The moment that defined my yesterday: I had just pushed--literally pushed--my sister, her newborn and her screaming three-year-old out the door and loaded my own screaming child in the car with my shrieking cat, who had been vomiting blood all morning and needed to go to the vet. We were late, Clementine was tired and has renewed her hatred for the car and there is a colony of ferrel cats living and peeing beneath my back porch because the nice 83-year-old woman next door to us likes to feed the neighborhood kitties. Between the shrieks of darling C., the yowls of Kitty and the sick feeling of how much I had to do when I got home to make my house look (and now smell) less like it was inhabited by crack dealers was just overwhelming. Thank heavens for Karen, who was just leaving the florist around the corner from my vet and came to rescue darling C., who was howling loud enough to rattle the windows of my car, while I learned tht Kitty may have several serious conditions ($300 worth of tests and meds will help us find out) and certainly does have fleas. FLEAS. Could I feel less competent? How did my life get so overrun with this shit?
So there is some sunshine for your Friday. My sunshine is that C. is napping, I've been writing and my friend Crystal is on her way to town for a reading at the Opera House tonight. She won't be here long, but it will be nice to see her.
I'm going to try to find my moment of zen now.
Friday, March 31, 2006
Wednesday, March 29, 2006
Life with toddler
I'm sure I will have many stories of my sister's visit when she packs up her three year-old and eight week-old daughters tomorrow and heads back to Chicago. What do you expect when you jam three car seats in the back of a little SUV and set us all loose, baby carriers, strollers and all, on the great city of Detroit. I love hanging with all these girls, even if we do feel like a traveling circus at times. The highlight for me will likely be tonight, as Nate my sis and I sat on the couch watching a new guilty pleasure, Top Chef, and responding to the various squaks and squeaks over the baby monitor or shouted down from upstairs. One of us would disappear briefly to feed or comfort and then return to the couch.
At 11:15 p.m., there was a terrible commotion from my niece's room. She is a little girl going through a whole lotta change with her new little sis, and we're all working to help her feel good about being her. The screaming and crying was intense enough that my sis went running up, and the crying didn't stop until they came down together. Was there a monster in the room? A nightmare? Was there bodily harm? No, my niece really really really needed...some hummus. Yes, she couldn't sleep because she needed to have some hummus. Right now. And when a toddler wants something late and night in a house full of other sleeping babies, she kind of rules to roost. Of course she gets her damn hummus, 'cuz are we really gonna risk everyone awake this late at night? And so here we are as she slowly gums her pita, snuggled in her mom's lap. I used to think things would be so much easier when I could reason with my kid, that once these months of little or no communication pass I would be able to understand my kid's needs and meet them. And I guess in many ways I see that's right. I just never thought those "needs" would include a garlicky midnight snack.
At 11:15 p.m., there was a terrible commotion from my niece's room. She is a little girl going through a whole lotta change with her new little sis, and we're all working to help her feel good about being her. The screaming and crying was intense enough that my sis went running up, and the crying didn't stop until they came down together. Was there a monster in the room? A nightmare? Was there bodily harm? No, my niece really really really needed...some hummus. Yes, she couldn't sleep because she needed to have some hummus. Right now. And when a toddler wants something late and night in a house full of other sleeping babies, she kind of rules to roost. Of course she gets her damn hummus, 'cuz are we really gonna risk everyone awake this late at night? And so here we are as she slowly gums her pita, snuggled in her mom's lap. I used to think things would be so much easier when I could reason with my kid, that once these months of little or no communication pass I would be able to understand my kid's needs and meet them. And I guess in many ways I see that's right. I just never thought those "needs" would include a garlicky midnight snack.
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
Come here often?
Maybe it's because I was too busy creating art and poetry (read: drinking heavily and having esoteric debates with platonic lovers) in college, but I was never into the whole pick-up scene. I didn't go to bars and clubs to give out my number and then sit by the phone waiting for a call, and nor did I get someone's digits and then debate with my friends on when/if I should call him and what I should say. Today, I've turned that whole "I never" part of my personality on its ear and picked up a mom at Trader Joe's. Yes, that's right, I got someone's digits for the first time in my life. How hot.
I was shopping with Clementine, she was shopping with her cute little boy all snug in his sling, and after some quick "How old is yours?" banalities, we parted ways. But then I ran into her in the next aisle and the next. She laughed at my joke about living in what we call "Ferndale East" so we don't ever have to cop to living in a suburb the rest of Metro Detroit calls Hazeltucky, and I sympathized with her stories of feeling isolated and too young (at 30) to be a mom. I thought I lost her for a while in the tortilla chip section, but I passed her again as I was making my way to the check-out aisle and summoned up the courage to ask for her number. "Oh, I was going to ask you for yours, too, but I didn't want to seem dorky," she said. "I just don't have too many mom friends." As it turns out, though my circle is expanding a bit with Debby, Lisa and now Courtney, me neither. Are we a match made in the supermarket or what?
When I told my sister, she said she was just reading an article in some terrible parenting magazine that suggested making business-like cards with your name, your kids' names and ages and your preferred contact information for handing out in the park in case you meet the playdate of your dreams. "It's so much easier than digging for a pen and then having to write your number on the back of your grocery receipt from the time you bought Perparation H," my sis argued. But even she had to admit we would mock the mom who handed those little beauties out. Yeah, it sounds convenient, but there's something just a little too...prepared about it. Moms that perfect and prepared make me nervous. Instead, Ruth dug out a pen, I used a little Trader Joe's card, and now we have officially exchanged numbers.
Now I guess the only question is how long I have to wait before I call.
I was shopping with Clementine, she was shopping with her cute little boy all snug in his sling, and after some quick "How old is yours?" banalities, we parted ways. But then I ran into her in the next aisle and the next. She laughed at my joke about living in what we call "Ferndale East" so we don't ever have to cop to living in a suburb the rest of Metro Detroit calls Hazeltucky, and I sympathized with her stories of feeling isolated and too young (at 30) to be a mom. I thought I lost her for a while in the tortilla chip section, but I passed her again as I was making my way to the check-out aisle and summoned up the courage to ask for her number. "Oh, I was going to ask you for yours, too, but I didn't want to seem dorky," she said. "I just don't have too many mom friends." As it turns out, though my circle is expanding a bit with Debby, Lisa and now Courtney, me neither. Are we a match made in the supermarket or what?
When I told my sister, she said she was just reading an article in some terrible parenting magazine that suggested making business-like cards with your name, your kids' names and ages and your preferred contact information for handing out in the park in case you meet the playdate of your dreams. "It's so much easier than digging for a pen and then having to write your number on the back of your grocery receipt from the time you bought Perparation H," my sis argued. But even she had to admit we would mock the mom who handed those little beauties out. Yeah, it sounds convenient, but there's something just a little too...prepared about it. Moms that perfect and prepared make me nervous. Instead, Ruth dug out a pen, I used a little Trader Joe's card, and now we have officially exchanged numbers.
Now I guess the only question is how long I have to wait before I call.
Avert your eyes
WARNING! Do not read this post if:
1. You are my parent (this means you, Dad) or Nate's parent. Trust me, you don't need this information and I prefer not talking of such matters with you.
2. You know me personally and are just fine with our lack of conversational intimacy. You don't tell me about your sex life, I reciprocate. It's all good.
3. You work with me or (Bernie) for me and we do not enjoy conversational intimacy (see above).
4. You regularly visit my home and sit on my furniture, confident in the fact that a couch is used only for sitting, watching TV and maybe eating ice cream late at night.
I'm not kidding. This isn't that exciting a post, and I think we will all be much happier if you click away now, browse elsewhere, look at pictures of my kid and do not read on. I do not want to talk to you about this, and I truly prefer our relationship on the exact level on which it exists now. Why am I posting to strangers? 'Cuz I gotta get it off my chest, and it's easy to tell the Internet things I don't necessarily want to share with you. If I have now made it so alluring that you cannot possible avoid reading what follows, do not ever try to engage me on this topic. Let's pretend you didn't read this. Let's just not talk about it.
OK, now. For the rest of you.
We are officially co-sleepers. I have resisted using this title in the past because it comes from the great parenting machine and sounds a little like what Ferris Bueller would call an -ism. Co-sleeping is not my belief structure. I don't feel strongly that all children belong in their parents' beds, and I'm not sure I believe there are tons of benefits for Clementine. For a long time I preferred the term "she sleeps with us" to "co-sleeping" because it more accurately reflected what we were doing. She sleeps with us because we were at first too fearful and fatigued to trek down the hall to her nursery to feed her or assure ourselves she was still breathing. But then I started back to work, and nestling in beside her every night after enjoying not enough time with her seemed like a good compromise. It's easy to feed her when she wakes, and it's nice to have her snuggled up between us. Three months passed (my first cut-off), then six, and then I realized we were happy and just going to stick with this until we didn't. Also, Clementine now treats her crib like a jungle gym by pulling herself up to standing within the first 30 seconds of being placed in it and then cracking her head on the bars as she inevitably tumbles after a minute or two. I'm afraid to leave her in it alone, but really that's just a convenient excuse to use when people frown upon the whole she-sleeps-with-us concept. We are now so totally officially co-sleepers that I bought bed rails to keep her from falling out at night (and from crawling out if she wakes before we turn in for the night). Yup, and we've rearranged a little so she can sleep on the outside of us with her own space. It's working out lovely, and I think we're all the better for it. No more angst.
But that leaves us with one big problem. If the baby is in the bed, where do we...you know...where in the world can we have sex? Don't even suggest that we try it right there with her snoozing alongside us. That's a little too Summer of Love for our style, and she's a light sleeper. Sure, she likes to be rocked to sleep, but, well, yuck. She may not remember when she gets older, but we always will. I'm not trying to be puritanical, but I'm so not down with that. Since we have no guest bed, the only other bed-like surfaces are the crib (too small), the dining room table (too weak, and what do you think this is, a movie?) and the couch. Oh, the couch. Our romantic little getaway lit by the romantic blue light of the TV. It's pure nostalgia: reminds me of college and trying to do it in a twin bed. Add a few beers beforehand, and it's like our first few months of dating. But I'm tired of the couch. It's uncomfortable after a while, I'm convinced someone will find the condoms we stash under the cushions and if anyone were to ever drop by unexpected via the front door, who knows what they would see? I don't want to be putting on a show for the neighbors, and I've been too in denial to make curtains.
Sure, there are alternatives to the couch. There are comfy and not-so-comfy chairs (the back of my office chair is now bent beyond repair from a late-night tryst), but we're getting a little tired of the whole 9 1/2 Weeks vibe of sex on all our furniture. Shocking, I know, but there comes a time when crazy locations, spontaneity and feeling like you might get caught just aren't that exciting if they haven't been tempered with something a little more traditional, a little slower, more comfortable and romantic.
So what are co-sleeping parents to do? Set up the inflatable mattress in the living room? Create a love nest in the cold, cold garage? We joke that maybe a slow down isn't a bad thing for us, since our inability to use birth control brought us our little Clementine love. Shall we hearken back to high school and the abstinence talk? Perish the thought. But let me tell you, it sounds a heck of a lot better than the tile kitchen floor.
1. You are my parent (this means you, Dad) or Nate's parent. Trust me, you don't need this information and I prefer not talking of such matters with you.
2. You know me personally and are just fine with our lack of conversational intimacy. You don't tell me about your sex life, I reciprocate. It's all good.
3. You work with me or (Bernie) for me and we do not enjoy conversational intimacy (see above).
4. You regularly visit my home and sit on my furniture, confident in the fact that a couch is used only for sitting, watching TV and maybe eating ice cream late at night.
I'm not kidding. This isn't that exciting a post, and I think we will all be much happier if you click away now, browse elsewhere, look at pictures of my kid and do not read on. I do not want to talk to you about this, and I truly prefer our relationship on the exact level on which it exists now. Why am I posting to strangers? 'Cuz I gotta get it off my chest, and it's easy to tell the Internet things I don't necessarily want to share with you. If I have now made it so alluring that you cannot possible avoid reading what follows, do not ever try to engage me on this topic. Let's pretend you didn't read this. Let's just not talk about it.
OK, now. For the rest of you.
