock. So why am I so f-ing cranky now? Oh, yeah. That's because darling C. was doing all of this cuteness at 4 a.m.! 4 a.m.! She hates us, I swear.

I tried hard to rouse myself to enjoy all that sunshine because I knew it would be all I got before work. Sure enough, she slept right up until I had to pack her off to germy daycare, where everyone seemed cranky and sniffly and just not what I would hope for her today.

Sigh.

A minor freak out for no good reason

Tonight marked my triumphant return to the gym. There were no trumpets or fanfare, but I was pretty damn proud of myself for finally making time for a wee bit of exercise. Had I started months ago, I'm sure it would have been easy--what with my rigorous pregnancy workouts and having dropped off my big belly, exercise should have been a breeze. But since I've been making an art of couch jockeying after darling C. goes to bed (I'm starting to know entire evening line-ups for TV stations--YIKES!), I thought it was about time.

In order to go to the gym, I had to ask Nate to pick up Clementine from daycare. No problem, right? He's awesome, more than willing to do it and it's not really that out-of-the-way for him. I am, after all, the woman who prattles on and on about our egalitarian marriage/child-rearing game plan, so why would I make a big deal out of it? For one, I hate asking for help, even from Nate. I sometimes get caught up in this superhero version of motherhood and can't quite deviate. I remember these Charlie perfume commercials when I was little with the song in the background: "I can bring home the bacon, fry it up in a pan and never once let you forget you're a man...." It's totally warped, yes, but these days I'm taking validation where I can find it, and for now it's that I hold down a job, drop my kid off and pick her up from daycare, cook every now and then and sometimes even manage to look groomed when I leave the house. SOMETIMES. The other reason I hate to ask Nate is that he works later than I do, which means Clementine is at daycare longer than she needs to be. I still have many, many conflicted feelings about daycare, and one of the ways I mediate them is by making sure I'm doing all I can to keep Clemetine's time there to an absolute minimum. This is also why I won't take her to the gym daycare, although it's free. It seems unusually selfish and cruel to pick her up from one daycare to drop her at another.

Hang-ups aside, Nate has picked Clementine up from daycare before with no hiccups. I don't know if it's a Monday thing, if I was off my game or what, but as I was driving home, I became totally convinced that he forgot to pick her up. Of course there is no reason to have thought that--except maybe that Nate has this forgetful professor thing going on sometimes. He is a brilliant engineer but can't remember a birthday to save his life; he builds cars that go and bikes that work, can wire anything and picks up musical instruments as if it's as easy as reading, but he often can't tell a story because he forgets names and details. These are things I love about him, don't get me wrong. But they are also the things that made me convinced that since we had a hectic morning getting out the door and hadn't talked all day that he may have forgotten to pick her up. Not that I thought he was neglecting her--he's a more devoted father than I can say--just that he may have totally forgotten I asked, especially after a terrible Monday of getting back into the deep, deep rut that is his life at work. (An aside here to my friend Karen who is no doubt laughing and talking about how I can never remember where I am supposed to be on a given day: it's a different kind of forgetfulness. I may forget I'm supposed to have dinner with someone next Friday; Nate may forget who that person is entirely or where the restaurant he's been to a thousand times before is. Different. And you know you think it's entirely within the realm of possibility that he might forget to pick her up, too.)

So anyway, the real exercise I had this evening was not calling Nate while I was driving home from the gym to check up on him (and see if he had the girl). I don't want to imply that it's exercise to trust him because I have never known anyone more worthy of my trust and esteem. I guess I'm just saying that motherhood has turned me into kind a control freak, sweating the details, unable to delegate gracefully, thinking for a whole 20 minutes that forgetting your kid is anything close to forgetting the name of some asshole you met at a party and hope never to speak to again. Of course Nate wouldn't forget to pick up Clementine. Exhale, Amanda. Geez.

Ouch

This weekend has been full of ups and downs for all of us, and Sunday is usually the day we rest and repair and get ready for another busy week. I spent a long night away from Nate and darling C. on Friday as I worked the Ann Arbor Folk Festival--it's always fun to escape with my friend Laura and get lost in the world of music (I can't help but imagine the day I break out as a surprise rock star), but the show itself wasn't all that impressive. My favorite, favorite band Blanche was really the only act I loved, which would be predictable except I think a lot of people thought that. Well, a lot of people actually liked this Mr. Burns-looking Bill Kirchen, but I thought he was really lame. Oh well. It was fun to be out and even more fun to drive through the streets of Ann Arbor while pumping--I think I made some frat boys' nights just that much better. Oh, and I had Zingerman's, which is good enough to make me want to move to Ann Arbor forever.

Last night we had a sitter, which seemed to really work for darling C. I don't want to display any hubris, but perhaps the days of screaming for strangers have been banished by daycare. The night started with a great dinner but went to hell pretty shortly after. I decided to solve it all by drinking a glass of red wine too many and am paying the price today. I think that's another reason I miss being pregnant: it saved me from my own bad decisions. Knowing I have a CTRL + ALT + DEL for bad drinking decisions with an ole' fashioned pump and dump makes me not so smart. I wan't overserved, mind you, I just chose the wrong combination of elixers. Know what else I learned? Sitters are very expensive, especially when you keep them out later than you said you would, so I think we'll be curbing our days of weekend jetsetting for a while.

Now I have to cram the rest of a very long to-do list into the balance of our Sunday. My head has stopped pounding for now, so I must get to it.

Kiddy versus Kitty

From the beginning, there was only indifference. Clementine was too immobile to care much about Kitty, and Kitty quickly figured out Clementine was competition and chose the cold shoulder approach. That, and she was so deeply depressed at getting knocked down a peg in the attention-getting heirarchy that she spent weeks in one spot looking glumly at us until we threatened her with antidepressants (Kitty, that is, not Clementine).

Now that darling C. can hold rattles and sort of even grab a paci and put it in her mouth (still backwards, but it's a start), Kitty is infinitely fascinating. We've been trying to get them together in ways that are positive for both of them--Clementine can be entertained and practice the baby sign for cat, and Kitty can get some of the attention and rubbing she's been missing. At first, they were fast friends...


But Clementine quickly learned to grab at Kitty's fur. She takes big handfuls and tugs away. Kitty is mostly tolerant, but after a few minutes she tries to escape.


The escape makes darling C. grab even tighter, pulling the kitty toward the center of her universe (i.e., her mouth).


Eventually, Clementine gets close enough to suck on some of the long fur. Here it looks like Kitty is also going for Clementine's hair, but after a few sniffs, she gets tired of the whole charade and moves on.


Today, Kitty is sitting on Nate's guitar case and meowing loudly at us now and then. She still seems depressed, and why not really? Not only is Clementine getting more of our attention, but we obviously thought a hell of a lot more about her name.

I ♥ my pediatrician

Pregnancy guide books had me totally sweating the whole pediatrician selection thing. I didn't want to interview anyone, make a thousand phone calls, check references, etc. Maybe that means I suck as a force of protection in my kid's life, but that all seemed too high maintenance. I just asked my midwife who she would recommend and then called him. He was pretty cool on the phone (told me I could skip the HepB vaccination in the hospital unless I was planning on exposing my kid to the whole sex, drug and rock & roll lifestyle in the first month), and so we went with him and didn't think much about it. When he showed up at the hospital he seemed kind of geeky--who still wears a fanny pack???--but was super supportive and easygoing.

Add this to the ever-growing if-I-knew-then-what-I-know-now file: having the right pediatrician actually makes a huge difference. I can totally imagine the wrong one making me feel all self-conscious about my parenting style and decisions, especially since so many doctors I've dealt with operate on this whole "I know best no matter what" philosophy. I could easily be convinced I was doing something way wrong and turn into a neurotic mess. Instead, I LOVE going to see the pediatrician (and in fact I just learned he is family practice, so he may be my new doctor too). When Clementine was having trouble with her latch and losing weight rapidly, I had to take her in to get weighed. We had the whole doctor-patient talk about feeding strategy, but then he talked to me as a real human, asked how I was doing as a new mom and then listened to me prattle on and on and on about all that I had been experiencing. He didn't rush me, didn't look at his watch, nothing.

On the medicinal front, he tries to avoid unnecessary medications (especially antibiotics), is very open to slowing down the rate of vaccination and is very well-read on the pros and cons surrounding each and every shot. He encouraged us to slow down the pace a bit and get only two shots at a time, which we are in favor of, and he follows up on all darling C's reactions. We went to start her second round last night, and he said we needed to wait a week because it looked like she was fighting an ear infection and he wanted to keep reactions and symptoms separate. I don't know, maybe all doctors are this great, but I haven't ever had such positive experiences.

On top of all that, he thinks Clementine is adorable. What mother wouldn't love a doctor who said her kid is beautiful, alert, smart and developing perfectly? Even when she cried every time he looked directly at her (smart girl, my daughter--always wary of authority), he laughed and told us how darling she was. As if we didn't know.

