Dear baby boy,
Today is a day to celebrate! Today you turn 7 months old . . . and it's also Christmas! I honestly cannot believe you are already 7 months old. I know I say that the time is passing so quickly, but SEVEN MONTHS OLD? That sounds so old. You aren't even in the first half of your first year any more. Seven months is the land of real food and mobility, and how can it be that you are here already?
You woke up this morning (after sleeping allllll night! More on that later . . . ) and we cuddled together for longer than usual after nursing. One of my most favorite things about you is how cuddly you still are. After you eat, you lean into me sideways and rest your head on my chest, fiddling with my shirt straps or my fingers and cooing. I love these quiet moments we have together, and I like to think in those moments that you are just as blissed out as I am, that your heart is just as full as mine. We then headed into the living room, where you got a big play box as your present! Your eyes grew large and you immediately wanted to start moving the animals and beads on top of it along their wires and opening and closing the doors and tabs on the sides. You even grabbed on when we stood you up and stood along side it, playing for several minutes! You also got a new book that you appear to love to chew on.
Your sixth month was filled with busy. We came home from Thanksgiving in Dallas and you promptly developed croup. You sported a terrible barking cough that struck me to my very core. You had one really, really bad night where you just couldn't sleep, so your dad and I took turns holding you, rocking you, shushing you, taking you into the steam-filled bathroom with the hot shower running and then right out into the cold winter air to calm your lungs. True to form, my tough little man, you were over it in about 48 hours and back to squealing with delight and belly laughing and babbling. Every day you amaze me with your strength and your happy disposition.
After that we were right into December, and you did the most amazing thing. You slept ELEVEN hours straight. And not just once. You did it for almost three solid weeks! The first night I woke up at 5 a.m. and panicked, but there you were in the monitor, sleeping peacefully. Yay! We are heading to Dallas again to celebrate Christmas tonight, so I have my fingers crossed that three nights sleeping in the pack-and-play won't throw you totally off your new-found sleep awesomeness.
You are still little hit-or-miss with solid foods. We have figured out the main problem is that you want to feed yourself. You want nothing to do with the spoonfuls of food coming at you, but if left to your own devices, you are quite content to pick food up off the tray and put it in your own mouth. This makes it somewhat hard on us as far as food options go--though your first tooth is alllmmmmosssttt in, you can really chew up much of anything right now. Thank goodness you're still nursing like a champ and I'm not too worried about your solids intake just yet.
You continue to surprise and delight us with your physical strength and skills. You are starting to be able to mimic motions that we show you. When we wave at you, you wave back, wagging your arms all around (since you're not too good at refined movements just yet) and smiling. When I clap, you try to bring both hands together like mommy. You try so hard to pick up freckles off my skin or printed flowers and designs off the carpet. You can turn the wheels and dials on your toys when we show you how. And for the most exciting development, as of today, you can sit up on your own! I love watching how quickly you catch on to things, and I'm so excited to watch you grow and continue to delight and surprise us for years and years to come.
As brave as you are, as adventurous, as curious, as fearless, still, still, baby boy, still your favorite spot is in my arms. And you know what? It's my favorite spot for you, too.
Happy 7 months, big boy.
Love,
Mom
Sunday, December 25, 2011
Saturday, December 24, 2011
Merry Christmas!
I got all crafty today and made salt-dough ornaments. If you, too, feel the need to get crafty, please allow me to make the following suggestion: plan ahead and starting hitting the gym about a month or two before making these. Forget cardio--focus on weight lifting. You really need to bulk up in order to pin your six-month-old down, hand extended, fingers splayed, and pushed firmly into the dough. You think I'm kidding, but I'm not. Six-month-olds are freakishly strong. Oh, and just ignore the screaming. You're not hurting anything other than their pride.
Your welcome in advance.
Happy holidays from our family to yours.
Your welcome in advance.
Happy holidays from our family to yours.
Friday, December 16, 2011
Friday, December 9, 2011
Why We Work
TH read the post. The post about him and how I feel like his parenting has taken a dive with little man.
He came up to me while I was changing a diaper and told me that he'd read it. I wasn't all that surprised. He knows about this blog and he reads it from time to time. I'd never write something here that I would keep private from him, and in reality he and I have had talk after talk about the things I wrote about.
He said he was glad he'd read it. That it was a wakeup call that that night with little man, when he was crying and we didn't know why, would have just dropped off his radar, but that reading my take on it, my reaction to him, my thoughts, made him realize that maybe it shouldn't. Made him realize that it may have been a bigger deal than he was making of it, at least to me.
He said he agreed that a large part of the "change" in his parenting he thinks can be attributed to my own confidence this time around. It's not that he's worse, it's that before I really leaned on him to help me get through, and now that I'm so much steadier on my feet as a parent, I'm seeing faults in him that I didn't notice before. Relativity and all that.
And then we left it at that. I'm not sure we really reached a resolution other than "I read it and I'm glad I read it," but so many of our conversations don't really have resolutions these days. Either the issues are too big to solve in the three minutes we get to discuss them, or we're cut short by the needs and demands of our kids, or we choose to spend our time playing with and enjoying our children rather than hashing out uncomfortable topics with each other. Regardless, we left it at that.
And the next morning, my baby woke up with a nasty, barking cough. Thoughts of "whooping cough" spread through my mommy mind like wildfire. I had just been out of work for an entire week over Thanksgiving, and it was Monday morning, and I was panicking.
And TH said that he'd stay home. No guilt trip. No heavy sighs or looks of panic. Just calm, "I got this, honey, go to work." And I could feel the stress melt off me (at least, as much as it can when my 6-month-old sounds like a coughing, barking seal). He made an appointment with the pediatrician and I met them there and my baby had croup. We were warned that the night would be rough.