We are officially co-sleepers. I have resisted using this title in the past because it comes from the great parenting machine and sounds a little like what Ferris Bueller would call an -ism. Co-sleeping is not my belief structure. I don't feel strongly that all children belong in their parents' beds, and I'm not sure I believe there are tons of benefits for Clementine. For a long time I preferred the term "she sleeps with us" to "co-sleeping" because it more accurately reflected what we were doing. She sleeps with us because we were at first too fearful and fatigued to trek down the hall to her nursery to feed her or assure ourselves she was still breathing. But then I started back to work, and nestling in beside her every night after enjoying not enough time with her seemed like a good compromise. It's easy to feed her when she wakes, and it's nice to have her snuggled up between us. Three months passed (my first cut-off), then six, and then I realized we were happy and just going to stick with this until we didn't. Also, Clementine now treats her crib like a jungle gym by pulling herself up to standing within the first 30 seconds of being placed in it and then cracking her head on the bars as she inevitably tumbles after a minute or two. I'm afraid to leave her in it alone, but really that's just a convenient excuse to use when people frown upon the whole she-sleeps-with-us concept. We are now so totally officially co-sleepers that I bought bed rails to keep her from falling out at night (and from crawling out if she wakes before we turn in for the night). Yup, and we've rearranged a little so she can sleep on the outside of us with her own space. It's working out lovely, and I think we're all the better for it. No more angst.
But that leaves us with one big problem. If the baby is in the bed, where do we...you know...where in the world can we have sex? Don't even suggest that we try it right there with her snoozing alongside us. That's a little too Summer of Love for our style, and she's a light sleeper. Sure, she likes to be rocked to sleep, but, well, yuck. She may not remember when she gets older, but we always will. I'm not trying to be puritanical, but I'm so not down with that. Since we have no guest bed, the only other bed-like surfaces are the crib (too small), the dining room table (too weak, and what do you think this is, a movie?) and the couch. Oh, the couch. Our romantic little getaway lit by the romantic blue light of the TV. It's pure nostalgia: reminds me of college and trying to do it in a twin bed. Add a few beers beforehand, and it's like our first few months of dating. But I'm tired of the couch. It's uncomfortable after a while, I'm convinced someone will find the condoms we stash under the cushions and if anyone were to ever drop by unexpected via the front door, who knows what they would see? I don't want to be putting on a show for the neighbors, and I've been too in denial to make curtains.
Sure, there are alternatives to the couch. There are comfy and not-so-comfy chairs (the back of my office chair is now bent beyond repair from a late-night tryst), but we're getting a little tired of the whole 9 1/2 Weeks vibe of sex on all our furniture. Shocking, I know, but there comes a time when crazy locations, spontaneity and feeling like you might get caught just aren't that exciting if they haven't been tempered with something a little more traditional, a little slower, more comfortable and romantic.
So what are co-sleeping parents to do? Set up the inflatable mattress in the living room? Create a love nest in the cold, cold garage? We joke that maybe a slow down isn't a bad thing for us, since our inability to use birth control brought us our little Clementine love. Shall we hearken back to high school and the abstinence talk? Perish the thought. But let me tell you, it sounds a heck of a lot better than the tile kitchen floor.
Monday, March 27, 2006
Family bonding and a diaper diatribe
We had the most amazing weekend up north, and I'm not just saying that because I'm in the deeply thrilling delirium of a second week of spring break. OK, maybe I am, but it was still a fantabulous adventure. We hung out, went for walks, cooked fabulous food and watched our darling C. play and wave. She waved at us. She waved at her reflection in the windows. She waved at the stools and the counter and the bed. She is indiscriminate. She just waves all the time, and it is heart-meltingly adorable because she smiles at the same time and sometimes even hisses or makes her "ffff" noise. I'm not sure why, but it's pretty damn cute. She was uninterested in the lake completely and fell asleep whenever we walked her up and down the deserted shore, but I loved imagining our future trips when she will walk alongside us in the sand fascinated by every wave, every rock and probably every dead fish. There isn't much to do up north, especially in the winter when antique stores and sub shops are closed but all the bars are still open, but it was great to get away and stay in a house that is clutter free and beautiful, its huge windows looking out on Lake Huron. We mostly sat around and stared at one another, hopelessly in love and were grateful we didn't need to Swiffer under the couch, sort our CDs, reorganize the cabinets or pay our taxes, all stuff waiting for us at home.
Now I don't want to jinx anything, but Clementine turned a big corner on food this weekend. No, she's not letting us feed her with a spoon, and despite my many efforts to do so and tantalizing variety of both homemade and store-bought purees, she'll still squirm and clench her lips together, maybe allowing for a single bite to penetrate the perimeter before spitting it out emphatically. But if we let her feed herself, she's golden, voracious even. We didn't have a high chair with us over the weekend, and were she a spoonfed baby we probably would have been OK with the Bumbo seat. As it was, we were not OK. Everything she heartily enjoyed--avocado, sweet potatoes, beets, cheese, pita bread, etc.--ended up smashed into her pants and shirts. Smarter parents would have fed her naked (that is with her naked, not us), but as we have proved many times, we know no such smarter parents and took her again and again to the Bumbo fully clothed to ingest and wear equal amounts of the food we served.
This is where my diaper diatribe begins. I was psyched to see her eat and thought maybe it would help her sleep better/longer, too. What I hadn't anticipated was the poop--the lack of it and the stink of it when it finally came. I've not talked too much about poop in the past because, frankly, I can't get too ramped up about it. Some moms turn into one-track CDs, spinning the same tune of poop this and poop that throughout the newborn months, but after the initial journaling and counting the pediatrician recommended (lasted about 3 days for me), I didn't think much about it. Books and nurses talked about those early "sweet-smelling breastmilk poops" like something beautiful and magical, and I kind of thought they were crazy--baby shit doesn't smell good--it's shit. But whatever, it wasn't like it was toxic. I could deal with it. We had our daily blowouts, ruining whatever outfit was first in the rotation that day, but most of the time poop was dealt with quietly and quickly. This weekend, however, after much experimental eating, darling C. didn't poop. We waited and waited for the daily blowout, but nothing came. We waited overnight, gave her more delicious goodies including tons of breastmilk, and no poop. And then on Sunday it happened--she pooped the nastiest, thickest, stinkiest paste I could never have anticipated coming out of someone so beautiful. And since then she has been farting (not pooping, thank heavens for I fear what I will face) and it stinks! I mean really stinks, so much so that I'm afraid people will start thinking it's me. Will I look like a total asshole if I start saying "Oh, that was my kid" to the supermoms at Target? So while I'm happy she's eating and enjoying food (I put some lasagna in her little feed bag last night and she LOVED it), this whole new frontier on the diaper fronts sucks. I wish someone had warned me. Oh, right, I guess they did. Yuck.
Now I don't want to jinx anything, but Clementine turned a big corner on food this weekend. No, she's not letting us feed her with a spoon, and despite my many efforts to do so and tantalizing variety of both homemade and store-bought purees, she'll still squirm and clench her lips together, maybe allowing for a single bite to penetrate the perimeter before spitting it out emphatically. But if we let her feed herself, she's golden, voracious even. We didn't have a high chair with us over the weekend, and were she a spoonfed baby we probably would have been OK with the Bumbo seat. As it was, we were not OK. Everything she heartily enjoyed--avocado, sweet potatoes, beets, cheese, pita bread, etc.--ended up smashed into her pants and shirts. Smarter parents would have fed her naked (that is with her naked, not us), but as we have proved many times, we know no such smarter parents and took her again and again to the Bumbo fully clothed to ingest and wear equal amounts of the food we served.
This is where my diaper diatribe begins. I was psyched to see her eat and thought maybe it would help her sleep better/longer, too. What I hadn't anticipated was the poop--the lack of it and the stink of it when it finally came. I've not talked too much about poop in the past because, frankly, I can't get too ramped up about it. Some moms turn into one-track CDs, spinning the same tune of poop this and poop that throughout the newborn months, but after the initial journaling and counting the pediatrician recommended (lasted about 3 days for me), I didn't think much about it. Books and nurses talked about those early "sweet-smelling breastmilk poops" like something beautiful and magical, and I kind of thought they were crazy--baby shit doesn't smell good--it's shit. But whatever, it wasn't like it was toxic. I could deal with it. We had our daily blowouts, ruining whatever outfit was first in the rotation that day, but most of the time poop was dealt with quietly and quickly. This weekend, however, after much experimental eating, darling C. didn't poop. We waited and waited for the daily blowout, but nothing came. We waited overnight, gave her more delicious goodies including tons of breastmilk, and no poop. And then on Sunday it happened--she pooped the nastiest, thickest, stinkiest paste I could never have anticipated coming out of someone so beautiful. And since then she has been farting (not pooping, thank heavens for I fear what I will face) and it stinks! I mean really stinks, so much so that I'm afraid people will start thinking it's me. Will I look like a total asshole if I start saying "Oh, that was my kid" to the supermoms at Target? So while I'm happy she's eating and enjoying food (I put some lasagna in her little feed bag last night and she LOVED it), this whole new frontier on the diaper fronts sucks. I wish someone had warned me. Oh, right, I guess they did. Yuck.
Friday, March 24, 2006
Parting shots
We're on our way up north for the weekend. "Up north" is this Michigan thing that covers most of the state outside of the Metro Detroit area, even if it's due west. When we first moved here, everyone was always going "up north" for the weekend, and no one was more specific than that. It could be they were traveling 6 hours or just 2--they were still going up north. Our wonderful friends Julie and John are letting us stay in their place right on Lake Huron, so we're going to spend the weekend reading, eating and playing with our sweet darling C. Here are some parting shots...
She could be waving hello, she could be waving goodbye or she could just be waving.
Yup. She pulled herself up to stand by the couch. Then she walked the length of it very slowly as I pulled my hair out wondering how many bruises she can fit on her face before her dad starts to wonder what I do to her all day.
Oh, that sly little girl.
The F word
This has been a week of tricks for Clementine. She's perfecting crawling and is now good enough at it to be a little dangerous, she's comprehending the sign for milk and may or may not be flashing it as she guzzles (I can't quite tell), and she's (gulp) starting to pull herself up on the side of her crib or the couch and standing. Did you hear that? She's STANDING. It's really freaking me out. She's also waving, though it's not really tied to "hi" or "bye." But the cutest trick of all is this new little sound she makes. It started as a kind of blowing reminscent of the great raspberry phase, but it quickly has become a distinct "fff" sound, as if she's getting ready to say "food fight," "fillibuster," "fire truck." All day long, she smiles and says "fffff." I'm terrified that one day soon she's going to look at a total stranger and just let it rip: "fffffuck." I know it's not likely, but she's not even seven months old and already trying to get up and walk.
Thursday, March 23, 2006
Now with less ebb!
Or should I put a positive spin on it: Now with more flow!?
The whole ebb and flow platitude is as true of parenting as it is of life. There are hours/minutes/days that just click and work, and there are those that fall apart before you even know what hits you. I spent a long time thinking some awful karmic retribution had sentenced me to a near constant state of ebb as a mom, always peeking around the corner for a bright spot of sun to look forward to, but I think I experienced more flow than I ever realized. The challenges that once seemed insurmountable get to be easy, day-to-day stuff, clearing my plate for bigger, harder things I don't see coming.
This sounds all flowery and vague and wanna-be philosophical, and I don't mean it to. I'm just finding myself smack dab in the middle of a fantastic week with darling C., and I'm trying desperately to find an excuse for it other than the fact that I've been off work and more focused on her. It's not that I don't think that's the reason--I truly do. It's that I can't deal with the fact that we're all a little more mellow, a little more focused, a little less cranky and a whole hell of a lot better rested with one of us home all day to deal with our little gal. What does that mean for my life and my job? Home with her, I'm in tune with her schedule and am getting her some good naps, some decent meals and some great play time, and in return she is letting me get housework done and leaving me time to do my own thing, which is currently an ADD-fest of all the shit I imagine doing when I get home from work but am usually to tired to (from sewing to painting to writing to learning an instrument to fixing the house to making lamps, etc. etc. etc.).
The first few days of being home drove me a little around the bend, but I think I was still in a Vegas-y mentality: you know, what happens on mama's spring break stays on mama's spring break and let's go to Target right now and who needs a nap when there's a cool record store in Ferndale having a sale. I knew this week would be over soon enough and didn't know how to dig in and make it work as anything but a vacation with no rules. But when I realized Clementine has her own rhythm, I listened in, got good at helping her keep her pace and whammo! Things are clicking, we're getting stuff done and I'm wondering how in the hell I can go back to my 9-5. It's not a lack of desire to work that's got me itching to be home all of the sudden--I love working and am every day a little more committed to the idea that my girl needs to see me out in the world doing something. I'm just less and less convinced it has to be this traditional working in an office 8 hours a day with little flexibility and less blue sky.