And so the stats (drum roll, please!): Clementine has exactly doubled her birth weight: she is 14 lbs., 8 oz. She is also 26 inches long. How did this happen so fast?

Monkey see, monkey do

This is my niece Abigail, big sister to our newest family member Eleanor. Since Eleanor has come home, Abby has been swaddling her baby doll Priscilla (a creepy newborn doll that Nate and I gave her for Christmas), shushing her when she cries and even feeding her, as you see above. She is wonderfully preoccupied with breastfeeding and asked me last night if I feed Clementine with a bottle or with my boobies. "I feed my baby with my boobies," she told me. From the looks of it, she's darn good at that and even manages to watch a little TV while Priscilla snacks.

Banned in the U.K.

Must be all this talk about breasts. Or poop. Or maybe all the cussing. I've been banned in Heathrow airport because the weighted phrase limit has been exceeded and my site "contains, or is labelled as containing, material that has been deemed inappropriate." Wohoo! I feel damn proud.

My favorite vagabond in the world (not to mention children's author), Charles Moré, is apparently loose in London, though I have no idea why. He has the most amazing adventures, and I'm sure Clementine's first international trip will be to see him in some remote corner of the world. I met Charles when we were both living in Chiang Mai, Thailand, and our lives have crossed paths many times since (and will continue to do so, no doubt, in the future). He was in Ithaca studying Chinese while I was getting my MFA, and then he moved to Taiwan. I've managed to see him when he has come back to the states, although the last time was when I was grossly pregnant and sick to boot. We don't keep in touch nearly as much as we should, and every little note from him makes me miss him like crazy. If it weren't already past my bedtime, I'd have a novel of an entry to write about Charles and the good times we've had together--millions of movies (lots of kung-fu), teaching me to ride my motorbike, practicing Thai in drag bars and hooker hangouts, drinking way too much in two countries and several U.S. states, playing PlayStation until we had callouses, road trips through Canada, Latin dancing class (and the fights that ensued), stories, stories, stories and more than my feeble, sleep-deprived (see below) mind can bring to the surface right now. He's a renaissance man, and we sure miss the hell out of him. Come and see us, Charles! And keep taking my blog with you on your adventures. I've never been to South Africa, you know....

'Cuz getting up is hard to do

Darling C. has a hard time getting up in the morning, and I often have to wake her to get her dressed and off to daycare. We're arriving later and later as the days go on, and I keep trying to bargain with her to keep us on schedule: skip a middle of the night snack and just wake up and hour earlier, won't you? So far I've gotten no response.

I used to have a lot to say about a lot of things, and I imagine someday I will again return to the world of the conversant. For now, however, in addition to the thrilling topics of breastfeeding and poop, I spend a lot of time talking and thinking about sleep. How is the baby sleeping? people want to know. Does she sleep through the night yet? The answer, not unlike the color and amount of poop or the amount of breastmilk I'm able to extract from myself each day, changes constantly, and I'm never sure exactly what to say. I assume people are just asking out of general social politeness--how is the weather? I love your hair. Does the baby sleep?--and I accordingly don't want to get into some long-winded discussion of the ups and downs of darling C's (and thus my) sleeping habits. News flash: no one really cares how my kid sleeps. Or, if they do, it's in a comparitive way: her baby sleeps more/less than mine does/did. It's like benchmarking. You who ask most likely want a quick answer: she sleeps well or holy shit the kid never sleeps! For the most part, I oblige. But every once in a while I tire of my mommy-dom and, in search of real adult conversation with real adults, I launch into a long explanation of sleep, its pros and cons and its elusiveness. For those of you who have been stuck on the receiving end of my lectures hoping to god I'll shut up soon, I apologize. For those of you who can't get enough, buckle up and here we go.

A far-away friend of mine told me the other day that since she was the first among her friends to have a kid she thought the work of being a mom in the early days of her daughter's life was to be either feeding the girl or trying to put her back to sleep. I, on the other hand, spent the first few weeks wondering why darling C. wouldn't wake up. I'd wonder if there was something wrong with her as I loomed over the Pack n Play or carted her sleeping little self around, hoping some noise would rouse her and we could continue to get to know one another. Remember, ye who smirk, that this was my first time! I know I should have been taking her to movies, throwing dinner parties, cleaning my house and launching my own PR firm before she woke up and became the active little babe she is today, but I didn't know any better. If only, if only...

Anyway, we spent most of my maternity leave falling into little napping and sleeping patterns and then falling right out of them once I actually noticed the pattern and started to silently depend on those few minutes at 4 when I could get some email done or the hour at 11 when I could do laundry. When I reluctantly dragged her to daycare the first week, Clementine discovered a schedule, started going down for the night at 8 and I thought I had discovered a panacea for all our problems. Of course it didn't last.

These days, she goes to bed anytime between 8:30 and 10 on a good night, and this is working pretty well for us. We get to have a little extra time to see and play with her (it totally sucked when she was conking out at 8 because we had only 3 hours with her a day--my whole problem with working was that my kid wouldn't ever know us), but we still have time to do some stuff after she goes down. Granted, the "stuff" isn't always fun unless you count bill-paying, incessant laundry and catching up on obligatory correspondence fun, in which case this time is a laugh riot. OK, so my kitchen is so gross I hardly want to eat in it, and there are dust bunnies the size of alligators on my stairs, but for the most part we are getting stuff done.

So what's the bitch? Well, and I feel sheepish saying it with such surprise, I'm TIRED. It's a tired that is worse than pregnant tired, worse than illness tired, worse than any other tired I've ever felt. I have been falling asleep on conference calls and nodding off at my desk. There are times when I'm driving that I feel myself start to drift. Seriously, I feel like I'm a danger.

But what really gets me is that I've lived on much less sleep in the past. There were days I could be out until 3 a.m. and still make it to work bright-eyed at 8. I could stay up for 24 hours at a time and still feel lucid. Hell, lots of these late nights made me even more focused the next day (am I starting to sound like a drunk who says she drives better after a drink??). Some of these late nights were just before I had Clementine, so it can't be age...can it? Wait, don't answer that. Maybe it's just some tremendous hormonal shift that came with prenancy--in addition to fucking with all my other body parts and functions, it also prevents me from ever having a normal relationship to sleep ever again.

Whatever the cause, it's getting harder and harder to pry myself out of bed in the morning, especially with that sweet little girl nestled up beside me. Is this what the next 18 years will be like? I know she'll eventually sleep more and maybe even in her own bed (although I'm not eager for that, as I feel like it's the most time I have with her while I work), but there will be glasses of water to fetch and nightmares to soothe and illnesses to cure and broken curfews to monitor. And there will always, always be this whole cramming what I used to be able to do in the 6 hours after work into 2-3 hours between her bedtime and mine. OK this is depressing me just thinking about it. I feel like my life is becoming a bastardized version of a Slaughter song (on how many levels is that a bad thing?): Up All Night, Sleep Up All Day.

We so shouldn't be parents

What can I say? My baby just loooooves her bottle--even when it's not full of milk. Every time we're holding her (real) bottle, she dives for it and does anything she can to get her mouth on the nipple. This week we learned her desire is for all bottles, nipple or not. I can't tell if this means she's a genius, a future lush or both. And I don't know what to say about the terrible camera angle on the pictures with me. Do I really have that many chins, or is Nate a shitty photographer?

Click on the photos to see them a little larger--the look of concentration on her face is too much!

Channeling Gloria Gaynor

I've been speaking on and off with my sister today as she settles in with her new little Nora, introducing her to big sister Abby and all the family that dropped by the hospital for a visit. Tonight after everyone left and it was just the two of them, K.C. reminded me of how sweet and irreplaceable those first few hours with a new baby are. The world shrinks to the size of the space that can hold just the two (or three or four, depending on family size) of you, and you are overcome with love and the sweet, sweet smell of new life and birth and all that you've endured and all that is to come. I don't know why I'm trying to describe it because you just can't--it's something you experience but can't ever quite capture in words or pictures because it is ever-evolving, changing just as it happens, unrepeatable.

As K.C. experiences all this, I can't help but be a little jealous, and I'm confused by that. I'm certainly not ready to do that all over again (though I've certainly decided C. won't be our only kid), but getting back to the heart of the post I wrote on putting darling C.'s first clothes away, the letting go of each stage is hard, even when it gives way to something wonderful and new. There is part of me that feels like I didn't pay enough attention the first time around, that I didn't care enough about some things and cared too much about others, that I didn't have the perfect experience and didn't get it all right. Is that where the tiny flicker of jealousy comes from--that K.C. is getting to do it all again with the knowledge and experience that just wasn't there the first time? Maybe. But I suspect this feeling of wishing you'd paid better attention or wanting to give it one more shot doesn't go away no matter how many kids you have.

