I've got scratch marks on my boobies.

I wish I could say they are from some particularly feisty fun with TH. But no.

They are from my daughter, who has decided the fun thing to do while nursing is to grab a fistful of boob and push and twist. And damn if her little nails aren't like tiny little adorable claws.

We have resorted to a variety of coping mechanisms in our attempts to save my ladies from anymore undue trauma. We've put baby legs on her arms; her hands only come to about halfway down them, and the extra fabric flops around limply like . . . well, I'll just leave that one unsaid. We also have what we call "nursing safety mitts." Really this is any little glove that we can find--her newborn hand covers, the snow mittens I got for her a few months ago . . . anything that will keep her from being able to inflict her small, innocent, yet nonetheless brutal version of a Texas Titty Twister.

Have mercy, baby girl.

Time

Time is such a funny thing. So paradoxical.

It can move so slowly. Or so incredibly quickly.

It can seem like you have more time than you know what to do with. Or like there are not enough hours in the day to get done the bare minimum of tasks.

You can count the seconds until something is over. Or you can look back one day and realize so much has slipped past you without you even realizing.

Having a child has only made my perception of, and relationship with, time even more ambiguous. Sometimes the minutes drag on like hours--when she's crying, in the dark of the night when she wakes again, and again, and again, when we have the afternoon stretching in front of us like a field and she is not interested in walking/singing/reading/playing/bouncing/rolling. Other times I look at the clock--or the calendar--and it takes a moment for reality to register, that the day is over, that already more than four months have passed since her birth, that time is passing so very, very quickly.

So much of my life now is centered around time. Is it time for her to eat? Is it time for her to nap? How long has she been awake? How long did she sleep for her naps? Is it naked time? Bath time? Bed time? What time is it when she stirs and wakes in the middle of the night? How long do we let her cry before rushing in to scoop her up and reassure her that we are there, that Mommy and Daddy are there and that everything is okay? Is it time for me to get up and pump yet? How much time does she spend on her tummy every day? How old is she? How much time has passed since xyz? How much time is left until xyz?

I spend my days at work torn between actually working and using the time to think about her or do research about things like developmental milestones and cradle cap and sleep training and the pros and cons of starting solids . . . all the things I wonder about when I'm with her but can't seem to find the time to learn more about. So I end up not having enough time, again--not enough time to get all my work done, not enough time to answer all my questions.

Evenings slide by in a flash of eating, playing, naked time, bath, eating, and then before I know it she's falling asleep in my arms and we are putting her down for the night. Not enough time together. Never enough time. Not to do all the things I want to be doing with her--tummy time to strengthen her back and neck muscles and practicing rolling over and sitting up to strengthen her stomach muscles and standing up to strengthen her leg muscles and independent play to strengthen her independence and walks outside to get her fresh air and what-about-mom-and-baby-cuddle-time??? Some evenings I just sit with her on my lap and we read books and chat back and forth about our days and I let her tiny little hands explore every inch of my face and we don't get around to ANY of the things that I "should" be doing with her. And part of me feels guilty, like time is flying by and we need to be helping her grow and learn things and get stronger. And part of me feels defiant, like I don't give a rat's ass about all the things we "should" be doing with her, I just want to hold her and love her and not worry about any of it.

That's really the crux of it. I want to say fuckitall and not worry about anything but loving her, trusting that all her skills, all her development will come in due time. But then I remember that time isn't something you can get back. There are no do-overs. Once this second is gone, it is gone. Once her third month is over, it's over. She has either learned something by now or she hasn't. Too much defiance, too much ignorance of that fact and baby girl will slip further and further behind. At least, that is my fear. And that is what drives me to take her off my lap in our hour together at night and work with her--in the time we have--on all the things I feel will benefit her.

And then there's the rest of life--the cooking and laundry and cleaning and paying bills and washing bottles and spending time with our cats and let's not forget giving TH the time and attention he deserves.

If I had a super power, it would be the ability to stop time. To give myself the gift of time to fit in whatever it is that needs a few more hours' worth of attention.

I end this post looking at the clock, knowing I have to leave in three minutes to go to her and nurse her during my lunch break. Our 45 minutes together that I can't get to soon enough and that doesn't last nearly long enough. Only to have to leave before I'm ready to get back and eat a hurried lunch at my desk, working, getting in some "me" time, some time devoted to maintaining my professional identity. (It's amazing that work has now become my "me" time.)

And while there I will look at her daily log and ask about how long her naps were and how she spent her time. And I will long for that time to have been with me. I will envy them of the time they had with her, seconds, minutes, hours that I will never have.