I've griped about this before, but that was more about me not wanting to be away from my kid, a selfishness about not wanting to give up the best part of her day to someone else. Now I'm seeing that there is tangible benefit to being home with her (beyond selfishly satisfying my own need for endless kisses and glimpses of her cute, chubby cheeks). She's sleeping better, she's happier, she's experiementing more with food and she's even getting a little more flexible (read: fewer meltdowns when she can't get the cell phone out of her play car or because she's in an unfamiliar situation). In short, she's more comfortable in the world without so much rushing and passing her off, and we're all much happier in general. I don't want to say that having a stay-at-home parent is the panacea for all our parenting difficulties, but it's impossible to ignore that she's thriving this week and is the happiest I've ever seen her.
And to top it all off, I'm thriving as a parent. I'm not saying I'm Mother of the Year or anything, but I feel so much more relaxed, more in control and more confident. I don't feel frazzled (as much), I'm not freaked out about how much I'm screwing her up (maybe it's just denial) and I don't feel like I need to poll a thousand other more experienced moms before deciding stupid shit I should be able to decide for myself. AND (and this is a big deal) I've gotten such a handle on her sleep schedule that I'm willing to let her fuss and cry a little every once in a while to get her down. I'm not Ferbering her or anything--it's just that now I know when she needs to go down and don't feel guilty for letting her fuss out her resistence and find her way to the happy world of sleep, sleep and more sleep. I used to feel guilty for letting her cry after abandoning her all day to daycare, and, truth be told, I didn't want her to associate any feelings of terror, sadness or strife with being at home with her parents. I still won't let her get to the actual tears part of crying it out, but I do let her roll around and fuss before her morning nap instead of picking her up and bouncing her to sleep until I have to carefully contort myself in order to lay her down without her realizing it. Seems small, but it's a big deal to me.
So what does all this mean? I'm not going to run out and quit my job, but we do have new things to think about. I'm not going to get into that for now, though. For now I'm gonna enjoy my little girl every minute I can.
The whole ebb and flow platitude is as true of parenting as it is of life. There are hours/minutes/days that just click and work, and there are those that fall apart before you even know what hits you. I spent a long time thinking some awful karmic retribution had sentenced me to a near constant state of ebb as a mom, always peeking around the corner for a bright spot of sun to look forward to, but I think I experienced more flow than I ever realized. The challenges that once seemed insurmountable get to be easy, day-to-day stuff, clearing my plate for bigger, harder things I don't see coming.
This sounds all flowery and vague and wanna-be philosophical, and I don't mean it to. I'm just finding myself smack dab in the middle of a fantastic week with darling C., and I'm trying desperately to find an excuse for it other than the fact that I've been off work and more focused on her. It's not that I don't think that's the reason--I truly do. It's that I can't deal with the fact that we're all a little more mellow, a little more focused, a little less cranky and a whole hell of a lot better rested with one of us home all day to deal with our little gal. What does that mean for my life and my job? Home with her, I'm in tune with her schedule and am getting her some good naps, some decent meals and some great play time, and in return she is letting me get housework done and leaving me time to do my own thing, which is currently an ADD-fest of all the shit I imagine doing when I get home from work but am usually to tired to (from sewing to painting to writing to learning an instrument to fixing the house to making lamps, etc. etc. etc.).
The first few days of being home drove me a little around the bend, but I think I was still in a Vegas-y mentality: you know, what happens on mama's spring break stays on mama's spring break and let's go to Target right now and who needs a nap when there's a cool record store in Ferndale having a sale. I knew this week would be over soon enough and didn't know how to dig in and make it work as anything but a vacation with no rules. But when I realized Clementine has her own rhythm, I listened in, got good at helping her keep her pace and whammo! Things are clicking, we're getting stuff done and I'm wondering how in the hell I can go back to my 9-5. It's not a lack of desire to work that's got me itching to be home all of the sudden--I love working and am every day a little more committed to the idea that my girl needs to see me out in the world doing something. I'm just less and less convinced it has to be this traditional working in an office 8 hours a day with little flexibility and less blue sky.
I've griped about this before, but that was more about me not wanting to be away from my kid, a selfishness about not wanting to give up the best part of her day to someone else. Now I'm seeing that there is tangible benefit to being home with her (beyond selfishly satisfying my own need for endless kisses and glimpses of her cute, chubby cheeks). She's sleeping better, she's happier, she's experiementing more with food and she's even getting a little more flexible (read: fewer meltdowns when she can't get the cell phone out of her play car or because she's in an unfamiliar situation). In short, she's more comfortable in the world without so much rushing and passing her off, and we're all much happier in general. I don't want to say that having a stay-at-home parent is the panacea for all our parenting difficulties, but it's impossible to ignore that she's thriving this week and is the happiest I've ever seen her.
And to top it all off, I'm thriving as a parent. I'm not saying I'm Mother of the Year or anything, but I feel so much more relaxed, more in control and more confident. I don't feel frazzled (as much), I'm not freaked out about how much I'm screwing her up (maybe it's just denial) and I don't feel like I need to poll a thousand other more experienced moms before deciding stupid shit I should be able to decide for myself. AND (and this is a big deal) I've gotten such a handle on her sleep schedule that I'm willing to let her fuss and cry a little every once in a while to get her down. I'm not Ferbering her or anything--it's just that now I know when she needs to go down and don't feel guilty for letting her fuss out her resistence and find her way to the happy world of sleep, sleep and more sleep. I used to feel guilty for letting her cry after abandoning her all day to daycare, and, truth be told, I didn't want her to associate any feelings of terror, sadness or strife with being at home with her parents. I still won't let her get to the actual tears part of crying it out, but I do let her roll around and fuss before her morning nap instead of picking her up and bouncing her to sleep until I have to carefully contort myself in order to lay her down without her realizing it. Seems small, but it's a big deal to me.
So what does all this mean? I'm not going to run out and quit my job, but we do have new things to think about. I'm not going to get into that for now, though. For now I'm gonna enjoy my little girl every minute I can.
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
Food wars
We have entered a new phase in our lives as parents: the phase where Cheerios are all over the fucking house, crushed under every step we take, swept up from under every appliance and piece of furniture, at home even in rooms where we have never fed her. What the hell am I doing giving Cheerios to such a young thang, you wonder? It's simple: I give up. She will eat nothing from a spoon, nothing that requires assistance of any kind and pretty much nothing in general. NOTHING. And I am sick of trying to force rice cereal through her clenched lips and gums, only to have her spit it right back out at me before wildly flinging her hands and getting the soupy, breastmilky crap all in my hair.
And it's not like she actually EATS the Cheerios. She tries, but she can't quite pick them up and get them into her mouth regularly. For every one she manages to gum, about 20 end up on the floor. She does like to fling them and laugh at how clever she is as they patter to the floor. Ditto for the teething biscuits, which at least occupy her for a few minutes before she moves on. Ditto for clementines as well, and I'm not even sure she's supposed to be eating citrus yet. My careful, deliberate, well-planned approach to introducing her to foods (I even have a book, dammit! with recipes!) is all shot to hell. The Cheerios aren't the only caving. I bought her a jar of pickles yesterday in response to her new rejection of bananas in favor of a crunchy dill on my plate at a restaurant. I haven't given her one yet because I can't get my mind around it, but I'm thinking I'll only make it to lunch before we truck those out as well. Oh, goodbye sweet oatmeal ceral, the purees I so carefully made and froze for later, even bananas, once a favorite food of hers. Sure, she'll gum at one for a while, but eventually she casts it to the side and smiles as it splats on my once-gorgeous hard wood floors.
And speaking of the floors, what the hell was I thinking with all the damn wood in this house? The falling-off-the-bed incident was just the first of many smack-your-head-hard events. I'm starting to worry about brain damage and want to carpet my whole house in down comforters. I can't tell if it's worse for her little skull or my fragile soul. The wind-up cries, when she's quietly building steam before wailing as loud and hard as she possible can, kill me softly every single time.
And it's not like she actually EATS the Cheerios. She tries, but she can't quite pick them up and get them into her mouth regularly. For every one she manages to gum, about 20 end up on the floor. She does like to fling them and laugh at how clever she is as they patter to the floor. Ditto for the teething biscuits, which at least occupy her for a few minutes before she moves on. Ditto for clementines as well, and I'm not even sure she's supposed to be eating citrus yet. My careful, deliberate, well-planned approach to introducing her to foods (I even have a book, dammit! with recipes!) is all shot to hell. The Cheerios aren't the only caving. I bought her a jar of pickles yesterday in response to her new rejection of bananas in favor of a crunchy dill on my plate at a restaurant. I haven't given her one yet because I can't get my mind around it, but I'm thinking I'll only make it to lunch before we truck those out as well. Oh, goodbye sweet oatmeal ceral, the purees I so carefully made and froze for later, even bananas, once a favorite food of hers. Sure, she'll gum at one for a while, but eventually she casts it to the side and smiles as it splats on my once-gorgeous hard wood floors.
And speaking of the floors, what the hell was I thinking with all the damn wood in this house? The falling-off-the-bed incident was just the first of many smack-your-head-hard events. I'm starting to worry about brain damage and want to carpet my whole house in down comforters. I can't tell if it's worse for her little skull or my fragile soul. The wind-up cries, when she's quietly building steam before wailing as loud and hard as she possible can, kill me softly every single time.
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
Mother-daughter bonding, Day #2
Know what Clementine wants? Her mommy. All the freakin' time. Mother-daughter bonding complete:
And while it was a joy the first time she freaked out when someone else was holding her and reached for me, now it's...well...let's just say Nate isn't taking it well. He's sad. Very sad. And promises of the day when she will one day manipulate us by calling him her favorite aren't doing anything to make him feel good.
Today was a success, though I was a little out of my mind with boredom by about 10:30 a.m. It's not that playing with her isn't a blast; I just haven't found my groove yet. We ran some errands, Clementine charmed some strangers and we worked hard at getting some good sleep. Oh, yeah, and she banged her head on the floor a dozen times to work up some more bruises.
And while it was a joy the first time she freaked out when someone else was holding her and reached for me, now it's...well...let's just say Nate isn't taking it well. He's sad. Very sad. And promises of the day when she will one day manipulate us by calling him her favorite aren't doing anything to make him feel good.
Today was a success, though I was a little out of my mind with boredom by about 10:30 a.m. It's not that playing with her isn't a blast; I just haven't found my groove yet. We ran some errands, Clementine charmed some strangers and we worked hard at getting some good sleep. Oh, yeah, and she banged her head on the floor a dozen times to work up some more bruises.
Times they are a changing
Yesterday was the first day of spring, but you wouldn't know it by the temperature in Detroit. Sure, it's been sunny and bright, but it's still cold! Nevertheless, I'm feeling change in the air--maybe it's the earth's new tilt, maybe it's a week without work, maybe it's getting to spend full days in a row with my baby girl. Whatever the cause, I'm feeling pretty damn good, even if I did spend most of the morning curled up in the fetal position with a stomach ache.
I spend a lot of time these days thinking about how much has changed in just six months. Clementine has gone from being a yowling little creature too an actual baby (OK, she was a baby before, but she more closely resembled a newborn woodland creature than anything from a Gerber ad), crawling and laughing and throwing little hissy fits when I won't allow her to chew on electrical cords. And while I am totally preoccupied with the ways in which Clementine is changing daily, I hardly ever think about how much I’ve changed since having her. Yes, it’s true: I’ve become infinitely less cool, less spontaneous and less mobile, and happily so. Hanging out with my girl is way more fun than all that cavorting I used to do every day, though I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss it sometimes. And, yeah, I miss the crazy road trips, too, but they’re coming back little by little as we negotiate the car terrors and pick destinations we can drive our tired butts to between her bedtime and sun-up.
And even though I’m no longer happy-hour-ready without lots of preplanning and babysitters, the dramatic changes aren’t really in my lifestyle so much as in my outlook on life. Before becoming a parent I had a whole list of principles I thought I’d always live my life by, a whole set of compromises I didn’t want to make, a way of doing things. I started sentences with declarations and absolutes, many of them boldly proclaiming that “I’d never” do this or that. I think it took all of five minutes of having Clementine in my life to throw all that shit out the window. I’d never give her a pacifier has become I must have three with me any time I leave the house, for example. My friends have stood by watching me become the hypocrite I swore I wouldn’t be, and I don’t regret a single way I’ve thrown my pre-baby self overboard for this new mama self.