And it was. My daughter has never been sick like that before. She's always been a sleep machine, even when dealing with a random cold, which is really all she's ever had, so we've never done the "up all night" thing with her. I think I got maybe 3.5 hours of sleep that night, and TH got even less. Because he sent me to bed from 11-2 and tended to little man's crying misery. And when I got up I had to force him to go to bed to get rest. He hovered around us, asking what he could do to help. At 5 I finally crawled back into bed, and when little man woke about 30 minutes later, crying and coughing, TH was the one to get up and hold him while I slept another precious 30 minutes until my alarm went off.
It was the worst night we've ever had as parents. Being up all night with a sick, crying baby, sitting in steamy bathrooms, taking him into the cold night air, rubbing vicks, shushing him, holding him upright so that he can sleep, and then repeating it again for hours and hours hit us like a ton of bricks. And right through it all, I felt like I had a partner again, someone on whom I could lean and depend. Someone who was helping to make it easier rather than just adding to my stress.
My husband read the blog and stepped up his game. And that's why we work. We work because for the last 16 years, he's made me believe that I never have to settle. We work because, though he's far from perfect, he busts his ass to get as close as he possibly can. We work because I'll never give up on that fact, and because I have always recognized, from the moment I met him in high school, how rare and valuable that really is.
I'm a lucky woman.
He came up to me while I was changing a diaper and told me that he'd read it. I wasn't all that surprised. He knows about this blog and he reads it from time to time. I'd never write something here that I would keep private from him, and in reality he and I have had talk after talk about the things I wrote about.
He said he was glad he'd read it. That it was a wakeup call that that night with little man, when he was crying and we didn't know why, would have just dropped off his radar, but that reading my take on it, my reaction to him, my thoughts, made him realize that maybe it shouldn't. Made him realize that it may have been a bigger deal than he was making of it, at least to me.
He said he agreed that a large part of the "change" in his parenting he thinks can be attributed to my own confidence this time around. It's not that he's worse, it's that before I really leaned on him to help me get through, and now that I'm so much steadier on my feet as a parent, I'm seeing faults in him that I didn't notice before. Relativity and all that.
And then we left it at that. I'm not sure we really reached a resolution other than "I read it and I'm glad I read it," but so many of our conversations don't really have resolutions these days. Either the issues are too big to solve in the three minutes we get to discuss them, or we're cut short by the needs and demands of our kids, or we choose to spend our time playing with and enjoying our children rather than hashing out uncomfortable topics with each other. Regardless, we left it at that.
And the next morning, my baby woke up with a nasty, barking cough. Thoughts of "whooping cough" spread through my mommy mind like wildfire. I had just been out of work for an entire week over Thanksgiving, and it was Monday morning, and I was panicking.
And TH said that he'd stay home. No guilt trip. No heavy sighs or looks of panic. Just calm, "I got this, honey, go to work." And I could feel the stress melt off me (at least, as much as it can when my 6-month-old sounds like a coughing, barking seal). He made an appointment with the pediatrician and I met them there and my baby had croup. We were warned that the night would be rough.
And it was. My daughter has never been sick like that before. She's always been a sleep machine, even when dealing with a random cold, which is really all she's ever had, so we've never done the "up all night" thing with her. I think I got maybe 3.5 hours of sleep that night, and TH got even less. Because he sent me to bed from 11-2 and tended to little man's crying misery. And when I got up I had to force him to go to bed to get rest. He hovered around us, asking what he could do to help. At 5 I finally crawled back into bed, and when little man woke about 30 minutes later, crying and coughing, TH was the one to get up and hold him while I slept another precious 30 minutes until my alarm went off.
It was the worst night we've ever had as parents. Being up all night with a sick, crying baby, sitting in steamy bathrooms, taking him into the cold night air, rubbing vicks, shushing him, holding him upright so that he can sleep, and then repeating it again for hours and hours hit us like a ton of bricks. And right through it all, I felt like I had a partner again, someone on whom I could lean and depend. Someone who was helping to make it easier rather than just adding to my stress.
My husband read the blog and stepped up his game. And that's why we work. We work because for the last 16 years, he's made me believe that I never have to settle. We work because, though he's far from perfect, he busts his ass to get as close as he possibly can. We work because I'll never give up on that fact, and because I have always recognized, from the moment I met him in high school, how rare and valuable that really is.
I'm a lucky woman.
Friday, December 2, 2011
My Daughter is Beautiful and I Tell Her So Every Day.
I read this article a while back. At first blush, I was all, "Yeah! Girl Power! Love us for our minds!" But after a few days of realizing that my mind kept wandering back to the article, I finally acknowledged that something just wasn't sitting right.
The essence of the article is that while it seems to be everyone's default nature to gush over how cute little girls are, you should fight against this urge and avoid commenting on their appearance, instead talking to them only about their interests, what they're reading, etc.
Seems like a good idea, right?
As a mother of a little girl, I am all too aware of the dangers and pitfalls that lie ahead for my daughter. It seems like girls have to deal with 95% of all the self-esteem, depression, body image, and sexuality issues. (Maybe it's because nobody is really talking about how these things affect men, too. But I digress.) Hell, I AM a woman. I had to grow up and deal with all these things. Deal with never feeling skinny enough, or never knowing how to do my hair or makeup the right way, or not having the "in" sense of fashion it seemed like all the other skinnier, prettier girls had.
But here's where I diverge from the author of that article. I know my daughter has a lifetime of dealing with these issues ahead of her. A lifetime of every magazine photo making her feel inadequate.