So what's to be done? What recourse do we have in the face of time, ever coming, ever going, never enough? I once heard a parable about a man who held his hands under a stream of grain. He grasped at it, trying in vain to catch the tumbling seeds. Inevitably the last grain tumbled out and he was left grasping at air. When asked to remember the grain, to remember the feel of it as it passed through his hands, he had nothing to say. He had been too busy trying to grab it to stop and take notice of its feel, of the gentle, cool caress as it flowed over his fingers.

Rather than spend my time longing for more, lamenting the hours that pass in a blur, I resolve to stop fighting the flow and focus instead on how it feels as it passes through my fingers.

So that I may have a memory of how this time, however fleeting, felt as it flowed by, taking so much along with it.

Laughter

She started chuckling a while ago, monosyllabic grunts of pleasure, a funny noise that sounds like a joyful "Huh!"

She doubled-up on her "Huh!" the other day while watching TH dance. We counted that as her first real laughter, but it was still a baby sound, something that we hear her do and interpret with our adult brains as laughter, but falling short of mimicking real adult laughter by itself.

And then last night. Naked time. TH blowing raspberries on her tummy. It happened.

She giggled.

Not "Huh-huh-huh," but a real, adult, normal, hee-hee-hee of a giggle that was the most amazing sound I've ever heard.

Each step of this parenthood thing has been more wonderful than the last, but laughter, real, true laughter . . . there are no words to describe how awesome this is.

What a sound! I replay it in my memory like a drug, like the first time I heard "I love you," an audio memory played on loop so that I continue to get the surge of elation it releases each time.

I am addicted. And like a true junkie I will do all kinds of crazy things to get her to give us that sound again.

She laughs. 4 months, 5 days.

She Must Have Really Missed Me

No, not baby girl. Aunt Flo.

She must have reeeeaaaaallly missed me.

What other reason could there possibly be for her returning to my life only 12 weeks after I gave birth, even though I have been exclusively breastfeeding the entire time? Or for her coming back two weeks later? Or for her returning again three weeks after that?

And she doesn't seem to care that her arrival scares off my milk supply. Selfish biyotch.

I just keep telling myself it's 'cause I'm so lovable, and she just missed me THAT much during the year she stayed away.

That and to be thankful that it means I'm not pregnant again.

Even so, Flo, I'd be okay with you lengthening the intervals of your visits back to pre-baby-girl levels. Really.

Ouch.

I've been getting up at midnight to pump for a long time now, even though baby girl is sleeping through the night. It helps build my freezer stash and relieve the painful engorgement that can happen over the long night hours of no nursing.

I guess I needed sleep last night more than most, because I totally slept through my alarm and didn't wake up until 4:45. My poor, poor boobies were like two hard rocks. I had no idea they could get so full, so hard, or so tender. Ouch.

At night I usually pump about 6 ounces. Tonight I cut it off at 12 and headed back to bed. Holy moly!

Note to self: get up with your alarm.

4 Months!

Today, baby girl, you are four months old. And what a month it's been!

We spent your very first Christmas in Dallas with your G-Mommy, Graddaddy, and Aunt Katie. And guess what? Your first Christmas was a white one! That's right, it snowed on Christmas Eve. Not the weak, barely there snow that we got here in Austin a few weeks earlier, but true, big-fat-flakes-drifting-from-the-sky snow. Real snow. Snow that stuck and covered the ground in a good inch of wintery whiteness. Can you believe it?? Your very first Christmas Eve and Christmas morning were filled with snow. In Texas. The Russian part of your heritage must really be looking out for you!

You loved Christmas. Not only did you get to see so many family members--Munna and Great-Grandma Thorn were there, too--but you were so fascinated by the crumpling sounds of paper and the glittery flashes of bows. We all talked about how next year you will be so different, so mobile, so much more of a handful. While I am looking forward to my walking, talking, handful of a daughter, I loved our first Christmas together, with you snuggling on my lap and looking around you, taking it all in, squealing with excitement, charming the hearts of everyone in the room.

And then, a week later, New Year's Eve. The end of a year. The end of an amazing year. The end of the most amazing year I've ever experienced. A year ago, your dad and I were getting ready to go out to a party with friends. We didn't yet know you, your spark, had already ignited and snuggled into me, already growing into the miracle that is you. This year, we spent the night in our pajamas instead of our party clothes. We stayed at home instead of going out. At midnight, your father and I kissed, like we do every year, and then we stole silently into your bedroom and watched you sleeping peacefully. We put our hands on your chest and felt the gentle rise and fall of your breath. We wished you a happy new year and felt more fulfilled, more hopeful, more confident than we ever have before at the dawn of a new year. I guess that's what happens when you have had the greatest year ever and know, looking forward, that it will only get better.