I think this is what's at work behind all the advice people hurl at new moms in the first few months: enjoy every minute, it goes by so fast, etc. etc. In reality, things feel like they're going extra fast because you never quite know the rules or what to expect. By the time you do, everything has changed and you're back to square one. It's like chasing something that can never be caught. When you've survived something, you look back on it and see it wasn't so bad; sure, there were things you could have done to make it easier or to enjoy it more, but you'll remember those for next time and it will be great. This is how I look back at labor, delivery (as sick as it sounds I'm looking forward to doing it again, this from the woman who screamed at her sweet little nurse to "Stop patronizing me--when I say I'm never doing this again I fucking mean it!"), learning how to breastfeed, the first few weeks, the sleeplessness and on and on. Never mind non-mom things like break-ups or grief or diets or fights or whatever. It all seems like no one has suffered as you are suffering, that no one knows how difficult it is to just get by, and then one day you're smack on the other side of it, looking back and thinking well, it sucked but I could do it again. I guess it's kind of like running--whenever I finish a long run (which is almost never now that I have to lug the jogging stroller out in the cold, cold air to do it) I look back at the places where I thought someone would find my body curled up and have to drag it home because I was going to die of a heart attack and think it wasn't that bad, was it? You could do another mile.

And even with this duh!-you-already-knew-this-why-are-you-acting-like-you-invented-survival knowledge, it doesn't mean that I've learned. I can't stand in the middle of today when it really sucks and truly know in my heart that it will get better, that I will end up on the other side tossing my hair back and coaxing some other poor sucker through the tunnel with platitudes like It will get better. Enjoy these times while you have them. That's the pisser about all this self-awareness, I guess. It's not that much different than survival--you don't know that you've really gotten it right until it's too late to do anything about it anyway.

Welcome Eleanor Katherine Ipjian

Yay! My sister her long-awaited second baby last night, and she's such a cutie! Eleanor Katherine Ipjian was born at 12:01 a.m. and weighs 7 lbs., 4 oz. She was born not too long after K.C. and Tim arrived at the hospital--I'm not sure if it's because K.C. was in denial about being in labor or if it really is faster the second time around. When she got to the hospital, she was already at 9 cm, and there was just enough time for her doctor to get there before she had to push. Sadly, she never got to play UNO as planned, and she didn't arrive in time to get her beloved epidural (she can't figure out why any of us would ever go without now that she's done it both ways).

Eleanor looks a lot like K.C. did as a baby, and even if I am biased, I think she's just beautiful. We sisters are good at having babies--fairly easy and fast labors and beautiful girls from the get-go.

Welcome Eleanor! I can't wait to meet you. We have so much to talk about and so many things I want to tell you about your mom, your grammy, your life. Stick with me, kid. Your cousin Clementine is looking forward to being just a few steps ahead of you as you grow up, and I know we're all going to have some wonderful adventures together. Stay small--I'll be there in two weeks to squeeze you!

Nostalgic already

Tonight I packed up the onesie Clementine wore home from the hospital, along with a few other little outfits that were once too big for her and now strain across her belly and chest. I remember how they once gaped at her arms and legs and how long it would take us to get her into them because we were so afraid of breaking her or doing something wrong. Those first sweet little outfits are too precious to get rid of, so I'm packing them away for now. It makes me a little nostalgic for those weeks when she was first ours, how we would creep around her little slumbering body wondering why she was sleeping so much. Seriously, we used to try to wake her up so we could play with her more--what a reversal since now all we do is try to get her to go back to sleep. As much as I love all her new tricks, her independence, the personality she is forming with every passing day, I miss that sleepy, wriggly little creature we brought home with us.

Know what else I miss? Being pregnant. I know some women hate being pregnant more than anything, but I loved every single second of it--even the nausea. For one thing, I love having secrets. I felt that secret with every single step I took in the outside world. Even when I was fully showing, I felt full of some sort of secret or hidden potential. I had that feeling you have when you're standing up on something high getting ready to jump off--that awareness, the flexing in your toes, the full weight of what you're about to do and the total uncertainty. Anything could happen. I also felt triumphant the whole time, especially when hauling my ass to the gym or to a meeting I could easily have skipped by playing the pregnant card. I mean, look at all the shit I was doing when I could have been lolling around on the sofa. And as much as I complained about how people stare at, fondle and inappropriately offer advice to pregnant ladies, there were times I felt like a movie star, like all eyes were one me as I emerged from my car and walked toward the door of the supermarket. I felt kind of special.

And it's not that I don't feel special now--it's just a different kind. Not much has actually changed in that regard: I still feel like I'm the edge of a canyon and don't know what's waiting for me at the bottom after I jump, and I still feel like it's a triumph if I get out the door with a kid, her stuff, my stuff and all that. And I guess I still feel a little like a movie star now and then when people whisper about how cute my kid is as I walk by (I assume that's what they're whispering about and not my dirty, uncombed hair). It is the same as-of-yet-unrealized potential, the same emotions, and yet it is all different. Better in many ways (waiting to meet this little bundle was killing me), but since there is no going back it's hard for me not to feel like I've missed part of it or didn't enjoy it enough while it was happening. That's part of the nostalgia, I think--I want a do-over, and this time I'll know what to pay attention to.

When I get nostalgic for this weekend, please remind me that I didn't sleep at all the last two nights. Clementine has a perpetual runny nose since entering daycare, and this weekend it really caught up with her. She has a hard time breathing when she's sleeping on her back, so when the snorting and wheezing get to be too much she does this crazy not-awake-not-quite-asleep screaming that is a joy at 3 a.m. Nate has been great with the early shift, and I usually follow at 4 to get us through to the morning. It's grueling, but it's hard to feel bad for myself when I can see how miserable darling C. feels. Her eyes get all puffy, and she doesn't know what to do with all the snot. She bucks like a deranged bronco when I try to wipe her nose, and she can't ever find a way back to sleep on her own. We walk the floors with her as she screams, then coos, then drifts off into a very tentative oblivion. She has trouble staying asleep even when she's damn tired with all the snot building up in the back of her throat. The only way to calm her down, we've found, is to prop ourselves up on the couch and let her sleep on our chests. On the one hand, being awake and uncomfortable totally sucks, especially when I can't reach the remote control and don't want to move and wake her from her little snoring sleep. On the other hand, these are the moments I know I will miss (and already do in many ways now that she holds her head up and in always looking around instead of snuggling close). I try hard to enjoy them when I can.

Friday is the new...Monday?

Ah, nothing says Friday more than chasing the happy hour crowd out of a table at our favorite pizza joint so we can sit down and have an early dinner between the after-work rush and the date/dinner crowd. We have tried to have Friday night dinners out with Clementine from the very beginning, some working well and others turning out like our trip to the Indian restaurant when Nate sat in the car with screaming darling C. while I waited for our food to arrive and then be packed to go. We try to roll with whatever we get.

Tonight was great--Nate and I tried to have normal conversations about the whole Google records issue, Nate's car ideas, current events and other such adult-like topics, but mostly we made faces at darling C. and talked about how f***ing cute she is. She flirted with our waiter and was doted on by a few passersby, and Nate and I enoyed our pizza like normal people. No temper tantrums, no fussing. We were those people: the parents that make it look so damn easy you think to yourself "OK, I could do it. I could totally have a kid and nothing would change." I think we even convinced some people to go home and give it a whirl (it was date night after all). Then we went to Home Depot and K-Mart to run a few errands before bathing the kid and putting her down.

I know all you people who were out carousing or seeing some great band are snickering right now, and I'll let you have it. So our nights are the most exciting in the world. But do you know how much you can get done on a Friday night? I feel like the secrets of the universe have been revealed to me. At Home Depot, we did not have to hunt up and down every aisle to find someone to help us (there were orange vests everywhere practically salivating on us), and we didn't have to wait in line wondering what the hell anyone would need so much PVC pipe for. Sure, KMart was full of barely competent employees doing anything but work, but it's so much less annoying when the store is empty. I wanted to run all my errands at once and wish we had more time before darling C. lost her marbles. Maybe this is the secret of the working mom--Friday night errands. And how cool to be able to take Clementine and Nate along too.

Can I get a witness?

Oh. My. God. I made it all the way home from daycare today in happy silence, and Clementine wasn't even asleep! What? you ask. No static? No screaming? NO! She just sat there and sucked her paci and cooed a little and smiled at her reflection in the carseat mirror thingy we have. Is there a new world order?? Maybe she just realized she better be nice after the party she decided to throw last night between 2 and 5 a.m. Nate and I were not thrilled, and the little girl is lucky I didn't leave her on someone's doorstep. But enough negative! Darling C. had a good car ride. I didn't try to ram anyone or curse the traffic lights. Life is good.

Vote early, vote often

This may be too much information, but I'm feeling like I should explain why I seem to have so much time to surf around the web when I'm supposed to be working. See, when I am pumping at work I only have one hand free and am smack in front of my computer. Since I can't call anyone without them wondering what in the hell I'm doing (the pump's not quiet, y'all), I usually use that time to click around the web and see what's new. I tend to hit blogs since shopping sites are just not safe for me. I almost spent $100 yesterday on more cool baby crap I do NOT need. It's amazing how much stuff is out there and what I can learn. Sure, some of it is total shit, but today I learned that you can subit photos for the labels of Jones Soda bottles.