So rather than ignoring the issue, why not tell her that she's beautiful? Why not build in her a sense of self-confidence from an incredibly young age? Why not leave no doubt in her mind as to how beautiful she is, so that when she starts to be confronted with these images that have the potential to make her feel like she doesn't measure up, she instead tosses her gorgeous brown curls, rolls her luminescent hazel eyes, and recognizes that feeling for what it is: a giant load of horse shit.
I tell my daughter that she's beautiful every.single.day. I use words like pretty and gorgeous. I want her to know without a shadow of a doubt that she is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen in my life.
And you know what? I also tell her how smart she is. Every.single.day. How funny she is. How friendly and sweet she is. What a good sharer she is. How strong she is. How brave she is. How impressive she is with everything that she says and does and thinks.
None of these are mutually exclusive. You don't have to pick one of these. And really, what a disservice you are doing to you own child if you do. Children, daughters, aren't single faceted. They deserve to develop a totally confident sense of their whole self--their mind, their spirit, and their body.
So if you have a daughter, please make sure she knows just how beautiful she really is.
The essence of the article is that while it seems to be everyone's default nature to gush over how cute little girls are, you should fight against this urge and avoid commenting on their appearance, instead talking to them only about their interests, what they're reading, etc.
Seems like a good idea, right?
As a mother of a little girl, I am all too aware of the dangers and pitfalls that lie ahead for my daughter. It seems like girls have to deal with 95% of all the self-esteem, depression, body image, and sexuality issues. (Maybe it's because nobody is really talking about how these things affect men, too. But I digress.) Hell, I AM a woman. I had to grow up and deal with all these things. Deal with never feeling skinny enough, or never knowing how to do my hair or makeup the right way, or not having the "in" sense of fashion it seemed like all the other skinnier, prettier girls had.
But here's where I diverge from the author of that article. I know my daughter has a lifetime of dealing with these issues ahead of her. A lifetime of every magazine photo making her feel inadequate.
So rather than ignoring the issue, why not tell her that she's beautiful? Why not build in her a sense of self-confidence from an incredibly young age? Why not leave no doubt in her mind as to how beautiful she is, so that when she starts to be confronted with these images that have the potential to make her feel like she doesn't measure up, she instead tosses her gorgeous brown curls, rolls her luminescent hazel eyes, and recognizes that feeling for what it is: a giant load of horse shit.
I tell my daughter that she's beautiful every.single.day. I use words like pretty and gorgeous. I want her to know without a shadow of a doubt that she is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen in my life.
And you know what? I also tell her how smart she is. Every.single.day. How funny she is. How friendly and sweet she is. What a good sharer she is. How strong she is. How brave she is. How impressive she is with everything that she says and does and thinks.
None of these are mutually exclusive. You don't have to pick one of these. And really, what a disservice you are doing to you own child if you do. Children, daughters, aren't single faceted. They deserve to develop a totally confident sense of their whole self--their mind, their spirit, and their body.
So if you have a daughter, please make sure she knows just how beautiful she really is.
Friday, November 25, 2011
6 months
Dear Baby Boy,
Six months old. Six months. Halfway to a year in the blink of an eye. One day I brought you home from the hospital, and the next you are up on all fours, wanting to crawl. One night we sat and snuggled while you slept on my shoulder in the wee hours of the morning, and the next you put yourself to sleep in your crib, waking only to eat and then immediately sleep again.
I know what they mean now when they say that it passes too quickly. We spend our days moving at a frenetic pace, striving to merely keep up with all the things we have to do, and I don't get nearly enough time to stop and sit and watch you grow.
Have I already told you what an incredibly happy boy you are? I don't think I've ever known a baby so agreeable, so cheerful, so easily amused. It's so easy to make you laugh, and so addictive. You think your big sister is the funniest person in the world. You laugh at her when she shows you toys. You laugh at her when she dances and sings. You laugh at her, full, deep belly laughs, when she blows a toy horn that unfurls in front of your face with every puff. And she loves you. Still, after six months, she wants to know where you are at all times. She wants to hug you and kiss you good night every night. She spontaneously gives you hugs, and when you're crying, she'll say to me with a worried face, "Baby Sam is upset!" The other day the two of you sat in the living room together, unloading a box of your toys one at a time, and you dad and I stopped and watched the two of you from a distance. I'm so happy you have each other, and will always have each other. I'm so happy at the love I already see between the two of you.
At six months, you are already a complete sitter. It's what I call the "potted plant" stage because I can plop you somewhere with a couple of toys and you sit there, perfectly content, without moving. Alas I think this stage will be short-live for you. You are up on all fours every chance you get, rocking and wanting to move forward. You have figured out how to spin in circles to get to what you want, but the only true motion you have down so far is backward. One day, probably very soon, you're going to figure out forward and then life as we all know will change forever!
You have the sweetest little voice. Your babbling is back in full force, and I love to hear all the sound you make. I've heard the D, B, P, and G sounds, and all the vowel sounds. Sometimes it even sounds like you're saying "bubble!" I haven't heard the "M" sound yet, but you love when I put my lips to your cheek and say "muh-muh-muh-muh-muh"--the noise and the vibration give you the giggle fits, which in turn prompt me to do it over and over and over. And then you turn and plant your open mouth on my cheek and grunt, your way of doing the same thing to me, and I laugh and laugh and hug you close.
We started solid foods five days ago, though we did cheat a bit and give you a taste of an apple last week. As soon as you tasted the sweet fruit, you clamped your little hands down onto mine and pulled the apple slice as hard against your face as possible. You were pulling so hard the tips of your fingers where white! We laughed so hard at your enthusiasm. You cried when I pulled the apple slice away to hand you off to your dad so that I could take a picture, and then immediately perked up as soon as you had the slice back in your mouth. Unfortunately, you didn't have exactly the same enthusiastic response to the avocado we gave you when we started solids for real. That's okay, baby. You'll get there. You seem to like banana a little better, and I have squash and sweet potato ready to give you this week. I recently read that we can start giving you a sippy cup of water to begin to learn how to drink. I still think of you as my itty bitty baby; I can't believe you're already old enough for a sippy cup.