A funny little twist to this story of change and transformation is the big news (now officially out in wide release) that my friend Karen is engaged to her boyfriend Dave. How is that related to my mama transformation? Well, her relationship is just about as old as Clementine. No joke. One of her early dates with Dave--I don't say first date here because they had known each other almost two weeks at that point and had been together EVERY SINGLE DAY--was the night they came down for dinner and to play cards just before I went into labor. They left to go meet some other friends at a bar, and I left to go have a baby. Just as my whole world was rocked, so was Karen's. Sure, she didn't get a creature, but her 180 was just as dramatic as mine.
Had you told me this time last year that Karen would be engaged now, I would have laughed so hard I would have peed. Had you told me Karen would be engaged within even three years, I would have been just as surprised. And yet here we are, and Karen is as changed in love as I am in motherhood. My pragmatic, practical friend Karen, who once convinced a boyfriend not to touch her in front of me because I would feel uncomfortable (umm...no), who used to get annoyed by another boyfriend wanting to see her more than three times a week, who would get passive aggressive with her last boyfriend and talk about moving away whenever he talked about how much he liked her, is now head-over-heels in love. And her turnaround was just as instantaneous as having a baby. One minute she was hard-nosed and not all that in to relationships, and the next she couldn't eat or sleep, so giddy in love was she.
And although I poke fun, it really is a delight to see. She beams all the time, and I even caught her in a meeting the other day extending her arm and gazing admiringly at her ring. It's a hoot--of all the things I thought I'd never see! People have been generally supportive, but a few of our less generous colleagues have pointed out that it seems quick or "rash." Maybe I would have thought that once, but two things convince me otherwise. For one, it's not all that different from having a kid. Something happens and all the sudden your whole life is different--the way you see things, the stuff you want to do, the goals you set for your life. For me it was Clementine; for Karen it's Dave. You can't control that kind of stuff. The other thing that convinces me is that Karen has been my window into the world outside kid-dom for the last six months. As I've lived vicariously through her, it's been impossible to ignore how big an impact this relationship has made on her life and her being. In many ways, it's as if she was waiting for this to come along. Why would you wait in the face of that kind of connection? Oh, yeah, and she's 31. Tick tock, my friend.
Now all that's left is for Karen to declare Clementine her flower girl. So what if C. can't walk? And so what if Dave has a neice who can? Karen's planning a small, simple wedding with not many guests, and since she will likely avoid much of the bridezilla, $24,o00 madness, I'm doing the best I can to give her a taste of what she's missing. She has already rejected my offer to officiate (she thinks I'll cry but clearly has no sense of my poetic self), she isn't having bridesmaids, so what's left? I'm thinking I'll teach Clementine to play the drums and insist they book our family band for the reception. Can you think of any good band names?
Here's the happy couple with my darling girl:
I spend a lot of time these days thinking about how much has changed in just six months. Clementine has gone from being a yowling little creature too an actual baby (OK, she was a baby before, but she more closely resembled a newborn woodland creature than anything from a Gerber ad), crawling and laughing and throwing little hissy fits when I won't allow her to chew on electrical cords. And while I am totally preoccupied with the ways in which Clementine is changing daily, I hardly ever think about how much I’ve changed since having her. Yes, it’s true: I’ve become infinitely less cool, less spontaneous and less mobile, and happily so. Hanging out with my girl is way more fun than all that cavorting I used to do every day, though I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss it sometimes. And, yeah, I miss the crazy road trips, too, but they’re coming back little by little as we negotiate the car terrors and pick destinations we can drive our tired butts to between her bedtime and sun-up.
And even though I’m no longer happy-hour-ready without lots of preplanning and babysitters, the dramatic changes aren’t really in my lifestyle so much as in my outlook on life. Before becoming a parent I had a whole list of principles I thought I’d always live my life by, a whole set of compromises I didn’t want to make, a way of doing things. I started sentences with declarations and absolutes, many of them boldly proclaiming that “I’d never” do this or that. I think it took all of five minutes of having Clementine in my life to throw all that shit out the window. I’d never give her a pacifier has become I must have three with me any time I leave the house, for example. My friends have stood by watching me become the hypocrite I swore I wouldn’t be, and I don’t regret a single way I’ve thrown my pre-baby self overboard for this new mama self.
A funny little twist to this story of change and transformation is the big news (now officially out in wide release) that my friend Karen is engaged to her boyfriend Dave. How is that related to my mama transformation? Well, her relationship is just about as old as Clementine. No joke. One of her early dates with Dave--I don't say first date here because they had known each other almost two weeks at that point and had been together EVERY SINGLE DAY--was the night they came down for dinner and to play cards just before I went into labor. They left to go meet some other friends at a bar, and I left to go have a baby. Just as my whole world was rocked, so was Karen's. Sure, she didn't get a creature, but her 180 was just as dramatic as mine.
Had you told me this time last year that Karen would be engaged now, I would have laughed so hard I would have peed. Had you told me Karen would be engaged within even three years, I would have been just as surprised. And yet here we are, and Karen is as changed in love as I am in motherhood. My pragmatic, practical friend Karen, who once convinced a boyfriend not to touch her in front of me because I would feel uncomfortable (umm...no), who used to get annoyed by another boyfriend wanting to see her more than three times a week, who would get passive aggressive with her last boyfriend and talk about moving away whenever he talked about how much he liked her, is now head-over-heels in love. And her turnaround was just as instantaneous as having a baby. One minute she was hard-nosed and not all that in to relationships, and the next she couldn't eat or sleep, so giddy in love was she.
And although I poke fun, it really is a delight to see. She beams all the time, and I even caught her in a meeting the other day extending her arm and gazing admiringly at her ring. It's a hoot--of all the things I thought I'd never see! People have been generally supportive, but a few of our less generous colleagues have pointed out that it seems quick or "rash." Maybe I would have thought that once, but two things convince me otherwise. For one, it's not all that different from having a kid. Something happens and all the sudden your whole life is different--the way you see things, the stuff you want to do, the goals you set for your life. For me it was Clementine; for Karen it's Dave. You can't control that kind of stuff. The other thing that convinces me is that Karen has been my window into the world outside kid-dom for the last six months. As I've lived vicariously through her, it's been impossible to ignore how big an impact this relationship has made on her life and her being. In many ways, it's as if she was waiting for this to come along. Why would you wait in the face of that kind of connection? Oh, yeah, and she's 31. Tick tock, my friend.
Now all that's left is for Karen to declare Clementine her flower girl. So what if C. can't walk? And so what if Dave has a neice who can? Karen's planning a small, simple wedding with not many guests, and since she will likely avoid much of the bridezilla, $24,o00 madness, I'm doing the best I can to give her a taste of what she's missing. She has already rejected my offer to officiate (she thinks I'll cry but clearly has no sense of my poetic self), she isn't having bridesmaids, so what's left? I'm thinking I'll teach Clementine to play the drums and insist they book our family band for the reception. Can you think of any good band names?
Here's the happy couple with my darling girl:
Mother-daughter bonding, Day #1
Yesterday was my first day home with Clementine, and I celebrated by allowing her to roll off the bed (I turned my back for just a minute, but you already know that, right? Don't all bad stories start that way?). The book she was clutching broke her fall a little, but it also scratched her nose and produced a drop of blood. She has a lovely little bruise on her forehead that I can gaze upon all day and contemplate my failures. I know this is a rite of passage and that all kids bump their heads, but knowing everyone is doing it doesn't make me feel any less guilty.
After the incident, we went to the mall, the scary mall in the fancy suburb. On a weekday, it is full of other mommies wandering around buying shit they don't need and judging other mommies. I certainly joined them on the buying frenzy--my kid now officially dresses better than I do--but I escaped before too much damage was done. We ran a few other errands on the way home and eventually met our friends out for a nice dinner. Darling C. protested her banana as she does all things we try to feed her but surprisingly went to town on a dill pickle. Food in general is not going so well (I write this after trying to force a little oatmeal past her clenched lips), but I'm in love with the teething biscuits and zwieback she isn't supposed to have for a few more months. They keep her occupied for long stretches, which I'm learning is essential if I'm ever to enjoy a full meal again.
We don't have much planned for today--I ended dinner last night by getting a little sick and will spend the day convalescing and trying to take care of this little jumping bean. Stay tuned for further adventures. This whole staying home with the baby thing is so much harder than I realized. Maybe if I hadn't ever gone back to work I wouldn't have noticed, but wow. It's 8:15 and I'm already wondering if it's time for a nap.
After the incident, we went to the mall, the scary mall in the fancy suburb. On a weekday, it is full of other mommies wandering around buying shit they don't need and judging other mommies. I certainly joined them on the buying frenzy--my kid now officially dresses better than I do--but I escaped before too much damage was done. We ran a few other errands on the way home and eventually met our friends out for a nice dinner. Darling C. protested her banana as she does all things we try to feed her but surprisingly went to town on a dill pickle. Food in general is not going so well (I write this after trying to force a little oatmeal past her clenched lips), but I'm in love with the teething biscuits and zwieback she isn't supposed to have for a few more months. They keep her occupied for long stretches, which I'm learning is essential if I'm ever to enjoy a full meal again.
We don't have much planned for today--I ended dinner last night by getting a little sick and will spend the day convalescing and trying to take care of this little jumping bean. Stay tuned for further adventures. This whole staying home with the baby thing is so much harder than I realized. Maybe if I hadn't ever gone back to work I wouldn't have noticed, but wow. It's 8:15 and I'm already wondering if it's time for a nap.
Thursday, March 16, 2006
Turn and face the strain: ch-ch-changes
Since about six gazillion people have reminded me again and again that this time in Clementine’s life “just goes so fast” and that I need to “enjoy every minute,” it should come as no surprise to me that my little whipper snapper is growing up right before my eyes. I want to scream Stop! or Do Over! every time we pass out of one phase and onto the next because I don’t feel like I’m getting enough of her little quirks and tricks before they are gone—poof! Raspberries, for example. I hardly got to enjoy her raspberry phase, which was a month ago at least. She would make raspberries all damn day and delight the hell out of herself, and I would have to mop up the spit and drool running from her mouth as she amused herself by blowing raspberries at her parents, at strangers, in the car, on the changing table, while playing, while eating, while sleeping (I swear she was doing it in her dreams) and even at moments that seemed incredibly appropriate to her parents even if they were random to her (when Bush was addressing the nation, for example). And now, no raspberries. Not ever. She doesn’t even find it amusing when I do them. She used to laugh, but now she just sort of looks at me as if to say “Mom, you look like an ass when you do that.”
In the last week we’ve watched her master crawling, and in the short span of the weekend we watched her teach herself how to crawl over to an object, SIT UP next to it all by herself, play with the object and then crawl away toward her next target. She couldn’t quite do it on Friday night, but by Sunday it was in effect big time. This morning, we watched her crawl around after our sad, old cat who is not too thrilled with the chase. She’s frankly not too thrilled with her life since darling C. has arrived, and this crawling thing isn’t helping. I watched Clementine as she followed Kitty back and forth, dodging and darting, determined to get there. [Side note: I also had a ridiculous emotional moment where I wondered if darling C.’s feelings would be hurt by Kitty’s rejection and desperate attempts to flee. This in turn led to a deep meditation on what it will be like when an actual person hurts Clementine’s feelings in this way, which in turn led to a deep sadness, a desire to retreat and a long, hard look at ways I could parent to avoid such circumstances. It was a dark journey, and I tried not to take out the angst it produced on the cat.]
Earlier this week, I was feeling fine about the crawling and thinking we had maybe reached a plateau of tricks—Clementine could spend some time mastering crawling but might not continue this rapid acquisition of new skills. How wrong I was indeed. Last night, as I was trying to sort some of the clothes she has outgrown, I put her in the laundry basket (yes, the laundry basket, her favorite play yard) so she could toss around her clean socks and avoid crawling to the top of the stairs where I am convinced she will soon topple to her death. I turned my back for just a minute and turned back to see her pulling herself up to standing on the side of the basket, thus setting off its delicate balance and nearly tipping it over. I avoided the catastrophe but quickly learned there will be no more laundry baskets for darling C. She tried to pull herself up again and looked absolutely devilish as I stood there holding the basket still and watched as her legs, stiff and little boards, slowly began to splay until she was kind of in the splits, her hands still gripping the side of the basket. Putting her in the crib (her other favorite play yard) didn’t yield better results. She again tried desperately to pull herself up to standing but ended up smacking her head on the crib bars a few times as she lost her balance.