OK, so the chances of them choosing one of mine are nill, but I thought I'd try anyway. So please go give them a 10 and let's see if we can gain a critical mass.

Click here for the mohawk baby (my fav)
and then
Click here
and then for one more...
Click here

Thanks!

On a happy note

After all the bitching I do about daycare, I wanted to end today with one of the many positives I never mention because...well...I dunno. Anyway, I went to get darling C. this afternoon and could hear the loud little inhale that approximates a giggle all the way from the top of the stairs. I came down to find her in Julie's arms, playing and giggling and just as happy as she could be. Julie didn't want to give her up, and darling C. was in the best mood for the rest of the night before she knocked out at 9 and (fingers crossed) will stay that way all night.

Yipee!

Say it ain't so

My friend Laura just sent me some depressing news: apparently stirrup pants are coming back in style, along with tapered jeans. The 80s were not a high point of personal style for me at all, though I thought I looked like hot shit all the time and posed for pictures all haughty and pouty just to prove it. Why must we relive that era in fashion? I survived my Flock of Seagulls uneven haircut and my subsequent Sammy Hagar perm, and I have a few classic photos I can share with darling C. someday to make her roll her eyes and ask "How could you ever wear that, mom?" Can't we just move on?

It isn't really the fashion WRONG-ness of stirrup pants and tapered jeans that I object to--it's how damn old I feel when I see kids today (damn--did I just use an expression like "kids today"? Get out my granny panties--it's time to retire!) wearing what I wore when I was thier age and calling it all retro. How can anything from my life be retro already? When did this happen?

Thinking of myself as a mom doesn't help matters at all. When I first started taking Clementine out and about (at 4 days old), I thought everyone would be all scandalized to see someone so young with a kid. Um, yeah. How out of touch was I at that point? I'm 30! It's more scandalous these days to be 30 without a kid than with one. Just because I was feeling like I was 10 years too young to be a mom doesn't mean I actually was (duh!), and it's been a slow and painful realization that there is a growing gap between me and that gaggle of cool looking kids I see at the end of the bar on a Friday night as I'm schlepping home take-out to chow on before darling C's 9 o'clock bedtime. No joke. I have to remind myself when I see those cool little barhoppers that I look like some distant future to them instead of a peer, that my separation from them is not a lifestyle choice but an age thing--I just don't fit. At dinner the other night, I said to Nate about our absent-minded waiter: "I'm sure glad I won't be waiting tables at his age--it may be freeing, but it's so depressing!" "Amanda," he said, "that guy's younger than we are. Or at least the same age." Hmmm.

I get it that I'm not old and that I can remain "young in spirit"--but I'm not thinking metaphorically or any of that ya-ya crap. These cool kids I mistakenly think of as part of my generation were born in a year I remember, a year in which I was conscious of there being years and time and a world beyond my playroom. How can this be? How can I be so much older than the group of people with whom I most closely identify? Truth is, of course, that I don't identify with them at all--I just like the way they dress. Or dressed, past tense, if they start wearing stirrup pants. I like the rock and rollness of them, their shaggy hair and complete seld-involvement. I can't afford all those luxuries these days. When I look at Nate, I still see him as the 20-something guy I've traveled the world with, the guy I used to get fall-down drunk with, the guy who lives for old cars and has few earthly possessions. And when I look at myself...well, these days I don't know what I see. It isn't a 30 year old mom who plays it safe, works and comes home to make dinner most nights.

How can I be so oblivious to my aging (except when I tune in and get all mental about it like now) and so in tune with Clementine's? I swear, I see each little change in her face and on her body in the smallest detail. I feel every glance she throws my way changes and disappears even as she is doing it. I feel greedy, like I have to eat every minute of it up. I missed my aging, obviously, and I'm not going to miss hers! The past decade for me is a jumbled and wonderful mix of experiences and ideas and trips and personalities and people--I can't really tell what happened when or in what order, though, so it feels distant and proximate at the same time. But since Clementine, I'e become compulsive about time and chronology. I'm memorizing every minute of it, afriad to let even a minute of it go.

Oh, and for those who are curious, I did talk to Julie yesterday about the bottle propping. Nothing came out the way I practiced it, and she didn't react in any of the 10 ways I thought she might. She said she knew I was feeling wierd about it and repeated that it was only a matter of circumstance--she was alone and Clementine was hungry. I told her I'd rather be pulled out of a meeting to drive down and give Clementine a bottle myself than have her stuck in front of a bottle propped on a pile of bed linens, and Julie promised it wouldn't happen again. I'm moving past this but still keeping tabs. I took Clementine in this morning and know it's a good place for her. When I round the downstairs cooridor, all the kids shout "Baby Clementine!" (or Lementine or Mementine or a mumbled variation that lasts too long to really work but they are all trying so dang hard), and Julie can hardly wait to hold her. It's working for now.

A moment of zen...

OK, I'm off the ledge. My last post was a crank-fest, and I think it was mostly just shit I had to get off my chest.

How can anything be bad when there is something so cute and perfect in the world (see photo if you're totally dense and don't know what I'm talking about)? When I went to get Clementine after work, she laughed when she saw me, reached out to hold me and erased all my icky feelings about everything.

Sometimes, shit just gets to me. A little perspective helps me see none of it matters. So no more bitching. I'm going to go roll around on the floor with my sweetie and let her drool all over me.

I wimped out

News flash: being a mom makes you crazy. I know we all knew that already--between the lack of sleep, worrying, the crying (baby's and mom's), the forgetfulness, the mass of brightly colored plastic shit strewn about the house and the looming spectre of kids' music, pretty pretty princess addiction, insipid TV shows (Calliou, anyone?) and toy characters, no one can stay too sane for too long. So I hope the nice man in the Saab who pulled up beside me this morning as I was making my way to daycare while having a full-on conversation with myself (complete with hand gestures) thought to himself, "Oh, must be a new mom," instead of thinking I was some loony toon talking to herself. I quickly feigned using my cell phone in hopes I could disguise it, but there was something in his smirk that told me he caught on and was thrilled to witness such ridiculousness.

What was I doing? Why, I was practicing, of course. I was practicing how to talk to my daycare provider Julie about the horrific bottle-propping episode I witnessed last Friday. I was trying to find just the right I'm-not-angry-but-I-am-concerned way of bringing things up, a we're-in-this-together-but-don't-ever-fucking-do-that-again tone, a I-know-you've-done-this-forever-but-you-should-know-better little message. I worked on it during my shower this morning, as I pumped, and all throughout my drive to her house.

And what did I do when I got there? I choked! I don't know what it ws, but I felt strangely embarassed to bring it up. This is hard to admit because I feel ashamed that I didn't advocate for my kid's safety and happiness more readily, but there were two powerful and unexpected forces working against me.

1.) I didn't want to be bitchy. For those who know me, this must sound strange because I am often bitchy. But when it comes to my kid (and even during my pregnancy), I am forever trying not be a raving lunatic bitch mom. I don't know if it's that I'm trying to convince everyone I'm totally in control or all-knowing or what, but I am so bad at asking questions and standing up for myself! For one, I was afraid of branding Clementine as a poor baby with a freak of a mom and subjecting her to less than loving treatment. It's not crazy to think someone like a teacher or a daycare provider could retaliate, even subtly, for a parent's actions by not liking a kid or holding a grudge. I'm a former teacher--I KNOW this happens. Also, I don't want to be like the parents I've dealt with here at school, so crazy and over-the-top about things. It's true that the squeaky wheel gets the grease, but I'm always too chicken to squeak. They may get grease, but they never get respect.

2.) All the other parents who were there dropping off their kids intimidated me. On the one hand, I didn't want them to think I'm a crazy bitch (see #1). On the other, I was afraid they would think I was a bad mom for not exploding in the first place, fo waiting a whole weekend to even mention it.

A little paranoid, don't you think?

Being a mom has made me incredibly insecure in ways I never was before. It is such a struggle to know how to listen to my own voice, to trust my own instincts, especially with the deluge of parental advice I get from all sides. When I shared the bottle-propping story with my friends who are also moms, they were appropriately horrified and rightly told me I needed to say something more than I did at the time. Of course they are right, and some even had suggestions, but I'm still having a hard time facing up to it.

Nevertheless, it has to be done. I swear I'm going to bring it up when I go get darling C. this afternoon. I swear. I swear.

Just who am I trying to convince?