You are still waking once a night to eat. Thought it's hard for me to get up in the middle of the night every night, when I'm actually there with you, in the dark room, I kind of love it. The rest of our lives are so hectic that these quiet minutes with you in the middle of the night are sometimes the only slow, still moments in my day. I do hope you'll get to the point sometime this month where you don't wake to eat any more, but it's okay to take your time. I'll wait 'til you're ready. The big improvement this month, though, has been with your naps! Whereas I could pretty much rely on only 30-45 minute naps before, you have started to consistently take at least one 90-minute nap a day now. Yay! And you are getting so much better at settling yourself to sleep. I'm so proud of you.
You don't have any teeth yet, but I have a sneaky suspicion they are on their way. Though you've been drooling like a leaky tub for a while now, just in the last few days you've started shoving your fists inside your mouth, too. I hope the teething process isn't too much of a bear for you (and I hope you take it easy on your momma while nursing!).
Your dad was gone for a week on a business trip this month, and big sister went to spend the week with G-Mommy and Granddad, giving us some rare time to ourselves. I loved getting to focus all of my attention on you and just you for a change. Our time together only underscored for me what a sweetheart you really are: happy, loving, kissy, snuggly, fascinated in the world around you but oh-so content to observe it all from the security of my arms.
These have been the happiest six months of my life, and I know that the next six months will only improve.
Happy half-birthday, sweet boy.
Love,
Mom
Six months old. Six months. Halfway to a year in the blink of an eye. One day I brought you home from the hospital, and the next you are up on all fours, wanting to crawl. One night we sat and snuggled while you slept on my shoulder in the wee hours of the morning, and the next you put yourself to sleep in your crib, waking only to eat and then immediately sleep again.
I know what they mean now when they say that it passes too quickly. We spend our days moving at a frenetic pace, striving to merely keep up with all the things we have to do, and I don't get nearly enough time to stop and sit and watch you grow.
Have I already told you what an incredibly happy boy you are? I don't think I've ever known a baby so agreeable, so cheerful, so easily amused. It's so easy to make you laugh, and so addictive. You think your big sister is the funniest person in the world. You laugh at her when she shows you toys. You laugh at her when she dances and sings. You laugh at her, full, deep belly laughs, when she blows a toy horn that unfurls in front of your face with every puff. And she loves you. Still, after six months, she wants to know where you are at all times. She wants to hug you and kiss you good night every night. She spontaneously gives you hugs, and when you're crying, she'll say to me with a worried face, "Baby Sam is upset!" The other day the two of you sat in the living room together, unloading a box of your toys one at a time, and you dad and I stopped and watched the two of you from a distance. I'm so happy you have each other, and will always have each other. I'm so happy at the love I already see between the two of you.
At six months, you are already a complete sitter. It's what I call the "potted plant" stage because I can plop you somewhere with a couple of toys and you sit there, perfectly content, without moving. Alas I think this stage will be short-live for you. You are up on all fours every chance you get, rocking and wanting to move forward. You have figured out how to spin in circles to get to what you want, but the only true motion you have down so far is backward. One day, probably very soon, you're going to figure out forward and then life as we all know will change forever!
You have the sweetest little voice. Your babbling is back in full force, and I love to hear all the sound you make. I've heard the D, B, P, and G sounds, and all the vowel sounds. Sometimes it even sounds like you're saying "bubble!" I haven't heard the "M" sound yet, but you love when I put my lips to your cheek and say "muh-muh-muh-muh-muh"--the noise and the vibration give you the giggle fits, which in turn prompt me to do it over and over and over. And then you turn and plant your open mouth on my cheek and grunt, your way of doing the same thing to me, and I laugh and laugh and hug you close.
We started solid foods five days ago, though we did cheat a bit and give you a taste of an apple last week. As soon as you tasted the sweet fruit, you clamped your little hands down onto mine and pulled the apple slice as hard against your face as possible. You were pulling so hard the tips of your fingers where white! We laughed so hard at your enthusiasm. You cried when I pulled the apple slice away to hand you off to your dad so that I could take a picture, and then immediately perked up as soon as you had the slice back in your mouth. Unfortunately, you didn't have exactly the same enthusiastic response to the avocado we gave you when we started solids for real. That's okay, baby. You'll get there. You seem to like banana a little better, and I have squash and sweet potato ready to give you this week. I recently read that we can start giving you a sippy cup of water to begin to learn how to drink. I still think of you as my itty bitty baby; I can't believe you're already old enough for a sippy cup.
You are still waking once a night to eat. Thought it's hard for me to get up in the middle of the night every night, when I'm actually there with you, in the dark room, I kind of love it. The rest of our lives are so hectic that these quiet minutes with you in the middle of the night are sometimes the only slow, still moments in my day. I do hope you'll get to the point sometime this month where you don't wake to eat any more, but it's okay to take your time. I'll wait 'til you're ready. The big improvement this month, though, has been with your naps! Whereas I could pretty much rely on only 30-45 minute naps before, you have started to consistently take at least one 90-minute nap a day now. Yay! And you are getting so much better at settling yourself to sleep. I'm so proud of you.
You don't have any teeth yet, but I have a sneaky suspicion they are on their way. Though you've been drooling like a leaky tub for a while now, just in the last few days you've started shoving your fists inside your mouth, too. I hope the teething process isn't too much of a bear for you (and I hope you take it easy on your momma while nursing!).