Oh where oh where has my little girl gone? My little lump who slept on our legs and chests and in our arms for hours and hours (we should have been out partying it up but didn’t know any better) is now crawling and sitting and trying to stand. Why is she in such a damn hurry? If she starts walking before she’s a year old, I’m going to lose it.
In the last week we’ve watched her master crawling, and in the short span of the weekend we watched her teach herself how to crawl over to an object, SIT UP next to it all by herself, play with the object and then crawl away toward her next target. She couldn’t quite do it on Friday night, but by Sunday it was in effect big time. This morning, we watched her crawl around after our sad, old cat who is not too thrilled with the chase. She’s frankly not too thrilled with her life since darling C. has arrived, and this crawling thing isn’t helping. I watched Clementine as she followed Kitty back and forth, dodging and darting, determined to get there. [Side note: I also had a ridiculous emotional moment where I wondered if darling C.’s feelings would be hurt by Kitty’s rejection and desperate attempts to flee. This in turn led to a deep meditation on what it will be like when an actual person hurts Clementine’s feelings in this way, which in turn led to a deep sadness, a desire to retreat and a long, hard look at ways I could parent to avoid such circumstances. It was a dark journey, and I tried not to take out the angst it produced on the cat.]
Earlier this week, I was feeling fine about the crawling and thinking we had maybe reached a plateau of tricks—Clementine could spend some time mastering crawling but might not continue this rapid acquisition of new skills. How wrong I was indeed. Last night, as I was trying to sort some of the clothes she has outgrown, I put her in the laundry basket (yes, the laundry basket, her favorite play yard) so she could toss around her clean socks and avoid crawling to the top of the stairs where I am convinced she will soon topple to her death. I turned my back for just a minute and turned back to see her pulling herself up to standing on the side of the basket, thus setting off its delicate balance and nearly tipping it over. I avoided the catastrophe but quickly learned there will be no more laundry baskets for darling C. She tried to pull herself up again and looked absolutely devilish as I stood there holding the basket still and watched as her legs, stiff and little boards, slowly began to splay until she was kind of in the splits, her hands still gripping the side of the basket. Putting her in the crib (her other favorite play yard) didn’t yield better results. She again tried desperately to pull herself up to standing but ended up smacking her head on the crib bars a few times as she lost her balance.
Oh where oh where has my little girl gone? My little lump who slept on our legs and chests and in our arms for hours and hours (we should have been out partying it up but didn’t know any better) is now crawling and sitting and trying to stand. Why is she in such a damn hurry? If she starts walking before she’s a year old, I’m going to lose it.
Tuesday, March 14, 2006
Pass the guacamole!
I give up! Dinner time is not fun if you have to force feed your darling little girl food that makes her gag and shiver and act otherwise disgusted and put upon. Last night we revisited the avocado, the only food we’ve seen her actually ingest other than rice cereal, and after initially watching her get it all over her face, in her hair and even behind and her ears, I thinned a bit of it down with a whole lot of breast milk and spoonfed her, which she actually liked when she managed to stop whining long enough to slurp (in between licking it off her bib and shoving it up her nose, that is).
My last few entries have just been cheap excuses to post pictures of darling C. eating and hanging out (kinda like this one--click the picture above to see even more avocado escapades), and I haven’t been much more reflective than that. Part of it is the time of year: not long until spring break (not that it means much for many of us working gals, but I’ve spent so much time in academia I think I’m biologically programmed to need a break by the end of March), weather all over the place, the worst of winter behind us and each day heavier with the promise of spring than the last. I am in a thousand different places heading a thousand different directions, and I can’t get much of any one thing done. Seriously, I have project ADD at home, and at work I’m doing a little bit of this and that, scrambling to pull all the bits and pieces together by the end of the day so it looks like I’ve done something.
So it’s slow march toward Friday, when I’ll pick up darling C. from daycare and begin a week of intense mother-daughter time (I’m working part-time from home over break so we can become reacquainted). I’m sure my brain will be back by then. I’m sure I’ll break out of this day-to-day rut and have lots to say. Too much maybe.
Monday, March 13, 2006
Parenting mistake #643
Yesterday I ran the Corktown St. Patrick's Day race (any race that ends with bananas and beer is worth running 4 miles for) under 40 minutes--a personal record, which I know isn't the best time, but I was just glad to finish. It was an amazing day for March in Michigan, and I swear it was 70 degrees at some points. Nate brought Clementine to cheer me on, and we stayed after the race to watch the parade. It wasn't until we returned home that I realized darling C. had gotten a little too much sun on her cheeks. Yes, I gave my 6 month old daughter her first exposure to skin cancer. Way to go, mom! What's worse, I think she looks kind of cute with her rosy red cheeks, especially early in the morning when she woke up to smile at me and pull Nate's beard. Here's a picture of my apple-cheeked little love in her crib--yes her crib. For those of you wondering, no, she doesn't sleep in her crib, but it is a handy place to put her while we try to get our sorry asses ready for work in the morning.
Sunday, March 12, 2006
Mobile baby
I can hardly believe it, but darling C. is officially crawling. None of this army crawl or rolling stuff anymore, just honest to goodness up on her hands and knees, wandering from toy to toy. Yesterday she perfected arriving at a destination and then getting herself into a sitting position pretty effortlessly. It's amazing, although sometimes she is a little too eager to play with her toys and ends up knocking herself over. I've made several big dives across the room to save her from bumping her head, only to have her right herself or catch her balance before I can intervene. Sadly, I've also assumed a few times she would be able to save herself, only to watch her keel over and clunk her head on the wooden floor. I think she had her first bruise yesterday, but it disappeared pretty quickly.
What's next? Standing? Walking? I've really got to start the babyproofing. Her favorite new toy is Nate's stereo, conveniently located at just the right height for her.
Saturday, March 11, 2006
Is she really my daughter?
This morning we tried cereal, which she did eat. I guess it must be the carbs. As you see below, meals start happy enough but quickly turn bad...
Her best Billy Idol impression
I've been playing with a new camera I got for work and just posted WAAAY too many photos. How can I help it when I have the cutest baby ever??
Click on it to see lots more.
Thursday, March 09, 2006
I don't wanna talk about it!
No, I’m not referring to Chloe’s baffling win on Project Runway last night. And I’m not talking about the nightmare I had about being pregnant again either. Actually, I do want to talk about that because it was spooky and I woke up with such a sick feeling in my stomach that I think I may have discovered a new form of birth control. There were rabid cats and skunks in running around my doctor’s office as I asked her again and again if she was joking. “I can’t be pregnant,” I kept saying. Very strange.
What I don’t want to talk about anymore is sleep. But of course that’s a lie. I want to talk about it all the time because I think about it all the time. I just want there to be AN ANSWER. Not just any answer. A specific answer. When you’re hungry, eat. When you’re cold, put on a hat. When you’re lonely, call a friend. When you’re baby is having trouble going to sleep or sleeping through the night…..then what?? And really I’m not asking. Unless you have some witchy “Turn three times to the left and bow before the toilet before placing the kid’s head facing north and she’ll sleep until next Tuesday” trick or some magic dust, I have heard it all. I haven’t done it all, but I have heard it all. And I spend so much time drowning in advice that I sometimes think I need to take a week off work and make sleep a project. I’m only half joking here. I feel like I need to take Clementine to Sleep Boot Camp. I, a mom who shied away from hyper scheduling and regiments, want to establish guidelines, parameters, rules and a philosophy to get my baby to sleep, and then I am going to bully the hell out of her daycare to follow it as well.
After one of those unsolicited advice sessions from a generally nice older guy at work (you know the kind of conversations—he’s talking, you don’t care or agree but have to stand there and pretend to because it’s just not worth it to argue), I started wondering if indeed I AM wrong about not wanting Clementine to cry it out. It’s always bad news for me when I turn against my instinct, but something about yesterday just made me all jelly and insecure and I started wondering. Then, my dad asked me all innocent if I thought I turned out OK, a totally unfair question that implies I need to suck it up and mindlessly do what has always been done before. Yes, I turned out OK, but that’s not necessarily because you let me cry it out, Dad. I was a different baby! You were different parents! Why are you oversimplifying this? I’m not trying to be rebellious or different here—I’m just trying to make the right decision for everyone in MY house. I know people mean well, and I do appreciate the help. But on this one little hot button of a topic, the next person who can’t just empathetically listen, offer their own experiences (even if they are different) but refrain from sanctimonious advice and opinions is going to get an invitation to sleep with my baby for a night. No, not just an invitation. I am going to come to their house, leave my screaming baby with them and then go out on a much-deserved bender that will involve rock ‘n roll and tequila.
But I did not have this confidence last night, and after the bedtime window had passed and Clementine was sleeping in 15 minute increments before freaking out, I decided she must just be overtired and need to cry it out. Let me be clear that this is one of the worst parenting decisions I’ve ever made. I know it works for some people, but I am simply not one of them, and I’m going to stop trying to conform. I really think that approach is not for my kid, and I simply can’t get behind the tough it out mentality that supposes this will be worth it in the end. The ends do not justify the means, and I am now determined more than ever to find a way to get this kid to bed without terrorizing her or me in the process. And if you think I’m being dramatic here by bandying about the word “terror,” ask my sister, whom I called when I was just about out of my mind. She could tell I was on the ledge about to jump, and she could hear the wailing that subsided only when Clementine would shove a corner of her crib bumpers in her mouth in search of some kind of comfort. No, she didn’t STOP, she just muffled herself, making me worry she would smother to death.
But enough whining. My outlook is much sunnier today, and I’ pretty confident we’ll eventually find a solution. Although it was hell getting her to sleep last night, she slept pretty well throughout the night. She woke up cuter and plumper than she was the night before, and we all had enough time to roll around in bed for a while just loving on each other before another hellish day at our day jobs.
What I don’t want to talk about anymore is sleep. But of course that’s a lie. I want to talk about it all the time because I think about it all the time. I just want there to be AN ANSWER. Not just any answer. A specific answer. When you’re hungry, eat. When you’re cold, put on a hat. When you’re lonely, call a friend. When you’re baby is having trouble going to sleep or sleeping through the night…..then what?? And really I’m not asking. Unless you have some witchy “Turn three times to the left and bow before the toilet before placing the kid’s head facing north and she’ll sleep until next Tuesday” trick or some magic dust, I have heard it all. I haven’t done it all, but I have heard it all. And I spend so much time drowning in advice that I sometimes think I need to take a week off work and make sleep a project. I’m only half joking here. I feel like I need to take Clementine to Sleep Boot Camp. I, a mom who shied away from hyper scheduling and regiments, want to establish guidelines, parameters, rules and a philosophy to get my baby to sleep, and then I am going to bully the hell out of her daycare to follow it as well.
After one of those unsolicited advice sessions from a generally nice older guy at work (you know the kind of conversations—he’s talking, you don’t care or agree but have to stand there and pretend to because it’s just not worth it to argue), I started wondering if indeed I AM wrong about not wanting Clementine to cry it out. It’s always bad news for me when I turn against my instinct, but something about yesterday just made me all jelly and insecure and I started wondering. Then, my dad asked me all innocent if I thought I turned out OK, a totally unfair question that implies I need to suck it up and mindlessly do what has always been done before. Yes, I turned out OK, but that’s not necessarily because you let me cry it out, Dad. I was a different baby! You were different parents! Why are you oversimplifying this? I’m not trying to be rebellious or different here—I’m just trying to make the right decision for everyone in MY house. I know people mean well, and I do appreciate the help. But on this one little hot button of a topic, the next person who can’t just empathetically listen, offer their own experiences (even if they are different) but refrain from sanctimonious advice and opinions is going to get an invitation to sleep with my baby for a night. No, not just an invitation. I am going to come to their house, leave my screaming baby with them and then go out on a much-deserved bender that will involve rock ‘n roll and tequila.