Her crankiness, by the way, persists, even after a much better night's sleep. It is making me cranky, as is the crappy weather. And I'm also working up quite a crank about my friends without kids who sometimes make me feel like I'm something to be survived or tolerated, something from which they need time away or recovery. I get it: I spent a long time as one of them, annoyed at dinner parties that the conversation always seems to turn toward mommying and new babies and breastfeeding and diaper wipes. But I try so hard to give them haven in my not-so-childless world. I knock myself out to have interesting conversations, to get dressed like a human and not just a milk bank, to not make the baby the center of all activity, to steer things back to the main road if they take a baby detour. And for what? To end up feeling like this one-dimensional shell of the person they used to know? I'm not really angry, but I am mourning my pre-baby life a bit: the travel and spontanaeity (do you know how hard it is to nip into a store when you're lugging around an infant carrier?), music and late nights out. Sure, hearing about the ups and downs of parenting can suck if you can't relate. But so can hearing about the ins and outs of the outside world, of grabbing drinks with friends and having time to workout, of trips here and there if you can't participate. I wouldn't change Clementine for a million nights out, and I am so sick of apologizing for that.

Man, sorry to unload all that. Were I still a little girl, my mom would give me M&Ms and pretend they were pills to make me sweeter. If Clementine doesn't wail the whole way home tonight, maybe I'll make a quick stop, get some and cheer the hell up.

Ain't nobody happy at 3 a.m.

Most nights, she sleeps. Most nights this is what you see at 3 a.m. and 4 a.m. Sure, she'll wake up now and then and grunt and flex until we feed her, but she never opens her eyes and always goes right back down. Most nights we hardly even remember her waking.

Last night was not most nights.

I realize that in becoming a mom I have given up the pleasure of a good night's sleep for at least the next 18 years. Eventually darling C. will sleep through the night, but I'm sure I'll never really sleep soundly, listening for her cries and needs, or (later) for her soft step in the hall as she tries to sneak in or out of the house. For the most part, I think I have transitioned amazingly from a woman who thrives on 8 hours of sleep to one who can function on 3 or 4. I can somehow continue to pull myself out of bed, shower, dress myself (although the verdict's still out on how well I do that), pack the baby off to daycare, go to work and immerse myself it in all day before heading home to make dinner, give darling C. a bath, squeeze in a few small activities that almost resemble a life, put her down and hang out with Nate (we totally neglect each other now that we have a baby to contend with--our hanging out time is mostly just running around trying to pick up the house and fold all the damn laundry) all on a mere 4 hours of sleep.

That said, I'm not claiming to be a joy at all hours of the day and night in this altered state. Yes, I am functional, but I'm hardly the smart, engaged, loving and aware woman I strive to be. In fact, at 3 a.m., I am pretty miserable. I admit it. But who wouldn't be? There are lots of things that might be fun at 3 a.m., but walking the floors with a wailing baby just ain't one of them. I don't care who you are or what kind of supermom powers you have.

Which brings me to last night. Our demon child reared her little head again, replacing the angelic one we've enjoyed over night the last few months. In the calm, clear light of day, I imagine her behavior was because she is still feeling a little miserable while trying to kick out a few of those germs that have been plaguing her all week. Last night, however, as she kicked and squirmed and screamed, all while still appearing to be asleep, I couldn't help but think she was doing it on purpose. She went down OK and had a few good hours of sleep before she started this sleep screaming, but once she started, she just didn't want to stop. We walked, we hopped, we shushed, we rocked, we hugged and squeezed, we let her be, we tried everything! Nothing would get us more than an hour of calm sleep (at the most) before she would again begin the kicking and head-tossing, the arm-flailing, the moaning, the yelling, the furious dance.

Nate is amazing in the middle of the night, and I know I'm lucky to have a partner who considers it as much his responsibility to be awake with her as mine (I know other parents do not have this equity, and I am grateful grateful grateful). In the very beginning we realized it was stupid for both of us to be awake all night, so we developed a shift system that allows one of us to kind of be asleep while the other tends the babe. Last night, Nate had the first shift, and I slept as best as I could until about 2:30 when my conscience dragged me out of bed and I insisted on taking over. It's hard to wake up at 2:30 and do anything, much less rock a screaming baby and resist the urge to throw her out the window or sell her to gypsies just so you can get back to the cozy bed and good dreams you just left.

Another thing that's hard for me at that hour is any sort of pleasantry, especially for my darling husband. When I had a baby, my sister advised me that my relationship with Nate would completely change and that I would never love or hate anyone quite as much I could love or hate him as we parent together. I saw the wisdom of her advice from the very beginning--I absolutely melt with every tenderness I see Nate bestow on darling C. I hear him downstairs right now rocking out to Burning Spear with her, and it makes me love him just a little bit more than I ever could were we not parenting together. While this is true, so is the whole hating him part. I have no patience for him in the middle of the night when our kid is screaming. I can't explain it very well--it isn't because he sleeps while I pace and care for her (on the contrary, he's always willing to help out). It isn't because I want him to do everything and let me sleep in peace. I don't know what it is, exactly, but he just drives me crazy. I'm pretty sure it's not him--he doesn't fumble with the pacifier and drop it under the bed on purpose, for example--and I can't believe I can be such an incredible bitch. But it's there and it's real and it further frustrates a late night tantrum.

What's a mom to do? I can usually put myself in check with some deep breaths and a quick look at what an asshole I'm being. I can relax and focus entirely on Clementine, which can buy me a few minutes of silence and calm even on her fussiest nights. Hell, I can even hope that one of these days Nate will realize that I'm an irrational bear in the middle of the night and learn to avoid me (or at the very least ignore me--he takes things extra personally at the late hour, which only exacerbates the situation).

Until then, I'll nap. Not at home, of course, because darling C. is not any more eager to nap today than she was to sleep last night. No, I'll do a shift with her this morning and let Nate have some time alone and then I'll drive to an empty parking lot later this afternoon, put my seat back and have a little catnap. By tonight, maybe she will have worked it out and we can all get some sleep. Maybe not. Regardless, she's perfect and amazing even when she doesn't sleep, and I love her more than I ever thought possible. So, gypsies, I won't be selling her. At least not today.

Goodnight.

Just one of those days

Fridays take on new meaning for me as a working mom. Whereas I used to trudge toward happy hours, two late nights in a row, too much to drink, cool stuff to do in the city, etc., I now rush toward the end of the week for the promise of two whole, uniterrupted-by-work days with darling C. and her fabulous dad. After staying late at work on Thursday to attend a seminar on harassment and discrimination (at which I rather childishly sat in the back and wrote haiku about my colleagues), I felt totally entitled to go and pick Clementine up early from daycare on Friday. We had a date with the 8th grade girls' human development class, and then we were off to see my friend Crystal, in town from Chicago for her uncle's funeral.

When I arrived early at daycare, I discovered Clementine in the reclining seat she often uses there. She was beneath a large, piled-up sheet or piece of fabric, on top of which was her bottle. Yes, this daycare worker with 20 years of experience had propped my kid's bottle up on a haphazard contraption so she could feed the other kids. My look of horror certainly must have registered with her, as she quickly launched into an explanation of how helper 1 left early and helper 2 was late, and I was so cowed and rushed and a totally meek asshole that I didn't say anything at all. I didn't say what I should have, which is that every single child care book I've ever read emphasizes how dangerous that is. Or that Clementine deserves some attention when she's eating because she's not old enough to do it for herself. Or that no matter what the excuse is, this is just wrong, wrong, wrong. I don't know why I held my tongue, but I regretted it the minute I left and have been regretting it ever since.

As I drove back to school, I realized, of course, that this is not the first time this has happened. I have found milk crusted in the hair on the back of Clementine's head before and in the creases of her neck. Certainly that is due to this propped-up feeding mechanism As I realized this, I also remembered that just this morning I had gone skipping out of Julie's after watching her gently admonish one of the children for touching Clementine's pacifier and getting germs on it before she washed it well under hot water and set it out to dry. I remembered the sweet smile Clementine usually gives as Julie reaches in to get her out of the car seat each morning. I remembered the many times I've come in to find someone holding darling C. as she eats. Sure, I can also recall the things that aren't so great, the things I'd like to change, but what I can't figure out it what balance to strike between what is great and what is terrible. While certain things make me boil with rage, I'm not ready to pack up C.'s stuff and find another daycare. I've been through that hunt once before, and I'm pretty sure I won't be able to stand doing it again. I hate having to feel constantly conflicted about daycare, but I wonder if there really is a solution that is 100% wonderful and right.

I managed to stop stewing when we got to school and prepared to meet the 8th grade girls. I had done this with Clementine once before and kind of struggled to find the right level on which to address 8th graders on the topic of pregnancy, birth and child-rearing. They are so starry-eyed about the cute, gurgling baby that I try hard to impress upon them how difficult and sleepless being a mom is. But I hate to sound too down on it because I really am having the time of life figuring out everything. The girls were curious about my body changes but were even more curious about when darling C. would sit up, walk, talk, etc. I didn't know if I could talk frankly about birth control (I joked about talking to some of our high school girls: "Are you using condoms? So were we!"), and I certainly didn't want to freak them out with the whole ring of fire thing. It was odd experience, but a positive one.