Your dad was gone for a week on a business trip this month, and big sister went to spend the week with G-Mommy and Granddad, giving us some rare time to ourselves. I loved getting to focus all of my attention on you and just you for a change. Our time together only underscored for me what a sweetheart you really are: happy, loving, kissy, snuggly, fascinated in the world around you but oh-so content to observe it all from the security of my arms.
These have been the happiest six months of my life, and I know that the next six months will only improve.
Happy half-birthday, sweet boy.
Love,
Mom
Friday, November 18, 2011
Fallen
I pretty much think my husband is the most awesome in the history of ever. He's funny and smart and absolutely devoted to me. He's the first to apologize after a fight. And his apologies are amazing. Even if I want to stay mad at him, I rarely can. He has a huge heart. He doesn't want anyone to ever be upset if he can help it. He's an amazing dad. He loves his kids totally openly and without self-consciousness about his feelings.
But.
I've been feeling for a while that things are just different this second time around. I don't know if he's really been different, or if I've been different, or if the perspective has just been different. There's not just one kid now, our first, with nothing to compare to, nothing to measure against, both of us feeling things out and groping through parenthood together. Little man is our second, and as much as it hurts me to think about or admit, in watching my husband parent him, I no longer see my husband as the ultimate be-all, end-all of parenting.
Again, I don't know if it's because my own patience, my own confidence this time around is so much greater, but it seems like TH loses his cool so much more quickly with little man than he ever did with baby girl. (And maybe it's that wonderful mom memory, that makes all objects in the rear-view mirror seem rosier than they actually ever were.) I trust him less with little man. I trust myself more. Where once I was happy to hand off the baby and get a break, now I'd rather keep the baby and give TH a break. And not out of some sense of sacrifice on TH's behalf...it's out of a sense of love for my son, a sense that his needs would be better served and met with me than with his father.
Last night, little man woke up only two hours after going to bed for the night. That NEVER happens. And he woke up crying. Not fussing, but full-blown crying, arching his back, screaming. I was in the middle of pumping (I pump to empty before bed) and couldn't readily detach myself, so I sent TH in. I don't know what happened in the room in the next 20 minutes, but by the time I was done pumping and had brushed my teeth, little man had been quieted (rocked back to sleep, I was later told) and then wound up crying again about three times. TH was in our room, eyes wide and panicky. I told him to remember the checklist--poopy diaper? gassy? too hot or too cold? teething pain? TH went to get him (he was screaming again) and I went to get some gas medicine. I was heading back to the nursery to give little man the medicine when TH emerged from the nursery, carrying the crying baby, telling him to "shut UP!" He went into the guest bathroom (this is where we often calmed little man when he was a newborn...the loud vent fan works as great loud white noise) and I caught a glimpse of him start to rock little man too hard. It's not that he was going to hurt little man in any way. He was holding him cradled in his arms, all body parts fully supported. But it was the frustration and anger in the movements of his own body that crossed the line. I banged my hand on the door as loud as I could and snapped at TH, "He's a BABY. He's in pain. Get a fucking GRIP." I gave little man the gas medicine and then took him myself.
For the next thirty minutes, I barked orders at TH and cuddled a screaming baby. "Bring me a thermometer. Bring me a pacifier. Get some infant's tylenol." With every scream, my heart broke and my nature was to hold little man more gently, speak to him more soothingly. I didn't understand then and I still don't understand now why that wasn't TH's reaction to those same screams. I thought he might be hungry, but I had just pumped. The fresh milk was made into a bottle, but I couldn't give it to him--he won't take a bottle from me, he just wants to nurse. TH told me that he would give him the milk, and I snapped "No fucking way. You don't get to touch him right now. I don't trust you." I was livid.
Eventually, he proved that he had calmed, that his head had cleared. I gave the baby back and stood two feet away, watching like the overprotective mother bear I am. Little man twisted and squirmed. He wouldn't settle with me there, so I had to leave the room. I went and laid next to the monitor. After a few minutes, little man settled, and we all eventually slept.
I used to think my husband was a better parent than me. Or, at least, if not better, a totally equal partner. Like I said, I don't know if he has really changed, or if I have changed. All I know is that I find myself more and more unhappy with the amount of patience TH has with little man, with the expectations he has for his behavior, with the amount of work he puts in before giving up or becoming frustrated. I hate that my husband seems to have infinitely more patience with our screaming 2-yr-old, whom we can communicate with, who is old enough to reason with, than our screaming 5-month-old, who is helpless.
For those of you who have read my blog and have some idea in your head that our lives are easy, that we are somehow perfect parents, have perfect kids, have a perfect marriage . . . please know we are just like all of you. We struggle. We have our moments of doubt, our breakdowns of trust in others and in ourselves. And this post is in no way meant to indicate that I feel like I'm perfect as a parent. I have had my share of moments when I didn't know what else to do with my crying child, didn't know how else to get him to sleep. In those moments I'd put the baby in his crib and walk away, crying myself, to give TH a turn. But I always believed that I had a solid partner I could rely on, and right now I can't honestly say I do.
All I can do is hold out hope that this won't always be the case. That I won't always feel like my husband has fallen from the pedestal I used to hold him on.
But.
I've been feeling for a while that things are just different this second time around. I don't know if he's really been different, or if I've been different, or if the perspective has just been different. There's not just one kid now, our first, with nothing to compare to, nothing to measure against, both of us feeling things out and groping through parenthood together. Little man is our second, and as much as it hurts me to think about or admit, in watching my husband parent him, I no longer see my husband as the ultimate be-all, end-all of parenting.