But I did not have this confidence last night, and after the bedtime window had passed and Clementine was sleeping in 15 minute increments before freaking out, I decided she must just be overtired and need to cry it out. Let me be clear that this is one of the worst parenting decisions I’ve ever made. I know it works for some people, but I am simply not one of them, and I’m going to stop trying to conform. I really think that approach is not for my kid, and I simply can’t get behind the tough it out mentality that supposes this will be worth it in the end. The ends do not justify the means, and I am now determined more than ever to find a way to get this kid to bed without terrorizing her or me in the process. And if you think I’m being dramatic here by bandying about the word “terror,” ask my sister, whom I called when I was just about out of my mind. She could tell I was on the ledge about to jump, and she could hear the wailing that subsided only when Clementine would shove a corner of her crib bumpers in her mouth in search of some kind of comfort. No, she didn’t STOP, she just muffled herself, making me worry she would smother to death.
But enough whining. My outlook is much sunnier today, and I’ pretty confident we’ll eventually find a solution. Although it was hell getting her to sleep last night, she slept pretty well throughout the night. She woke up cuter and plumper than she was the night before, and we all had enough time to roll around in bed for a while just loving on each other before another hellish day at our day jobs.
Tuesday, March 07, 2006
Goin' bananas
Now that we've introduced bananas to darling C., I can safely say she must have liked the avocados--at leat she swallowed them, which is more than I can say for this monkey food. At first she thought they were great fun to play with, even if they tasted kind of funky.
But when I got serious about her actually eating and swallowing some banana, she got a little worried. She was happy to take mouthsful of it, but she would promptly spit it out onto her bib when she got tired of rolling it around in her mouth.
Tonight we added a little brown rice cereal to the mix, and it must have tasted as bad as it smelled, even with the banana addition. Again, she didn't mind taking it in, but it came back out right away. Nevertheless, food apparently makes a terrific fingerpainting medium. We managed to get some laughs out of her when we stopped trying to spoonfeed her and just let her have an experience.
I did think briefly of showing her the horrifying pictures of food my friend Charles sent us from Taiwan this morning (duck tongues and deep-fried crickets) to remind her how lucky she is that we are giving her fruits and yummy stuff instead of bugs and the leftover bits of animals. But my printer broke, so I just told her about it.
Here is our family portrait. I call it "Family Portrait with Banana" and am sure it will be hanging in the DIA (Detroit Institute of Arts) shortly.
While we were waiting for the timer to go off, Clementine ripped chunks off both our bananas at the same time, double fisting and trying to shove them both in her mouth. Ah, it just makes a mother proud to know her daughter follows in her footsteps. Can't wait until we take on chocolate chip cookies.
She is stirring in the other room and Nate is sounding like he's losing his patience. On the one hand, I understand. There have been moments I have wanted to throw her out the window for crying all night for no reason. But I think he takes it personally sometimes, and that bugs me. Hypocritical, yes, but still a real feeling. I dug into a new book about sleep this evening, and I'm feeling very optomistic. Nate is taking this sleep-deprivation much worse than I have been, so I'm hoping it will bring him some sleep and comfort as well.
But when I got serious about her actually eating and swallowing some banana, she got a little worried. She was happy to take mouthsful of it, but she would promptly spit it out onto her bib when she got tired of rolling it around in her mouth.
Tonight we added a little brown rice cereal to the mix, and it must have tasted as bad as it smelled, even with the banana addition. Again, she didn't mind taking it in, but it came back out right away. Nevertheless, food apparently makes a terrific fingerpainting medium. We managed to get some laughs out of her when we stopped trying to spoonfeed her and just let her have an experience.
I did think briefly of showing her the horrifying pictures of food my friend Charles sent us from Taiwan this morning (duck tongues and deep-fried crickets) to remind her how lucky she is that we are giving her fruits and yummy stuff instead of bugs and the leftover bits of animals. But my printer broke, so I just told her about it.Here is our family portrait. I call it "Family Portrait with Banana" and am sure it will be hanging in the DIA (Detroit Institute of Arts) shortly.
While we were waiting for the timer to go off, Clementine ripped chunks off both our bananas at the same time, double fisting and trying to shove them both in her mouth. Ah, it just makes a mother proud to know her daughter follows in her footsteps. Can't wait until we take on chocolate chip cookies.She is stirring in the other room and Nate is sounding like he's losing his patience. On the one hand, I understand. There have been moments I have wanted to throw her out the window for crying all night for no reason. But I think he takes it personally sometimes, and that bugs me. Hypocritical, yes, but still a real feeling. I dug into a new book about sleep this evening, and I'm feeling very optomistic. Nate is taking this sleep-deprivation much worse than I have been, so I'm hoping it will bring him some sleep and comfort as well.
Reading
You know things are getting desperate when I turn to the great parenting machine's bag o' books, this time trying to find out why Clementine resists sleep so fervently and how I can help her on the right path. This whole sleep thing fills me with dread and insecurity because I want it to work for her, but I just don't know what the right answer is. I resist the notion that I need to train my child to sleep, but it's clear to me that I need to do something. No wonder I'm so mental when I open the INTRODUCTION to one book and read in big, bold print:
"If your child does not learn to sleep well, he may become an incurable adult insomniac, chronically disabled from sleepiness and dependent on sleeping pills."
Well, no pressure, but if you screw this up your child will become a disfunctional adult with no hope for a normal life.
I need a drink.
"If your child does not learn to sleep well, he may become an incurable adult insomniac, chronically disabled from sleepiness and dependent on sleeping pills."
Well, no pressure, but if you screw this up your child will become a disfunctional adult with no hope for a normal life.
I need a drink.
The judge is OUT
Last night was my monthly girls’ night out with Lisa, Debby and Karen. As usual, we talked of many things, had a wonderful time, drank expensive wine and (in my case) ate too much. Halfway through the meal, Debby, one of my most loyal blog readers, said jokingly (at least I hope she was joking) that I could never come to her house again since she has plastic toys and high chairs all over and, given my loud and insistent rejection of all things plastic, I must hate to be in her house. I sometimes hear this same sentiment from Allison, who, shortly after I had Clementine, sent me a copy of Babywise, a book I came to disagree with and loathe wholeheartedly. She sometimes thinks because I disagree with her parenting style I must disagree with her whole lifestyle and find nothing she says valuable.
To these ladies and all parents everywhere: I am not judging you for making different parenting decisions than I am! If anything, I’m grateful for the diversity of thought and opinion, and to tell the truth, I’m always secretly wondering if I shouldn’t just buck up and do it your way. I’m grateful for being able to go over to Debby’s house and put Clementine in her plastic over-stimulation station so I can eat dinner with two hands and hang out with adults. I’m grateful that I can always count on Allison to bring me back down to earth when I’m ramped up about some crazy notion (like a million dollar high chair). Sure, I don’t want all that plastic shit in my house, but I don’t care and don’t judge if you do. I’m sure you guys aren’t itching to get a tattoo in honor of your kids, but I am and I trust you aren’t judging me for that. You may be thinking I’m one crazy bitch, and I’ll give you that, but you’re not thinking I am a bad mom for doing something a bit different. Are you??
Being a mom makes you such a public figure, and it’s hard not to think there is one right way to do things. I’ve commented before on how going to Target and seeing the other moms there with their germs shields and stick-on placemats, their coiffed hair and serene authority make me an insecure mess. I’m pretty convinced everyone’s a little better at this whole mom thing than I am, and I’m humbled to think I have ever made anyone else feel that same way. Guys, I don’t know what the hell I’m doing! And someday I may even ask why it seemed so damn important to me to avoid a glut of plastic and the cry-it-out method, why I needed to use eco-friendly gDiapers, why I resisted the mainstream at every turn. Until then, I’m going to keep doing it my way, and I fully expect you to keep doing it yours. Cheerleading session over.
To these ladies and all parents everywhere: I am not judging you for making different parenting decisions than I am! If anything, I’m grateful for the diversity of thought and opinion, and to tell the truth, I’m always secretly wondering if I shouldn’t just buck up and do it your way. I’m grateful for being able to go over to Debby’s house and put Clementine in her plastic over-stimulation station so I can eat dinner with two hands and hang out with adults. I’m grateful that I can always count on Allison to bring me back down to earth when I’m ramped up about some crazy notion (like a million dollar high chair). Sure, I don’t want all that plastic shit in my house, but I don’t care and don’t judge if you do. I’m sure you guys aren’t itching to get a tattoo in honor of your kids, but I am and I trust you aren’t judging me for that. You may be thinking I’m one crazy bitch, and I’ll give you that, but you’re not thinking I am a bad mom for doing something a bit different. Are you??
Being a mom makes you such a public figure, and it’s hard not to think there is one right way to do things. I’ve commented before on how going to Target and seeing the other moms there with their germs shields and stick-on placemats, their coiffed hair and serene authority make me an insecure mess. I’m pretty convinced everyone’s a little better at this whole mom thing than I am, and I’m humbled to think I have ever made anyone else feel that same way. Guys, I don’t know what the hell I’m doing! And someday I may even ask why it seemed so damn important to me to avoid a glut of plastic and the cry-it-out method, why I needed to use eco-friendly gDiapers, why I resisted the mainstream at every turn. Until then, I’m going to keep doing it my way, and I fully expect you to keep doing it yours. Cheerleading session over.
Monday, March 06, 2006
6 months, 1 day
Dear Clementine:
This morning after I dropped you off at daycare and was on my way back to my car, a woman stopped me and asked “Are you Clementine’s mom?” I know it sounds strange, but I think even after 6 whole months this is the first time anyone ever asked me that, and I stopped for a second with mixed feelings. It was so cool to be able to say, “Yeah, I’m Clementine’s mom.” Just like that—I’m someone’s mom. I’m your mom. But it was bittersweet, too, because it reinforced this creeping realization that you and I are separate entities, separate lives who will continue to grow away from one another with every passing day. You started out as a part of me, and I don’t know that I’ll ever begin to think of you as anything but that. I know it’s healthy to grow, that we need our own space and lives, but I didn’t want to start thinking about that until you were driving. Or maybe when you’re two. I can handle you knowing people I don’t when you’re two, but six months is just a little too young.
I caught myself the other day obsessively tracing the shape of your face while I fed you your bottle. Your cheeks are so plump and full, spilling over the tiniest chin and little bow mouth. What I like best, though, is the shape of your forehead, the way your hairline dips down and gives your face a soft little heart shape. I’m trying hard to memorize it in the same way that I’ve been memorizing certain moments with you: walking down the street with you in a sling while you sing and pat my shoulder to the beat of my steps or watching you resist sleep in the car by rubbing your head back and forth vigorously. This memorizing thing doesn’t really work, though, and I find your early months blending together more and more the farther away they get.
Because I see you every day, change in you seems incremental most of the time. I don’t notice the extra chub (that delicious new chin), the length or your hair is turning blonder the way people who haven’t seen you for a while do. But even I can’t ignore your transformation over just the last month. You’ve gone from a little immobile butterball to a pretty mobile baby in just a few weeks. It started slowly with your yoga-like cobra position, straight arms lifting your torso and head right off the ground. That progressed into getting up on your hands and knees and rocking back and forth like one of those toy cars you rev up before letting loose across the carpet. Now, you can pull your legs right up under your arms and then move each arm forward, sometimes dropping your hips in order to cover the distance even faster. It’s like an inchworm’s crawl, but it amazes me how well you make it work. You can’t quite put it all together just yet into the standard baby crawl, but you have no trouble getting where you want to go.
You have a lot of toys, but you are interested in our telephones, remote controls and anything paper. I like to think your interest in the electric gadgets is because you are hungry for the real world: “None of this toy shit, guys, let me at the real stuff!” Your obsession with paper, though, is a little puzzling. You can have all the toys in the universe at your feet, even the remotes, and you’d rather have the cable bill from over on the dusty stairs. I’ve all but given up on reading the newspaper in the same room with you; you’re lightning fast and have an iron grip. If I’m even a little off my game, you have half the Travel section in your gums and a dusting of ink on your fingers.
I still cannot speak of your sleep. I secretly wonder if you hate us and are trying to torture us into insanity with your irregular bouts of happy awake time in the middle of the night or, worse, the shrieking when you are dead asleep. We tried to let you sleep in your crib (notice the word “let” instead of “make”—it’s an important part of my failing approach), but I just can’t stumble down the hall in the middle of the night without causing myself bodily harm, and if I’m being truly honest, I love having you next to me all night long. Your infancy is fleeting if nothing else, and since I miss you all day, it seems right to have you with me all night. And I wouldn’t trade those first few sweet moments of the morning for anything. You roll back and forth between me and your dad, patting our faces and ginning, cooing and making all your baby sounds as if you’re telling us about your dreams and just reassuring yourself that we’re there with you and real. It is just the loveliest part of my day.