Clementine started getting fussy on the way home but went right to sleep. We went down to this great new BBQ joint in the Corktown area of Detroit called Slow's to meet my friend Crystal, and darling C. kind of lost it. Maybe it's my hubris--a few weeks ago, we met friends at a hopping sushi joint on a busy Friday, and Clementine was so fun and well-behaved that we even went for drinks and dessert after. I floated home thinking "See, I can have a kid, spend time with her AND keep my social life afloat. This rocks!" I jinxed it. Darling C. cried and cried (luckily it was so loud in the restaurant that no one noticed) , and I spent most of the meal hanging out with her in the bathroom, where she gazed at herself in the mirror. I decided it was time to go, though, when I noticed how hot she was feeling.

At home, sure enough she had a fever. We calmed her down, and Crystal and I went for ice cream. While we were gone, apparently darling C. puked for the first time ever. I should be clear--Clementine hardly ever spits up, much less does the full-on vomit thing. Seriously, I can recall maybe four times she has ever given up even a bit of her milk by spitting it back up, but last night, she puked up the entire contents of her stomach onto Nate, his sweater and floor. Is it sick and wrong that I am kind of bummed I wasn't there? No, I don't have some love of puke, and it probably would have made me heave to mop it up (though the moms who are always chanting "It's all worth it, it's all worth it" in response to any of motherhood's challenges are always saying that moms overcome all such reactions). But I was sad not to have been there for her first BIG illness. Oh, get it over it, I know, but I think I felt like a bad mom. I mean, I took her to a loud restaurant instead of letting her go to bed, and then I went out for ice cream instead of staying home with her while she was sick. I suck.

There was not a lot of sleep in my house last night, which made today long. Darling C. is much better, but she's still not 100%. Nate and I had a sitter lined up for tonight, but we cancelled her. I am still going to meet all the people were to have dinner with, but I know my heart will be at home. Lamely, I'll probably make it through just a glass of wine or two before I have to return and snuggle up to my sweet, sick little baby.

Why read?

I'm used to people thinking some of the ways I parent are odd or will screw up my kid or make her spoiled or whatever. Yes, I let her sleep in my bed, and yes, we often get in the bath tub with her (it's so much easier than that damn chair, I swear!), and yes, I let her wear T-shirts that say "George Bush hates you." Take it or leave it, that's just how we're doing things, and it has taken me 4 months to be able to say that without apologizing or explaining WHY. I know it's not the most mainstream way to parent, but it's not like we're living in a mud hut while indoctrinating our kid about the evils of modern society. Although it chokes my inner teen angst just a little to admit it, we are a pretty NORMAL family with a kid.

Which is why I was totally shocked today when a woman I work with asked me why I bother to read to my kid, seeing as she's too young to really sit still or understand the books. Ummm.. is she serious? Her tone and expression as she asked me this were the same I might use if I were asking someone why on earth she had decided to wear a severed animal appendage on a string around her neck: it's simply not something sane people do. I'm not sure exactly why I didn't respond by screaming some passionate defense (instead, I turned back to my work and pretended I hadn't heard what she said), except that I no longer have tolerance for this kind of stupidity and refuse to justify any of the few parenting beliefs I have to someone who is probably never capable of understanding.

Sure, I could give her all the text book reasons that reading to kids is a good idea (we started even before Clementine was born, as did most of the moms I know), but instead I offer these uses for books. May these argue where I cannot.

Books are good when you're hungry and just can't get anyone to give you any milk:

And books are good when you just want to shut the world out OR when you are trying to hide your face from paparazzi (certainly something my future rock star should practice now)


And finally, books are good when you're trying to look busy so that woman with the damn camera will let you have a bath in peace.

Six-pack abs

Has my little girl been reading Cosmo? For the last few weeks, she has been hard at work on shaping and toning her cute little midriff by doing stomach crunches every time we put her on her back. I think she's worried about bikini season and wants to crunch crunch crunch away her baby fat. Check it out:



Personally, I blame my friend Karen. Bitch was a great workout buddy when I was pregger--she dragged my ass to the gym at least a few times a week and watched me sweat it out on the treadmill (I swear all the exercise is why I had such a short labor). But even as my belly expanded and my protests grew, she made me work abs with her. Back then I was worried about being on my back too long and the damage it could cause the unborn baby. I SHOULD have been worried about creating a little mini workout freak who would start stomach crunches before many of her more important milestones. What's next? A baby triathalon?

Beastie Baby

While I am doing the mundane shit in our house that needs to get done (still in my work clothes because 5-8 p.m. is a landslide that just rolls over me) like make dinner, pay bills, start laundry, clean, I love to hear Nate chilling with the baby girl and making up songs for her. My favs of late are his Beastie Boys renditions, but I like his random stuff, too: "Let's put this fork in the drawer / c'mon baby I'll tell you more." He'll even put her in the Snugli now and then and play the guitar in front of her--we're committed to helping her develop her inner rock star as early as possible. While many parents dread the idea of their kids discovering and pursuing their hard rock chops, we'd be thrilled. I dread getting a stockbroker or a Republican.

Sometimes I think Nate is way better at helping darling C. develop language skills than I am. I try to keep a running commentary when I'm doing stuff with her, but it's easy to get lost in thought and stop vocalizing. Nevertheless, I am working diligently on her musical taste when she will allow me to play anything other than the comforting static station in the car, and she and I read together whenever she'll sit still long enough to make it through a book. Nate has been good about showing her baby signs, too, though I think she's still too young to start using it. We're laying a foundation, and I fully expect to be shocked some day months from now when she asks for milk (using a crass milking motion that would make any breastfeeding mother cringe it's so apt). I want that to work so she can let us know how to make her life easier, but I want to be conscious about all the pressure people can put on their kids to do stuff--especially the pressure to do stuff faster or better than other kids. I call it competitive mommy-ing and think it could be an olympic sport. As darling C. gets older and strangers feel even more empowered to explain the concept of parenting to me, I have noticed the questions start running toward has she done x or y yet...my baby did x or y way early. I wish people would just shut the hell up but they rarely do.

In other news, things improved with daycare today, though my confidence in Julie is starting to waver a little. I hate to get all hung up on semantics, but calling my kid a crybaby has hit all the wrong nerves in me, and I can't get past it. I stayed home for a few hours this morning to see if darling C. was all right and ready to handle daycare--she was a peach. I packed her up and hauled her over only to see Julie just pulling out as I pulled in. I think she thought I didn't see her because she backed up quickly and was in the basement, no coat, no shoes when I got there. The kids were hanging with her assistant and watching Sesame Street on the world's largest television, which bugs me a little also (I don't like the idea of TV on all day), but I'm trying hard to let it all roll off my back. Clementine seemed to do OK for the rest of the afternoon, though she was clad in just a diaper when I came back to get her. Ah, the incredible exploding baby--I don't know how she does it.

Er...

Did I speak too soon? I spent the weekend bragging about how daycare agrees with darling C., and when I walked in today I saw right away it was another story. Julie looked haggard and said Clementine was "a crybaby" all day. When I got my hands on her, she felt warm but not feverish and sounded kind of snorty. Nate said this morning he thought she might be getting a cold. She cried herself to sleep on the way home and was pretty grouchy when we got here. When I finally assured myself that there was nothing immediate to be done, I started to get a little wierded out about Julie and her crybaby comment. It didn't seem very loving, especially if the reason C. was fussy was because of illness. Now all the doubt is creeping back in--sure, there were days I wanted to sell darling C. to the gypsies for all her crying, but I am her mom and love her unconditionally. What if Julie decides enough is enough and doesn't do all she can to soothe my kid? Nothing (besides my check) binds her to care for C. And don't even start me on the recently creeping feeling that I should be embarassed because I have a fussy kid. I know better than to feel that way, but I felt kind of shamed when Julie told me about her day. Not a-shamed, just shamed. I can't tell if I'm just being sensitive (probably) or if something is not right.

So here we are on sick watch. She went down at about 5 and is still sleeping (though now on her dad's shoulder) almost three hours later. Usually all active and curious, she spent the early evening slouched against my chest moaning and bleating like a sheep every few seconds. My poor little girl. I feel so helpless.

Laura don't wear no mom jeans (and neither do I!)

We all had a lovely weekend, cramming in as much family time without work and daycare as we possibly could. More on that fun down the page. First, I want to talk about the epidemic to which I bore personal witness on Friday at a high school basketball game: mom jeans. Or mom fashion, really. I know I have stated many times my commitment to withholding judgement about other mothers, and I still mean that for the most part. During my maternity leave, I was often apt to leave the house with one sock, half a ponytail and a breastmilk-stained T-shirt I had worn for five days straight, and I appreciate all the women who looked at me, looked at my baby carrier and smiled or reassured me I would one day rejoin the human race. I know it's hard to get dressed, especially with a kid, and I don't WANT to ridicule a large population of very nice ladies...but COME ON. Who can possible look in the mirror and say to herself: "Gee, these larger-than-life, long-waisted, up-to-my-sagging-boobs Lee Jeans look fantastic on me, especially when paired with a roll-down turtleneck and huge sweatshirt. Oh, and too match, I'll wear a scrunchie and fluff up my bangs." Who?! I'm not picking on just a few moms here either. There were literally a dozen. As I looked around the gym, I in fact saw very few moms in anything other than denim and sweatshirts, and I began to wonder if this is what having an adolescent can do to you.