Again, I don't know if it's because my own patience, my own confidence this time around is so much greater, but it seems like TH loses his cool so much more quickly with little man than he ever did with baby girl. (And maybe it's that wonderful mom memory, that makes all objects in the rear-view mirror seem rosier than they actually ever were.) I trust him less with little man. I trust myself more. Where once I was happy to hand off the baby and get a break, now I'd rather keep the baby and give TH a break. And not out of some sense of sacrifice on TH's behalf...it's out of a sense of love for my son, a sense that his needs would be better served and met with me than with his father.
Last night, little man woke up only two hours after going to bed for the night. That NEVER happens. And he woke up crying. Not fussing, but full-blown crying, arching his back, screaming. I was in the middle of pumping (I pump to empty before bed) and couldn't readily detach myself, so I sent TH in. I don't know what happened in the room in the next 20 minutes, but by the time I was done pumping and had brushed my teeth, little man had been quieted (rocked back to sleep, I was later told) and then wound up crying again about three times. TH was in our room, eyes wide and panicky. I told him to remember the checklist--poopy diaper? gassy? too hot or too cold? teething pain? TH went to get him (he was screaming again) and I went to get some gas medicine. I was heading back to the nursery to give little man the medicine when TH emerged from the nursery, carrying the crying baby, telling him to "shut UP!" He went into the guest bathroom (this is where we often calmed little man when he was a newborn...the loud vent fan works as great loud white noise) and I caught a glimpse of him start to rock little man too hard. It's not that he was going to hurt little man in any way. He was holding him cradled in his arms, all body parts fully supported. But it was the frustration and anger in the movements of his own body that crossed the line. I banged my hand on the door as loud as I could and snapped at TH, "He's a BABY. He's in pain. Get a fucking GRIP." I gave little man the gas medicine and then took him myself.
For the next thirty minutes, I barked orders at TH and cuddled a screaming baby. "Bring me a thermometer. Bring me a pacifier. Get some infant's tylenol." With every scream, my heart broke and my nature was to hold little man more gently, speak to him more soothingly. I didn't understand then and I still don't understand now why that wasn't TH's reaction to those same screams. I thought he might be hungry, but I had just pumped. The fresh milk was made into a bottle, but I couldn't give it to him--he won't take a bottle from me, he just wants to nurse. TH told me that he would give him the milk, and I snapped "No fucking way. You don't get to touch him right now. I don't trust you." I was livid.
Eventually, he proved that he had calmed, that his head had cleared. I gave the baby back and stood two feet away, watching like the overprotective mother bear I am. Little man twisted and squirmed. He wouldn't settle with me there, so I had to leave the room. I went and laid next to the monitor. After a few minutes, little man settled, and we all eventually slept.
I used to think my husband was a better parent than me. Or, at least, if not better, a totally equal partner. Like I said, I don't know if he has really changed, or if I have changed. All I know is that I find myself more and more unhappy with the amount of patience TH has with little man, with the expectations he has for his behavior, with the amount of work he puts in before giving up or becoming frustrated. I hate that my husband seems to have infinitely more patience with our screaming 2-yr-old, whom we can communicate with, who is old enough to reason with, than our screaming 5-month-old, who is helpless.
For those of you who have read my blog and have some idea in your head that our lives are easy, that we are somehow perfect parents, have perfect kids, have a perfect marriage . . . please know we are just like all of you. We struggle. We have our moments of doubt, our breakdowns of trust in others and in ourselves. And this post is in no way meant to indicate that I feel like I'm perfect as a parent. I have had my share of moments when I didn't know what else to do with my crying child, didn't know how else to get him to sleep. In those moments I'd put the baby in his crib and walk away, crying myself, to give TH a turn. But I always believed that I had a solid partner I could rely on, and right now I can't honestly say I do.
All I can do is hold out hope that this won't always be the case. That I won't always feel like my husband has fallen from the pedestal I used to hold him on.
Friday, November 11, 2011
Mother-Son Dance
The room is dark.
I hold you in my arms and we move
slowly, in a circle
swaying to the rhythm of the song I sing you,
of my shhh-shhh-shhhing.
Sometimes you cry, and I wipe the tears from your eyes
and wrap you in the comfort of my embrace.
I know one day, we'll dance together again,
and it will be less clear if I'm holding you in my arms
or if you're holding me.
In a dim room, we'll move slowly in a circle,
swaying to the rhythm of a song.
And I will smile, and I may cry,
and you'll wipe the tears from my eyes
and wrap me in the comfort of your embrace.
I think about that one-day dance
every night.
And it makes me hug you a little tighter,
your 5-month-old body already heavy in my arms.
And it makes me sway with you a little slower
and shush you a little longer,
trying to hold onto every moment
of our mother-son dance.
I hold you in my arms and we move
slowly, in a circle
swaying to the rhythm of the song I sing you,
of my shhh-shhh-shhhing.
Sometimes you cry, and I wipe the tears from your eyes
and wrap you in the comfort of my embrace.
I know one day, we'll dance together again,
and it will be less clear if I'm holding you in my arms
or if you're holding me.
In a dim room, we'll move slowly in a circle,
swaying to the rhythm of a song.
And I will smile, and I may cry,
and you'll wipe the tears from my eyes
and wrap me in the comfort of your embrace.
I think about that one-day dance
every night.
And it makes me hug you a little tighter,
your 5-month-old body already heavy in my arms.
And it makes me sway with you a little slower
and shush you a little longer,
trying to hold onto every moment
of our mother-son dance.
Monday, October 31, 2011
Thank God It's Halloween
Today is the first day I haven't gone to nurse Little Man at lunch.
In fact, like right now I should be in my car, driving over there.