And then, the next week, when I went back to work, your dad did, too. No more staying at home with family members. From that point on, you went to daycare. I should say, from that point on, much to your delight, you went to daycare. It's true baby girl. You love it! There are so many toys and bright lights to entertain you. So many babies to watch and learn from. So many teachers there who love you and hold you--in fact, most of the time I show up to nurse you or take you home, you are being cuddled in the arms of some adoring teacher.

I want you to know I don't feel bad. I miss you like crazy every second of every day. I have your pictures surrounding me in my office, and sometimes I turn on my screen saver on my computer just so I can watch a slide show of you. But I don't feel bad that I am working and you spend your time at daycare. I fully believe in the benefits of the arrangement. I believe you are going to learn confidence and independence and an ability to be comfortable in new environments much more so than if you and I spent our time together at home all day every day. I believe you are going to learn more, both from the games and activities the teachers do with you (did you know you already did your first painting?!?) and from watching the other babies in the room, learning from mimicking them and their actions. And I am going to maintain the other parts of me besides the mom-part. And that is healthy. For me.

And the most bitter-sweet benefit: every second spent with you is so much infinitely sweeter and more cherished. I don't regret the increased sweetness our time together has . . . but I do lament the fact that it is a lowered supply that has increased the value.

It is important to me that you know, that you grow up knowing, that I miss you every second of every hour that we are apart. And that I still think this is a good arrangement for both of us.

You are the most delightful 4-month-old! You talk up a storm and have started to make discernible consonant noises--ba's and da's and ga's and ma's. Your very favorite thing to chew on is your hand . . . or really, both of your hands shoved as far into your mouth at the same time as possible . . . but really anything you can get your hands on now is going straight into your mouth. You are learning to reach for things and pull them to you. One of your favorite new things to stick in your mouth is your feet! You have discovered your feet, your constant companions, and you are constantly reaching for them, holding them, and sticking them in your mouth. It is positively one of the cutest things EVER. You hold on now when I carry you around, one little hand grasping my shirt, or my hair, or the skin on my neck. You take baths with either me or your dad in our big tub, and you love the feel of the warm water. We "swim" with you, turning you on your stomach and moving you back and forth the length of the tub, and every time we stop you kick your little legs as if saying, "more! more!" Your smile is infectious and when you are delighted by something your entire body convulses with silent joy, your arms and legs flailing wildly. The other day we had a dance party, and you had your first real laugh while watching your daddy dance in front of you. It was the most wonderful sound we've ever heard.

You are still my champion nighttime sleeper. There was a stretch last week where you woke up in the middle of the night almost every night for a week. We never knew what caused your troubled sleep--a growth spurt? A new developmental leap that is making your little brain work overtime? I think it was a combination of those things--you ate well each time you woke and then went right back to sleep. I was really tired that week. I am still getting up at midnight to pump milk for you, so I was back on a regimen of 2- to 3-hour chunks of sleep like I was when you were a newborn, only now I was at the office all day, unable to sneak in little catnaps during the day. But even as tired as I was, I loved our middle-of-the-night cuddles. It reminded me that you still need me so much. There will come a time when you no longer wake in the middle of the night, crying for your parents' arms. When you no longer nurse. When you no longer need the comforting smell and warmth of our touch. I am thankful for every moment we have when you still do need these things. (And, to be fair, I was also thankful when you went back to sleeping your usual 11-12 hours, too.)

You are on the brink of so many exciting things! Though you've been rolling stomach-to-back for two months now, you are starting to roll onto your side from your back, and it's only a matter of time that you finish that movement off and roll all the way over. When we put you on your stomach, you pull your knees up under you, the precursor to actual movement--crawling! Sometime here in the next 2 months we will start you on solid food, and a part of me will cry at the fact that you are no longer subsisting only on the milk I give you.

Every day I love you more. Every day, every new discovery, every new ability delights me as much as it does you.

Happy 4-month birthday to my feet-chewing, dance-laughing, tub-swimming, neck-holding sweet, adorable, lovely baby girl.

Love you to the ends of the universe and beyond,
Mom

It Only Took 14 Years

TH was telling his mom last night that I've been tired lately. When asked why, he explained it was because I am still getting up at midnight to pump even though Ali's been sleeping through the night since 2 months. Aside from not wanting my supply to drop (even though I know it would only drop to adjust to her new schedule), I like being able to continue to build my freezer stash since we never really know how long this pumping-at-work thing is going to last.

(I'm also tired because it appears Ali has hit the dreaded 4-month wakeful period, so I've gone back to getting sleep in 2- to 3-hour increments. We didn't mention this to his parents, however, as they would automatically assume we are doing something wrong that is causing her to not sleep well. But I digress.)

So he tells his mom that I'm tired and that I'm still getting up to pump at night for the sake of the baby.