Luckily, I was with my wonderful friend Laura. She and her husband have a kid who is a senior in high school and another in 7th grade, though you would never know it from looking at them and their cool hair, cool clothes, very cool shoes and overall coolness. They are cool, cool people who also happen to be parents--this part of their lives hasn't usurped their total identity. We go to shows with them all the time, go drinking, hang out at their house, embark on strange projects and fabulous adventures with them, you name it. In fact, once upon a time, out past midnight with them in some smoky bar seeing a great new local band, I'd often have to remind myself they were parents. Great parents, really, raising two cool boys who like art and dig music and have long hair and are open-minded (except when it comes to food), even in the mom-jean environment of their school and neighborhood. David and Laura were my parenting heroes long before I could ever picture myself as a parent, and now they are my number one parental resource. I'm convinced if they continue to steer me in the right direction, I can avoid the tragedy that is mom jeans and carve out the right niche for myself as a cool mom.

Now don't get me wrong. I don't want to be a cool mom in the pass-the-bong-and-turn-up-the-stereo way or even the I-don't-care-if-you-teenagers-drink-here-as-long-as-you-aren't-driving way. I see myself as more of the do-your-homework-on-the-way-to-the-show mom, a take-a-year-off-and-travel mom, or a hey-can-I-borrow-your-sweater mom. But I won't split hairs. I in no way see myself as a mom-jean mom, an I'm-cutting-my-hair-off-because-it's-just-easier mom, a mini-vans-just-make-so-much-sense mom. If I reach that point, someone please shoot me. Show me a picture of myself first, make me look long and hard at what I've become and then shoot me. I know I have eaten my words before (I'll never use a pacifier, breastfeeding will be so easy...), but if this is one of those cases, I don't want to carry on. Life will be meaningless. Bury me in my mom jeans and just let it be done.

But back to Laura, my cool, non-mom-jean-wearing friend. Not only does she provide a great model for my life as a parent, she provides a great environment and all the encouragement a girl could need. She piled us all in her car for Clementine's first road trip (and babysat in the hotel while Nate and I saw a great show), she is letting us invade their family camping trip this summer for a week and we may even do a trek down south for a three-day music festival in July. Not only that, but hers is always the house I go to when Clementine is having a car fit. It calms us all down to be there because Laura takes such good care of us and always assures me that I'm doing O.K. SHouldn't everyone have that presence in her life? It's what keeps me from getting sucked into that great mommy sorority or competition and drive to create the perfect little robot kid (you'd be surprised at how easy turning life and expectations over to that seems at times). So the essence of Laura: she parents her kids, parents my kid, guides me through parenting, has a great wardrobe, listens to cool music, bakes amazing cookies and never ever ever wears sweatshirts and mom jeans in public while her hair is in a ponytail. Is there a cooler mom in history? I can only aspire to kick her ass in that department down the road.

To summarize (I'm at work and have had this window open for 2 hours while I'm doing actual work, so I've totally lost my train of thought and suspect I might be repetitive and babbling): mom jeans are bad and I'd rather die than wear them or know moms who wear them. To that end, Laura, who doesn't wear mom jeans, took me shopping all day on Sunday because this whole breastfeeding thing burns quite a few calories and I have no pants that fit and I was starting to worry I was suffering from mom fashion. Or corporate fashion, which is just as bad. I think we're OK on that now, though lots of my new shirts show off my prominent cleavage tattoo, which doesn't bother me but always attracts the oddest, most uncomfortable glances from the very proper and intimidating Head of our school. What can I do? It's kind of here to stay.

The rest of the weekend was spent with my own sweet little Clementine. Nate went out on Saturday, and I had the best time at home playing with darling C. I did have a horrible realization that I am maybe not the best dancer in the world, but I'm pushing those thoughts and images (we were looking in the mirror while we danced because she LOVES to see her own face) away until I truly have to face them. Monday, Monday. I feel like I didn't have enough time with the girl, but we're sure making the most of what time we do have.

Diapers and dead bunnies

Today Clementine is wearing her gDiapers, our solution to the nagging feeling that there must be a better way to diaper our kid than with big, soggy hunks of plastic that take 500 years to biodegrade. Let me be clear from the beginning that I know we all make choices, and I certainly respect people who choose whatever they choose on all sides of the debate. I have no judgement whatsoever and am just happy to be able to find my own solution in these cool flushable diapers that have a very cute (if not bubble-ass-creating) little external pant. Darling C. is fashionable AND respecting the environment, so I think I can check off my good parenting deed for the day.

Reaction to our new diapering choice has been varied, and when I say varied I mean that everyone thinks it's wierd. Our daycare provider is careful to seem respectful, but she sure as hell doesn't want to flush anything down her toilet and has offered to send the used liners home with me in a plastic baggie at the end of the day. Fine. My sister told me Nate is one step away from being a communist anyway, so it dosn't surprise her much. Then she laughed at the image of us driving down the road with our baby in eco-diapers in the backseat of Nate's 65 Chevy Impala, a model of Detroit engineering that sucks down gas and spews forth emissions. OK, I see the hypocrisy but counter only that we all have to do what we can where we can. Nate would sooner part with a limb than his car (and I must admit it's one of the first things I loved about him, so I'm partial, too), but we've often said we'd pay a tax of some kind in order to have the priviledge of driving it now and then. Maybe the diapers are our tax?! A little environmental give and take may not mean we're saving the world, but we're trying to do just a little tiny bit to ensure there's something left of it by the time our girl is our age.

The best reaction to our diapers by far, however, was from my friend Karen, who always tries to be supportive even when she thinks I've gone around the bend. She'll even sit in the room with me while I'm hooked up to the crazy milking machine that is my breast pump and act like I'm not doing anything out of the ordinary. Laura will do that as well, and she has even washed my pump parts in her dishwasher (yes! I'm the one person in the world you know without a dishwasher). Anyway, Karen told me there are certainly luxury items she wouldn't ever compromise, no matter what the impact. And she's not just talking environmental impact either. In fact, she claims she would continue to use her earth-polluting plastic applicator tampons even if there was a little baby bunny killed for every box she buys. Literally. She draws the line at doing the killing herself, though--don't we all have our limits?

I'm going to try to get my ass to Punk Fitness tonight because I haven't really capitalized enough on all the calories nursing is helping me burn. Oh, and all that rock-hard muscle I built up while trying to bounce my baby out on the treadmill has turned to undulating flab that stays in motion long after the rest of me has stopped. I swore to god I would never disparage my body on my blog--moms who blog about how much weight they need to lose make me want to hurl--but this is getting bad.

Not so bad after all...

Despite my worst fears, Clementine survived her first day of daycare and did so rather swimmingly. Apparently, she slept for 2 1/2 hours (which she rarely does at home) played "independently" (I hear abandoned when they say this, but I'm clearly too sensitive) and enjoyed all the kids around her. When I arrived to pick her up, she was sitting happily in Sarah's lap and didn't do the happy herky-jerkies she usually does when she sees me. Sure, my heart fell a little, but what can you do? It's a slippery situation--I want her to be happy and comfortable there, but I also want her to be happy when she sees me, eager to come home. Is there room for such a gray area in her developing psyche?

A fringe benefit of her day, whether it be from overstimultion or a new nap schedule, is that she conked out for the night at about 8:15 p.m. "You must have gotten so much done!" you say, but the truth is that I wasn't ready for her to slip away so fast and ended up holding her while she slept. Am I really only going to get like 4 conscious hours of time with my little darling a day? It totally sucks, especially since I can do a lot of the work I do in a day in the evening after she goes down. I've tried to work that out with my boss, and while he is indeed understanding and flexible and more family-friendly than I could ever dare to hope, he can't really codify anything or put it in writing. Remember, I work at a pretty institutional place, and while there are indeed humans like him, there are also evil HR trolls who could care less about anything other than their corporate fantasy lives. My boss will allow me to take off the afternoons now and then or work from home from time to time when I need to, but restructuring my job so I have actual flex time just isn't going to happen. He's essentially telling me YES but really NO, which I know he has to because he is the boss and can't really see fit to pay me the same amount of money for less work (even though I'm sure I could occupy my 2 a.m. - 4 a.m. slot with something other than blissful sleep). I think this is a reality more often than not with workplaces that intend to be family friendly. They're into it in theory (or a few people are into it) but in practice can't break themselves out of the 8-5 mold. It's such a corporate mentality, and it has more to do with perception than actual work. I guarantee you I do more work by 11 a.m. than most people here do all day, but I must show my face and put in appearances to convince people outside my department that I'm actually working. If only I could embrace mediocrity--lame-ass people who don't do any work all day but manage to be physically present simply can't get in trouble here.