In like five minutes, I would be sneaking past baby girl's room, where it's nap time but she's never napping, and putting on the blue shoe covers for the infant room, and going in and saying, "Hi, Sammy!!" with a huge smile and seeing the world's best smile in return. He'd kick his feet with glee and keep his eyes locked on me until he was in my arms.
Gosh me makes me feel good.
Then I'd go nurse him and snuggle him and make him laugh by playing peek-a-boo while I put my shirt back on. Then I'd sit and visit with his teacher for a few minutes and find out how his morning went.
But today none of that will happen. Today we are finally acknowledging that he is a growing boy and he doesn't need to eat every three hours anymore. Today we are finally letting his school schedule match his weekend schedule, when he's been going 3.5 to 4 hours between nursings for the last three or four weeks.
Which means that he'll no longer be eating at 12:30.
Which means that my days of going to nurse him--or even see him--during my lunch break are gone.
So today officially marks the longest I will have ever gone without seeing him during the day.
My heart hurts.
I'm self-medicating with chocolate.
Thank God it's Halloween and there's chocolate abounding.
In fact, like right now I should be in my car, driving over there.
In like five minutes, I would be sneaking past baby girl's room, where it's nap time but she's never napping, and putting on the blue shoe covers for the infant room, and going in and saying, "Hi, Sammy!!" with a huge smile and seeing the world's best smile in return. He'd kick his feet with glee and keep his eyes locked on me until he was in my arms.
Gosh me makes me feel good.
Then I'd go nurse him and snuggle him and make him laugh by playing peek-a-boo while I put my shirt back on. Then I'd sit and visit with his teacher for a few minutes and find out how his morning went.
But today none of that will happen. Today we are finally acknowledging that he is a growing boy and he doesn't need to eat every three hours anymore. Today we are finally letting his school schedule match his weekend schedule, when he's been going 3.5 to 4 hours between nursings for the last three or four weeks.
Which means that he'll no longer be eating at 12:30.
Which means that my days of going to nurse him--or even see him--during my lunch break are gone.
So today officially marks the longest I will have ever gone without seeing him during the day.
My heart hurts.
I'm self-medicating with chocolate.
Thank God it's Halloween and there's chocolate abounding.
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
5 months
Dear Little Man,
Today you are five months old. Five months! It sounds like such a big-boy age. Gone are your newborn days. Gone is my saying, "He's only four months old. He's still so young." Because now you're five months. That's like, in the middle of your first year.
I shouldn't really be surprised at how old your age sounds. You are doing so many things that prove to me every day how much (and how fast) you are growing and changing! You can sit up on your own now, fully unsupported (not even tripod-sitting anymore!) for 30 seconds to a minute. You could probably go longer, but that's about how long it takes you to become suddenly fascinated with something on the other side of the room, or behind you, and you whip your head around and topple over, your body not yet quite adept at compensating for that kind of movement. But sitting! On your own! When five short months ago, you were such a tiny, squirmy, helpless little thing. The first year is truly amazing.
You can also push up onto straight arms when lying on your tummy now, and once or twice have actually gotten up onto your hands and knees. I know true mobility isn't far off, because you can push yourself backwards all over the place now. You see something you want in front of you, and then end up pushing yourself backwards. You get so frustrated, but it's so cute that I can't help but smile. Your teacher at school told me that you pushed yourself all the way under a crib one day and she had to crawl under the crib to get you!
You can turn the pages of the books we read you before bed. You can pull your arms out of sleeves when we are taking off your coat or long-sleeved shirt. You are learning routines, learning to predict what you're supposed to do in a situation, and it's amazing to see.
After taking a bit of a break to work on your motor skills, your babbling is back in full force. You are making all kinds of wonderful "babababa!" and "guh!" sounds. We have the most delightful conversations, taking turns babbling to each other. You seem to think I'm pretty funny to talk to. I hope you always think that.
You are sleeping fully unswaddled now, and are still just as unpredictable as ever in your sleep patterns. You might sleep all the way until 6 a.m., or you might wake up at midnight, or anywhere in between. The good news is that once I come in and feed you, you fall right back asleep. In fact, several nights you have laughed while drifting off to sleep nursing, and it more than makes up for the fact that I'm still getting up with you. Often times our middle-of-the-night nursing sessions are the only calm, quiet, still moments in my entire day. I love the snuggles, and those sleepy laughs in the middle of the night might be one of my favorite things ever.
You are still my amazingly happy little man. You are so incredibly easy going. You are happy to be carted around all over the place, and you always have the most ready, adorable smile to greet anyone and everyone with. Your smile just lights up your entire face. Someone once told me it seems like you even smile with your ears! But you save your very best smiles just for me. My absolute favorite part of the day is walking in to see you, whether it's in the morning, or picking you up from school, or just getting home from running an errand. As soon as you see me, your face breaks into the brightest grin and you kick your feet with joy. I LOVE it. You make me so wildly happy!
This month is going to hold lots of exciting things for you, little man. We will be staring solid foods around 6 months, and while I have loved the fact that every ounce of healthy growth you've had since birth has been from my milk, solid foods are so fun and I can't wait for you to start experimenting with them! I figure it won't be too long before you learn how to move forward instead of only in reverse, and the fact that you can sit up while you play now will open up a whole new world for you, a world where both your hands are available for playing instead of just support.
Even though growing brings so many exciting things, it also brings some other changes as well. I won't be going to nurse you during the day at school anymore. You have gotten big enough where you don't need to be eating every three hours anymore, so your schedule is shifting. I will miss our middle-of-the-day snuggles so much.
I love you, sweet little boy. I love your smile, your kicks of joy, your ready, open delight with everything in the world around you. I love your easy-going nature. I love how you can't take your eyes off your sister, how you love it when she hugs you, how you constantly try to touch her and play with her. I love when I'm holding you, and you're looking around at the world, and then you suddenly bury your face back into my shoulder, as if you couldn't bear to go one more second without a mom snuggle.