Her response to my self-sacrificing, self-inflicted-suffering behavior? "She's like a real Russian Jew."

This may be the biggest, most genuine compliment I could ever hope to receive from my mother-in-law.

N is for Nunchucks

Nunchucks (noun): A pair of hardwood sticks joined by a chain or cord and used as a weapon. Formally known as nunchaku. Origin: Japan.

You might be wondering, right about now, how nunchucks fit in with our conversation about things like beauty and courage and love. These ideas seem so boundless, so ethereal. Nunchucks seem so . . . concrete. Limited. Violent.

But they really do belong in this conversation. I promise. The key is looking at them not for what they are, but for what they represent. If you look at them that way, metaphorically, symbolically, you will see that they represent as many noble ideals as any other letter we've covered.

(1) Surprise people. Nunchucks are small. They aren't like carrying around a giant sword or rolling up in a tank. They can be concealed, and people will think that they have you figured out, that they know what you are showing up with, only to have you whip out your nunchucks and take them by surprise.

Another way to surprise people: for one reason or other, use of nunchucks is traditionally seen as a male activity. Maybe it's because males are typically the ones who are fighting in the movies. Regardless, a WOMAN with nunchucks, now that is something new! No one would expect a girl to be a bad ass with nunchucks.

So, you show up at a rumble--a female with no visible weapon. They think they have you pegged. They think you'll be an easy victim. But then you whip out your nunchucks, and BOOM! Awesome. They underestimated you, and you can teach them a lesson about preconceived notions.

(2) Do your own thing. Pretty much anyone can learn to point a gun and pull a trigger. This is nothing special. But nunchucks are unique. They are special. Learning to use them effectively is much harder than most other weapons. Mastering them will set you apart, put you into an upper echelon of people: nunchuckers. Few people will possess the skill you possess. This gives you value and makes you a much more formidable opponent.

(3) Be open minded. The chucks originated in Japan. I'd imagine the first non-Japanese warrior who saw these bad boys in action was either (a) highly impressed, or (b) woefully unimpressed. If it was the former, said warrior could be open minded enough to appreciate advances in other cultures. He (or she?) would know that the best course of action is to take what works from his (her) own culture, as well as that which works from other cultures, and combine them into a lifestyle of pure awesomeness. If it was the latter, I bet that warrior learned a lesson very quickly, and hopefully in the future would take more of the former approach to new ideas. Remember that all cultures, all personality types, all experiences, offer something impressive, be it new tools to use, new ideals to strive for, or simply new situations or habits to avoid. Never be complacent with a false sense of superiority in your own background. Always, always be open to learning from others.

(4) Be a bad ass. Let's face it. Anyone who can fight using nunchucks is a bad ass. To learn how to use this weapon takes discipline and determination. You can't really half-ass nunchucks. You will likely get hurt, a lot, while learning to use them. But pushing through until you master them, until the chucks fly as if a seamless extension of your body . . . that is bad ass.

Keeping in mind, of course, that this is all symbolic.

Not actual fights, but metaphorical fights. Times in life you will face conflict or challenges. Internal and external. Physical, emotional, psychological, interpersonal.

Not real nunchucks, but metaphorical nunchucks. Things that you will find a way to use to your advantage. Tools. Internal and external. Physical, emotional, psychological, interpersonal.

But the lesson of the nunchucks remains:

Surprise people.
Do your own thing.
Be open minded.
Be a bad ass.

Thanksgiving in January

I am thankful every day for my daughter. Every day.

Thankful for her health.
Thankful for her personality.
Thankful for her smiles, her squeals, her kicks, her tiny grip on my shirt (or neck, as the case has been lately).
Thankful my husband has held her on his chest, that she has smiled at him, that they have breathed together.

Thankful for the blessing she is.

May we all be lucky enough to be reminded, in the "off season," to be thankful.

OMG, Mooom!!

This is what I heard in my head today.

I was on my way to the day care to nurse baby girl during my lunch break. It's one of the few times I drive in my car without her with me, so I usually take the opportunity to turn up the radio and jam out. Lo and behold, just as I headed out, "Bust a Move" by Young MC came on. Sweet!! Talk about turning it up, singing along, and dancing. I was rocking.out.

My first thought as I really got going was how I can't wait for Ali to be old enough for us to jam out together.

Then I realized that (1) by the time she's old enough, she's not going to want to jam out to "Bust a Move." That will be an "oldie" to her. (2) She's probably not going to want to jam out with her mom. and (3) She is more than likely going to be soooooo embarrassed when I jam out!

I could just imagine the horrified look on her face as she watches my driver's-seat dance-a-thon.

I can just hear her: "oh my god, Moooom!!"