The other new development in your world this month is food. We gave you your very first taste of something other than breastmilk (an avocado) a few days ago and then sat around with our friends and laughed our asses off at your reaction. You shivered, you gagged, you twitched and you kept coming back for more. I gave you chunks at first, then the odd little feed bag to gum and squish some out of and finally a little thinned out with milk on a spoon (which of course didn’t work because you couldn’t keep from grabbing the spoon). It was a riot, and you seemed so pleased after eating. Your Auntie Belle thinks you have been hungry for months, that we’ve been depriving you your one true desire, and although I think she’s full of crap, you did react with a lot more fervor than I expected. When we tried again with the avocado last night, you didn’t make such funny faces. And just like that you’re an eater. Tonight we’ll try some banana.
While I have chilled out about a lot of things over the 6 months you’ve been in my life, I must confess that I returned to high hysteria and paranoia last week when it came time to pick out your high chair. I won’t bore you with the hand-wringing, but I will tell you about the moment when I was in the store finally buying one that was probably too much money but seemed worth it because you liked to sit in it in the store (it also isn’t hideous plastic and will fit in with our décor, such as it is). As always in a store like that, I was tempted to put everything I could see in the cart—all the special spoons and cups, the special food preparation kits, the right pacifiers, the babyproofing kit, all the books, the developmentally appropriate toys, the germ shield for the shopping cart, all of it. I don’t know why, but in retail environments, I fall apart and think the only way I will be a good mom is to buy all the products to support mothering—like I can make up for my lack of knowledge and experience by buying the right stuff. It’s foolish, but I wanted to tell you about it because however the next few years go, know that I always have you in mind first. So much so it turns me into a doubtful, quivering mess of a woman with a charge card and all the best intentions. I agonize over stupid decisions like the high chair because I want the best for you. I want to help you find your way in the world, to question things, to go after what you want and not to settle for anything just because it’s what everyone tells you to do. Yes, I realize I’m taking the high chair to unreal metaphoric heights, but I’m working with what I have here. Don’t settle, Clementine.
So you’re half a year old now. I didn’t think it would take so little time for me to forget a world you aren’t a part of, a world that existed before you did. Yes, I know there was one, and I loved it. But in the last 6 months, I’ve come to realize that I was waiting for you all this time without knowing it. I may joke about the ways my life has changed, the upending of order, the lack of sleep, the lack of rock concerts and babysitters, etc., but in my truest moments I know none of it matters. My life makes so much sense with you in it, and that has been the greatest gift. It’s not that you give me purpose—I had plenty of that before you were born. You just give me hope and life and a reason to get out of bed every day. You give me joy and pleasure, and you help me forget anything that interferes with that. You have helped me get my shit together, to see the world for what it is and to leave it all behind. I know I’m the parent and all, but I think the lessons you’ve taught me thus far outweigh the little bit about the world I’ve been able to teach you. I’ll return the favor someday, though. I know lots about…well…I’m not sure yet, but I know I have a lesson or two for you up my sleeve.
Love you,
Mom
This morning after I dropped you off at daycare and was on my way back to my car, a woman stopped me and asked “Are you Clementine’s mom?” I know it sounds strange, but I think even after 6 whole months this is the first time anyone ever asked me that, and I stopped for a second with mixed feelings. It was so cool to be able to say, “Yeah, I’m Clementine’s mom.” Just like that—I’m someone’s mom. I’m your mom. But it was bittersweet, too, because it reinforced this creeping realization that you and I are separate entities, separate lives who will continue to grow away from one another with every passing day. You started out as a part of me, and I don’t know that I’ll ever begin to think of you as anything but that. I know it’s healthy to grow, that we need our own space and lives, but I didn’t want to start thinking about that until you were driving. Or maybe when you’re two. I can handle you knowing people I don’t when you’re two, but six months is just a little too young.
I caught myself the other day obsessively tracing the shape of your face while I fed you your bottle. Your cheeks are so plump and full, spilling over the tiniest chin and little bow mouth. What I like best, though, is the shape of your forehead, the way your hairline dips down and gives your face a soft little heart shape. I’m trying hard to memorize it in the same way that I’ve been memorizing certain moments with you: walking down the street with you in a sling while you sing and pat my shoulder to the beat of my steps or watching you resist sleep in the car by rubbing your head back and forth vigorously. This memorizing thing doesn’t really work, though, and I find your early months blending together more and more the farther away they get.
Because I see you every day, change in you seems incremental most of the time. I don’t notice the extra chub (that delicious new chin), the length or your hair is turning blonder the way people who haven’t seen you for a while do. But even I can’t ignore your transformation over just the last month. You’ve gone from a little immobile butterball to a pretty mobile baby in just a few weeks. It started slowly with your yoga-like cobra position, straight arms lifting your torso and head right off the ground. That progressed into getting up on your hands and knees and rocking back and forth like one of those toy cars you rev up before letting loose across the carpet. Now, you can pull your legs right up under your arms and then move each arm forward, sometimes dropping your hips in order to cover the distance even faster. It’s like an inchworm’s crawl, but it amazes me how well you make it work. You can’t quite put it all together just yet into the standard baby crawl, but you have no trouble getting where you want to go.
You have a lot of toys, but you are interested in our telephones, remote controls and anything paper. I like to think your interest in the electric gadgets is because you are hungry for the real world: “None of this toy shit, guys, let me at the real stuff!” Your obsession with paper, though, is a little puzzling. You can have all the toys in the universe at your feet, even the remotes, and you’d rather have the cable bill from over on the dusty stairs. I’ve all but given up on reading the newspaper in the same room with you; you’re lightning fast and have an iron grip. If I’m even a little off my game, you have half the Travel section in your gums and a dusting of ink on your fingers.
I still cannot speak of your sleep. I secretly wonder if you hate us and are trying to torture us into insanity with your irregular bouts of happy awake time in the middle of the night or, worse, the shrieking when you are dead asleep. We tried to let you sleep in your crib (notice the word “let” instead of “make”—it’s an important part of my failing approach), but I just can’t stumble down the hall in the middle of the night without causing myself bodily harm, and if I’m being truly honest, I love having you next to me all night long. Your infancy is fleeting if nothing else, and since I miss you all day, it seems right to have you with me all night. And I wouldn’t trade those first few sweet moments of the morning for anything. You roll back and forth between me and your dad, patting our faces and ginning, cooing and making all your baby sounds as if you’re telling us about your dreams and just reassuring yourself that we’re there with you and real. It is just the loveliest part of my day.
The other new development in your world this month is food. We gave you your very first taste of something other than breastmilk (an avocado) a few days ago and then sat around with our friends and laughed our asses off at your reaction. You shivered, you gagged, you twitched and you kept coming back for more. I gave you chunks at first, then the odd little feed bag to gum and squish some out of and finally a little thinned out with milk on a spoon (which of course didn’t work because you couldn’t keep from grabbing the spoon). It was a riot, and you seemed so pleased after eating. Your Auntie Belle thinks you have been hungry for months, that we’ve been depriving you your one true desire, and although I think she’s full of crap, you did react with a lot more fervor than I expected. When we tried again with the avocado last night, you didn’t make such funny faces. And just like that you’re an eater. Tonight we’ll try some banana.
While I have chilled out about a lot of things over the 6 months you’ve been in my life, I must confess that I returned to high hysteria and paranoia last week when it came time to pick out your high chair. I won’t bore you with the hand-wringing, but I will tell you about the moment when I was in the store finally buying one that was probably too much money but seemed worth it because you liked to sit in it in the store (it also isn’t hideous plastic and will fit in with our décor, such as it is). As always in a store like that, I was tempted to put everything I could see in the cart—all the special spoons and cups, the special food preparation kits, the right pacifiers, the babyproofing kit, all the books, the developmentally appropriate toys, the germ shield for the shopping cart, all of it. I don’t know why, but in retail environments, I fall apart and think the only way I will be a good mom is to buy all the products to support mothering—like I can make up for my lack of knowledge and experience by buying the right stuff. It’s foolish, but I wanted to tell you about it because however the next few years go, know that I always have you in mind first. So much so it turns me into a doubtful, quivering mess of a woman with a charge card and all the best intentions. I agonize over stupid decisions like the high chair because I want the best for you. I want to help you find your way in the world, to question things, to go after what you want and not to settle for anything just because it’s what everyone tells you to do. Yes, I realize I’m taking the high chair to unreal metaphoric heights, but I’m working with what I have here. Don’t settle, Clementine.
So you’re half a year old now. I didn’t think it would take so little time for me to forget a world you aren’t a part of, a world that existed before you did. Yes, I know there was one, and I loved it. But in the last 6 months, I’ve come to realize that I was waiting for you all this time without knowing it. I may joke about the ways my life has changed, the upending of order, the lack of sleep, the lack of rock concerts and babysitters, etc., but in my truest moments I know none of it matters. My life makes so much sense with you in it, and that has been the greatest gift. It’s not that you give me purpose—I had plenty of that before you were born. You just give me hope and life and a reason to get out of bed every day. You give me joy and pleasure, and you help me forget anything that interferes with that. You have helped me get my shit together, to see the world for what it is and to leave it all behind. I know I’m the parent and all, but I think the lessons you’ve taught me thus far outweigh the little bit about the world I’ve been able to teach you. I’ll return the favor someday, though. I know lots about…well…I’m not sure yet, but I know I have a lesson or two for you up my sleeve.
Love you,
Mom
Sunday, March 05, 2006
The first bite
Last week, it was breastmilk and immobility. We're starting this week with a strange, aggressive crawling (mostly toward anything paper) and with some avocado under her belt. Did she like it? Well....
(click picure above to see more pics--I took about 1,000)
At first she wan't so sure. Then she started to make funny faces and shiver a little at all the new sensations.
A little breast milk to thin it out helped a bit, as did letting her use the spoon until she started to gag herself with it. By tonight, she was a total pro. A messy pro, but pretty happy with the whole experience:
Saturday, March 04, 2006
Mommy's still a punk rocker
Last night, after bathing darling C. and helping Nate put her to sleep, I left the house at a respectable 9 p.m. to go the Hamtramck Blowout, a local music extravaganza in the bars of a little city within Detroit. We've been going since 2003 (I know because I found the program from that year in my special bar coat I donned last night), and it's always a great time. This year, Nate and I decided to split up the nights, and I took Friday because I secretly knew the best bands were to play then. We saw The Muldoon's (brothers aged 8 and 13 with their dad as drummer), SSM, The Great Lakes Myth Society and a little bit of P.A.
Long story short, I got home after 2 and had to take a shower to wash all the smoke off (it's amazing how sensitive motherhood has made me). I had a great time and liked a lot of what I saw. It was so nice just to be among people, and Laura and I had fun acting like women on the loose. We did the usual--walked a little farther than we would like so as not to lose a good parking spot, crammed into small spaces with too many people in order to get closer to the band, and I even got felt up a little in the crush. Bet those nursing pads really turned that guy on. Lots of fun stories, but my 5 hours of sleep are catching up with me. I can still live the rock n' roll lifestyle, but I'm going to have to have a nap to keep up the facade.
Long story short, I got home after 2 and had to take a shower to wash all the smoke off (it's amazing how sensitive motherhood has made me). I had a great time and liked a lot of what I saw. It was so nice just to be among people, and Laura and I had fun acting like women on the loose. We did the usual--walked a little farther than we would like so as not to lose a good parking spot, crammed into small spaces with too many people in order to get closer to the band, and I even got felt up a little in the crush. Bet those nursing pads really turned that guy on. Lots of fun stories, but my 5 hours of sleep are catching up with me. I can still live the rock n' roll lifestyle, but I'm going to have to have a nap to keep up the facade.
Thursday, March 02, 2006
Internet, you are so wise
Thank you, Internet. Thank you for your help with my dilemma. You all had such good perspective, and I'm going to listen to each and every one of you. Really. I am going to be good to myself and not buy something I hate, but I'm not going to buy the super-expensive one either. I think I knew I shouldn't--I didn't even tell you what it was called (Zeus by Agington) or give you a link to it because then you might know it would be $370 with a cushion. I must have been secretly ashamed, but it wasn't ultimately the price that made me decide no. It was YOU, reminding me that I needed it to be functional and comfortable in addition to cool and stylish. My new mama life is about balance, right?