But yeah, yeah, yeah--I'm trying to bitch less and work more so I can get out the door and go home to darling C. I may be tired as hell (my eyes are crossing as I type), but I'm more focused than ever. It's easier to get work done when I know finishing brings me one step closer to leaving which brings me one step closer to seeing darling C. And with that, it's back to it.

Look at my shoes!

I have a running joke with my friend Karen that when I get in an awkward spot in a conversation (and that's pretty regularly, as I don't have that helpful edit feature that keeps me from calling a total ass a total ass to his face), I can always get out of it by calling attention to my shoes: "Look! My shoes are so shiny and pretty!" And so today, I call attention to my new shoes. Aren't they so shiny and pretty?

I'm calling attention to my shoes today as a reminder to myself of why Clementine is in daycare and I am at work instead of guiding her develoment minute by minute at home. OK, so it's a little crass to think I am trusting a good chunk of my daughter's day to a total stranger just so I can have cute shoes, but I'm thinking of the shoes as more of a symbol of the things I want Clementine and our family to have over the years: new shoes, sure, but also some nice vacations, our very own house to live in, a college education, comfort, security, a future and fun. It doesn't always feel like a fair trade-off, but it's one that many women make, and I'm proud (if not a bit sad) to count myself among the ranks of working moms.

When I first started working this job, my younger sister was beginning her life as an at-home mom. We talked on the phone almost every day as I was making my way to or from work, and I used to get so pissed at her complaints about life at home (not that there were many). It seemed unfair that she saw any down side to being at home all day long, cuddling her kid, getting to go to the post office at a leisurely pace, doing whatever she wanted, etc. Obviously, I had a pretty skewed idea of the life of an at-home mom, but nevertheless there were times I was so jealous of her ability to be at home while I was trudging through the work-a-day world that I could barely speak to her. Now I wonder how she can stay so sane amid the chaos of her life at home; she works so hard!

As with all of the lessons I've learned since the arrival of darling C., I could never have known how hard it is to take either side of this issue until it was directly upon me. On the one hand, staying home seems like the best plan, an opportunity to personally oversee all the important details and moments in my child's upbringing, to nurture her every step of the way, to ensure she is raised with the "correct" (meaning my) morals and values. On the other hand, working means being able to provide for her needs in a more material way, to set an example for her of a woman's ability to make her own way in the world and to remain a vital part of the adult world, which I think can benefit her in a number of ways. Of course, there are down sides as well, too numerous and familiar to begin to list, and I'm trying hard not to dwell on that.

So, I've just about survived my first day of daycare, and my shoes have survived their first day on my feet. The mundane details: Nate and I went together this morning, and Clementine was happy as a lamb when we left her with Julie. The other kids were cheerful and happy to arrive at her house, and the environment felt right. OK, so I cried on the way out and in my car on the way to work and in my office when I got here, but the day is whizzing by, and I'll get to bundle her, screams and all, in my car in just a while. This will work for us for now. Or at least that's what I'm telling myself.

Look at my shoes. Aren't they (and I really mean all they symbolize) worth it?

Let us now praise Nate

Today was the last day of Nate's paternity leave, and before I start freaking out about tomorrow being the first day of daycare, I want to take a minute to recognize how important this last month has been for me, for him and most especially for Clementine. How cool is it that Nate put his job on hold for a month, despite the awful timing in the auto industry, and stayed home to get to know his little girl. There are so many reasons his decision rocked, not the least of which is the obvious priority he places on his family at a time when the American workplace makes it as difficult as possible to do so.

Because I was at home with darling C. from the beginning, I became--for lack of a better phrase--the dominant parent (notice I'm blaming it on maternity leave and not my control-freak personality). Don't get me wrong--Nate was as into it from the get-go as I was, but by virtue of my 8+ hours a day with her alone, I got to know Clementine much better those first few weeks. I knew all the right cry-abating tricks, the best way to swaddle, the way to get a laugh. Nate picked up on them right away, but I often had to lock myself in my office and bite my tongue to let him find his own way with her. Things evened out by the second month (even though I was still home with her), but December really strengthened their relationship in some cool ways. He is now the master of putting her to sleep when she's tired, and he has far surpassed me as the best swaddler in the house. They've had several outings by themselves (he now knows the challenge of leaving the house with baby and gear in tow first hand), a few foibles and mishaps and lots of adventures.

I don't mean to make it sound so novel; I know dads spend a lot of time with their kids. I'm just so damn proud of Nate for making it happen for himself, for not allowing his stupid job to steamroll him into missing this opportunity to forge a bond with his kid before we throw her in daycare. All this child-rearing is, as the cliche says, going by so fast, and I'm glad Nate had the sense to grab onto a piece of it for himself. Let me tell you, I was pretty in love with this guy before he knocked me up, but that was nothing compared to the love I felt for him when he gave our daughter her first bath or the rush of love I feel for him every time I overhear him chatting with her or singing to her or watch him lose his breath at her beauty. It's all just so damn amazing.

So let us now praise Nate and not think about tomorrow, our first at daycare. I could obsess for paragraphs about all the things that are bugging me about it, but instead I am going to go downstairs and curl up with Nate. We might get up the gumption to put away our Christmas stuff, but more likely we'll just sit on the couch and geek out about darling C., how cute she is, the way she smiled at us all through her bath, her sweet milky smell as she fell asleep tonight in his arms.

Resolved

Last New Year's Eve, we were just two. Nate and I went up north to John and Julie's place and enjoyed a long, fabulous dinner with them before ringing in the new year in front of a fire, the cold Michigan wind howling outside our windows. We slept in the next morning and woke to walk up and down the beach. I remember it well because it seemed like it was out of a movie--no one was around, the sky was gray but bright and the bare trees rattled against one another. All the houses were empty, and the sheet of ice that formed along the shore of Lake Huron was strong enough that we could walk out a ways on the ice, further removing us from any chance of human interaction. We didn't talk much, and I was lost on some internal tangent, thinking again and again about the new year, wondering what it would have in store for me. I secretly felt some sort of greatness lurking. Nate had given me an accordian and I was thinking (after binging on concerts over winter break) I would take to it easily and change the sound of garage rock. Or maybe I'd finish my book of poetry. Something. We lingered all afternoon outside, long after John and Julie headed back toward Detroit. There was just something special about the day--it was lonely and haunting and perfect.

Little did we know that Clementine had already claimed her place inside my body, our lives, our hearts. Days later, I would stop ignoring the nagging suspicions I had and take a pregnancy test. I would freak out, feel scared, wonder how it happened (yes, I know the mechanics, but...). And then I would get happy. Ecstatic.

This New Year's we had 6:00 p.m. dinner reservations and were home by 9. Luckily we had friends who didn't think this the lamest plan in the universe and they joined for dinner and an evening after at home in sweats with my happy, sweet, sleepless little girl. We headed out this morning to spend the day with John and Julie, and it wasn't until this evening on our drive home, Nate driving, me in the backseat comforting car-hating Clementine and pumping (oh glamour!), that I stopped to think how much my whole life had changed this year. Yes, the obvious: kid, kid, kid. It changes everything. But there are things you can't see, too. I am not the woman who, a year ago, walked along the shores of Lake Huron and imagined her life was about to break open like a movie plot. I am that woman broken open. I am that woman who thought she knew what she was getting into (still does, though every day proves her wrong), that woman who was looking for what it would be in this life, this year, that would find all the potential inside her and help her realize it. I am that woman who may have found her greatness in the eyes of a little girl she never even knew she wanted or needed as much as she does.

This is the end of a tremendous year and the beginning of one that only promises better and better things. Tonight my darling C. slept and slept (no nap), but we couldn't seem to put her down, passing her back and forth and admiring her sleepy little figure like we used to when she was newly born. When she woke up, the three of us sprawled across our bed and played, laughing and staring wide-eyed at one another until she fell back asleep. She has changed so much in the short, short time she has been a part of our lives. The shrieking, wriggling, beautiful and intimidating creature who escorted us trembling and excited from the hospital has grown into an alert, aware and active baby determined to explore and understand every inch of the world around her. How could that have happened so fast? And more importantly, what next?

What will our next New Year together be like? I'll only indulge myself in wondering for a moment because I don't want to get lost in the future--each moment in the present is way too precious to give it over to something yet to come. But I can't help but wonder if she'll be walking or talking, what her temperament will be, what kind of parent I'll be, what kind of wife. I wonder what the world will be like and whether we will have spent enough time making the people we love and who are important to us feel our undying appreciation. I wonder if Clementine will know then or ever how important she is to me, how much she has changed my life, how grateful I am for the woman she has helped me find within myself.

Hell, this schmaltz is worse than resolutions. I should just write that I resolve to lose weight (who has time?), quit smoking (I don't smoke), spend more time at the gym (the what?). But I can hear Clementine snoring in the next room, and I know I can't sit here a second longer. Instead, I resolve to listen to that instinct above all others this year and just be done with it.