So I am going to go with a stylish and cool one, even if it is more than the plastic and easy one. It will be comfortable, easy to use, washable, easy to move. It won't be super portable like the booster or the one that attaches to a table, and that's because I don't have a table that is appropriate for a baby to eat off. It will be wood, it will transition with her, it will be FINE. I'm sorry I freaked out over such an easy little thing. Thanks for reigning me in. You're all so SMART, and I'm not just saying that. All of you except Karen, that is, who logged her opinions as both anonymous (and lied and misspelled, no less, just to throw me off her scent) and tinker so she could ultimately be right. OK, Karen, I'm not buying the really expensive one. But whichever one I DO buy I want to see your precious little Sam in. That will be funny since Sam is a cat.
So thank you one last time, Internet. My baby is crying now, so I must go. Have I told you how she won't sleep? Yeah, she just won't. We had a tremendous night with so much fun just the two of us and she apparently never wants it to end. I'm so cool, she can't bear to sleep. Or at least that's what I'm telling myself.
So I am going to go with a stylish and cool one, even if it is more than the plastic and easy one. It will be comfortable, easy to use, washable, easy to move. It won't be super portable like the booster or the one that attaches to a table, and that's because I don't have a table that is appropriate for a baby to eat off. It will be wood, it will transition with her, it will be FINE. I'm sorry I freaked out over such an easy little thing. Thanks for reigning me in. You're all so SMART, and I'm not just saying that. All of you except Karen, that is, who logged her opinions as both anonymous (and lied and misspelled, no less, just to throw me off her scent) and tinker so she could ultimately be right. OK, Karen, I'm not buying the really expensive one. But whichever one I DO buy I want to see your precious little Sam in. That will be funny since Sam is a cat.
So thank you one last time, Internet. My baby is crying now, so I must go. Have I told you how she won't sleep? Yeah, she just won't. We had a tremendous night with so much fun just the two of us and she apparently never wants it to end. I'm so cool, she can't bear to sleep. Or at least that's what I'm telling myself.
Wednesday, March 01, 2006
Internet, I need help
I don't ask a lot of you. You go to other blogs and comment, but mostly you just lurk on mine, and I think that's just fine. I don't want you to feel like you have to tell me my kid is cute or that I'm doing a good job or that I rock because I can multitask so well. Sure, it's nice when you do, but I don't lay awake at night hoping for more. I don't want to impose.
But this is serious. I need help. Actual help.
I'm having a huge high chair dilemma. When we were expecting darling C. and preparing for the onslaught of baby gear, we were mere babes in the wood. We knew not what was coming. We bought most of what they told us to buy, haven't used half of it and had to make crazed runs to Target at 10 at night to buy the other stuff no one told us we'd really really need. Babies 'R Us (that damned backward R makes me insane) frightened the living hell out of us, and were it not for my lovely sister to guide me through I might have had Clementine right there in aisle 3 while still wringing my hands over buying just the right car seat or baby monitor. Since we couldn't even decide on what crib to buy (and thus chose the cheapest ever because who cares about a crib anyway?), we decided we wouldn't even try to tackle high chairs until feeding was upon us for fear of a.) picking the wrong one b.) losing our home to large plastic items and c.) our total fucking insanity at having to buy yet another item with giraffes, elephants, Winnie the Pooh, little blocks or other such nonsense.
But now feeding is upon us. And while I initially thought I could just spoon feed her in the Bumbo, the reading I've been doing lately makes me want to give her actual food to play around with and it would be nice to put her in a high chair and give her an ice cube or banana while we scarf a pizza at the same time instead of in shifts. I thought this would be easy peasy--just go to the ole Target and pick out the least offensive contraption and move on. We would only have to bear it a little while before relegating it to the basement and buying one of those cool toddler chairs, right? But when I got to the Target I HATED all of them. I don't know why, but I became fixated. A high chair is not like a crib or a changing table, a piece of furniture tucked away in a bedroom I don't spend that much time awake in. A high chair sits in the most used places in the house, and I will have to see it every single god damned day. Can I really handle one more brightly colored piece of crap?
When I went home and began to check online for other options, a whole new world opened up to me--a world where style and function meet, where high chairs look like decorative elements AND fun places to chow. A world that involves Greek mythology and wood instead of Elmo and plastic. I found my dream high chair, and I can't stop thinking about it. Why haven't I bought it? Because it's expensive. Not the $600 egg chair expensive, but it ain't no $99 one either.
This is where you come in, Internet. How much is too much to spend on a high chair? I have been agonizing for a week, and we need to get Clementine some food fast. I fear if I don't make a decision soon she will either live on breast milk until she can pull up a chair to the table or will begin to eat off the floor like a savage. I keep trying to talk myself into the cheaper models, but each time I put the $99 Graco standard in my online shopping cart, I go take a quick peek at my dream chair and can't go through with it.
My friends are split pretty evenly. Karen, Debby and Lisa think for the most part that it is silly to spend so much money on something I will use for such a short time. I think I could sway Lisa, but Karen is horrified and Debby reminded me that I could buy cool things for Clementine and myself with the money I save by not going all out on a high chair. A high chair. Am I really this ridiculous that I'm expending this much energy on something she will probably trash? My sister K.C. and friend Laura, on the other hand, think this is something that I'll have to live with every day and should love with all my being. K.C. pointed out that I cheap out at some points (seriously, my crib was almost free, and ditto on the changing table), so why not splurge when it means something? I was extravagant with my swing, but I use it every single day and have never regretted it for a minute. We won't go hungry or have trouble paying the mortgage if I buy it, but it's not as if I have a spare wad of cash hanging around after all my debts are paid.
So I appeal to you, Internet. What are your thoughts? What is your experience? Should I buy what I love or just go with what's cheap? Should I find middle ground between loathsome plastic cheapness and beautiful wooden goodness? How central to my life will the high chair be? Don't just tell me what I want to hear. Besides, how can you know what I want to hear when I don't know that? Give it to me straight. But don't be mean. I know I'm frivolous and whiny, that I could use that money to support a charity or justice, that I should just shut up and pick one already. But I need help. Which one? Huh?
But this is serious. I need help. Actual help.
I'm having a huge high chair dilemma. When we were expecting darling C. and preparing for the onslaught of baby gear, we were mere babes in the wood. We knew not what was coming. We bought most of what they told us to buy, haven't used half of it and had to make crazed runs to Target at 10 at night to buy the other stuff no one told us we'd really really need. Babies 'R Us (that damned backward R makes me insane) frightened the living hell out of us, and were it not for my lovely sister to guide me through I might have had Clementine right there in aisle 3 while still wringing my hands over buying just the right car seat or baby monitor. Since we couldn't even decide on what crib to buy (and thus chose the cheapest ever because who cares about a crib anyway?), we decided we wouldn't even try to tackle high chairs until feeding was upon us for fear of a.) picking the wrong one b.) losing our home to large plastic items and c.) our total fucking insanity at having to buy yet another item with giraffes, elephants, Winnie the Pooh, little blocks or other such nonsense.
But now feeding is upon us. And while I initially thought I could just spoon feed her in the Bumbo, the reading I've been doing lately makes me want to give her actual food to play around with and it would be nice to put her in a high chair and give her an ice cube or banana while we scarf a pizza at the same time instead of in shifts. I thought this would be easy peasy--just go to the ole Target and pick out the least offensive contraption and move on. We would only have to bear it a little while before relegating it to the basement and buying one of those cool toddler chairs, right? But when I got to the Target I HATED all of them. I don't know why, but I became fixated. A high chair is not like a crib or a changing table, a piece of furniture tucked away in a bedroom I don't spend that much time awake in. A high chair sits in the most used places in the house, and I will have to see it every single god damned day. Can I really handle one more brightly colored piece of crap?
When I went home and began to check online for other options, a whole new world opened up to me--a world where style and function meet, where high chairs look like decorative elements AND fun places to chow. A world that involves Greek mythology and wood instead of Elmo and plastic. I found my dream high chair, and I can't stop thinking about it. Why haven't I bought it? Because it's expensive. Not the $600 egg chair expensive, but it ain't no $99 one either.
This is where you come in, Internet. How much is too much to spend on a high chair? I have been agonizing for a week, and we need to get Clementine some food fast. I fear if I don't make a decision soon she will either live on breast milk until she can pull up a chair to the table or will begin to eat off the floor like a savage. I keep trying to talk myself into the cheaper models, but each time I put the $99 Graco standard in my online shopping cart, I go take a quick peek at my dream chair and can't go through with it.
My friends are split pretty evenly. Karen, Debby and Lisa think for the most part that it is silly to spend so much money on something I will use for such a short time. I think I could sway Lisa, but Karen is horrified and Debby reminded me that I could buy cool things for Clementine and myself with the money I save by not going all out on a high chair. A high chair. Am I really this ridiculous that I'm expending this much energy on something she will probably trash? My sister K.C. and friend Laura, on the other hand, think this is something that I'll have to live with every day and should love with all my being. K.C. pointed out that I cheap out at some points (seriously, my crib was almost free, and ditto on the changing table), so why not splurge when it means something? I was extravagant with my swing, but I use it every single day and have never regretted it for a minute. We won't go hungry or have trouble paying the mortgage if I buy it, but it's not as if I have a spare wad of cash hanging around after all my debts are paid.
So I appeal to you, Internet. What are your thoughts? What is your experience? Should I buy what I love or just go with what's cheap? Should I find middle ground between loathsome plastic cheapness and beautiful wooden goodness? How central to my life will the high chair be? Don't just tell me what I want to hear. Besides, how can you know what I want to hear when I don't know that? Give it to me straight. But don't be mean. I know I'm frivolous and whiny, that I could use that money to support a charity or justice, that I should just shut up and pick one already. But I need help. Which one? Huh?
So. very. tired.
If last night had a soundtrack, it would be the Pet Shop Boys "What Have I Done to Deserve This?" For what now seems the fiftieth night in a row (but is probably only the fifth), darling C. slept in one hour increments all night until 5 a.m., when she was wide awake, sweet as honey and ready to play. I swear she slept better as a six-week old than she is sleeping as an almost six-month old. While Nate and I haven't returned to the crazed, sleep-deprived zombies we were in those first weeks of new parenthood, we are both exhausted, and tensions sometimes run high. This morning, for example, I clearly remember thinking I was going to kill him if he asked me if I wanted him to wake her up and get her ready one more time. I was trying to get myself dressed, which is no easy feat on a totally ordinary day, much less one when I have had no sleep and thus have no judgment.
I don't want to be the boss, to make all the decisions, and although I know Nate is just trying to be helpful, I end up snapping. This sucks because he doesn't deserve it. He is up with her in the middle of the night more than I am most of the time, and he is really the best co-parent anyone could hope for. Moments of crisis bring tension I'm not so good at handling, though, and we don't really have a philosophy guiding us through on this whole sleep thing. Or really this whole parenting thing. We're winging it, and for the most part that's working for all three of us. I do hate philosophies, but I think sometimes it would be nice if we had one into which we could retreat and hide for just a few hours of blissful sleep.
So here's an upside to work. If I get enough crap out of by inbox and power through a few more things, I can return to the cat naps I used to take in all the little nooks and crannies of the building when I was first knocked up. While pregnant I learned to sleep at my desk and have it appear I was on the phone, how to lock the door on the faculty bathroom and catch a few z's on the little couch in the lounge area, and I learned how to sleep on my boss' most uncomfortable wooden couch while he was at a meeting. I only need 20 minutes to feel like a brand new lover, and it's worth cutting lunch a little short for that.
I don't want to be the boss, to make all the decisions, and although I know Nate is just trying to be helpful, I end up snapping. This sucks because he doesn't deserve it. He is up with her in the middle of the night more than I am most of the time, and he is really the best co-parent anyone could hope for. Moments of crisis bring tension I'm not so good at handling, though, and we don't really have a philosophy guiding us through on this whole sleep thing. Or really this whole parenting thing. We're winging it, and for the most part that's working for all three of us. I do hate philosophies, but I think sometimes it would be nice if we had one into which we could retreat and hide for just a few hours of blissful sleep.
So here's an upside to work. If I get enough crap out of by inbox and power through a few more things, I can return to the cat naps I used to take in all the little nooks and crannies of the building when I was first knocked up. While pregnant I learned to sleep at my desk and have it appear I was on the phone, how to lock the door on the faculty bathroom and catch a few z's on the little couch in the lounge area, and I learned how to sleep on my boss' most uncomfortable wooden couch while he was at a meeting. I only need 20 minutes to feel like a brand new lover, and it's worth cutting lunch a little short for that.
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