You bring so much light to our lives. I can't wait to see what this next month holds in store for you.
Love forever and ever,
Mom
Today you are five months old. Five months! It sounds like such a big-boy age. Gone are your newborn days. Gone is my saying, "He's only four months old. He's still so young." Because now you're five months. That's like, in the middle of your first year.
I shouldn't really be surprised at how old your age sounds. You are doing so many things that prove to me every day how much (and how fast) you are growing and changing! You can sit up on your own now, fully unsupported (not even tripod-sitting anymore!) for 30 seconds to a minute. You could probably go longer, but that's about how long it takes you to become suddenly fascinated with something on the other side of the room, or behind you, and you whip your head around and topple over, your body not yet quite adept at compensating for that kind of movement. But sitting! On your own! When five short months ago, you were such a tiny, squirmy, helpless little thing. The first year is truly amazing.
You can also push up onto straight arms when lying on your tummy now, and once or twice have actually gotten up onto your hands and knees. I know true mobility isn't far off, because you can push yourself backwards all over the place now. You see something you want in front of you, and then end up pushing yourself backwards. You get so frustrated, but it's so cute that I can't help but smile. Your teacher at school told me that you pushed yourself all the way under a crib one day and she had to crawl under the crib to get you!
You can turn the pages of the books we read you before bed. You can pull your arms out of sleeves when we are taking off your coat or long-sleeved shirt. You are learning routines, learning to predict what you're supposed to do in a situation, and it's amazing to see.
After taking a bit of a break to work on your motor skills, your babbling is back in full force. You are making all kinds of wonderful "babababa!" and "guh!" sounds. We have the most delightful conversations, taking turns babbling to each other. You seem to think I'm pretty funny to talk to. I hope you always think that.
You are sleeping fully unswaddled now, and are still just as unpredictable as ever in your sleep patterns. You might sleep all the way until 6 a.m., or you might wake up at midnight, or anywhere in between. The good news is that once I come in and feed you, you fall right back asleep. In fact, several nights you have laughed while drifting off to sleep nursing, and it more than makes up for the fact that I'm still getting up with you. Often times our middle-of-the-night nursing sessions are the only calm, quiet, still moments in my entire day. I love the snuggles, and those sleepy laughs in the middle of the night might be one of my favorite things ever.
You are still my amazingly happy little man. You are so incredibly easy going. You are happy to be carted around all over the place, and you always have the most ready, adorable smile to greet anyone and everyone with. Your smile just lights up your entire face. Someone once told me it seems like you even smile with your ears! But you save your very best smiles just for me. My absolute favorite part of the day is walking in to see you, whether it's in the morning, or picking you up from school, or just getting home from running an errand. As soon as you see me, your face breaks into the brightest grin and you kick your feet with joy. I LOVE it. You make me so wildly happy!
This month is going to hold lots of exciting things for you, little man. We will be staring solid foods around 6 months, and while I have loved the fact that every ounce of healthy growth you've had since birth has been from my milk, solid foods are so fun and I can't wait for you to start experimenting with them! I figure it won't be too long before you learn how to move forward instead of only in reverse, and the fact that you can sit up while you play now will open up a whole new world for you, a world where both your hands are available for playing instead of just support.
Even though growing brings so many exciting things, it also brings some other changes as well. I won't be going to nurse you during the day at school anymore. You have gotten big enough where you don't need to be eating every three hours anymore, so your schedule is shifting. I will miss our middle-of-the-day snuggles so much.
I love you, sweet little boy. I love your smile, your kicks of joy, your ready, open delight with everything in the world around you. I love your easy-going nature. I love how you can't take your eyes off your sister, how you love it when she hugs you, how you constantly try to touch her and play with her. I love when I'm holding you, and you're looking around at the world, and then you suddenly bury your face back into my shoulder, as if you couldn't bear to go one more second without a mom snuggle.
You bring so much light to our lives. I can't wait to see what this next month holds in store for you.
Love forever and ever,
Mom
Monday, October 24, 2011
Hugs
We spent Friday evening at a restaurant with an outdoor playscape. The motivation here is really twofold: by Friday, I am d.o.n.e. trying to rush home and cook dinner, and the weather has been so nice, we love having somewhere to go where baby girl can play while waiting on dinner and where we can eat outside.
After we finished our meal and she was getting in five more minutes of playtime, another family showed up, and then another, so what started as quiet solo play on the playscape turned into a full-blown recess with six kids running around. Baby girl, ever the confident, social girl, immediately wandered over to try and interact with some of the kids her age. They kind of just stopped and stared at her. Rather than playing together, they took turns doing something--picking up an acorn, throwing said acorn, jumping, climbing over a low wall--and observing/being observed in return. There wasn't really any talking. It was more what the teacher's at school call "parallel play."
When it was time to go, I walked over and told baby girl to say goodbye. She immediately went in for a hug. Because, you know, that's what you do when you have to leave. You hug the people you've been spending time with. The other little girl, who was just a bit older than baby girl, took a guarded step back. Baby girl hesitated. No one had ever refused a hug before. I saw a look of uncertainty on her face, and she tried to hug the girl again, a bit more cautiously. The girl dodged the hug again.
Suddenly I saw my baby girl lose her confidence. She looked lost. And my heart broke seeing any kind of uncertainty on her face. I know all too well what it feels like to be socially uncomfortable, shy, embarrassed. I wish I could protect her for her entire life from these feelings. I know I can't. But what I can do, what I could do right then, was protect her for that moment, for that evening.
I said, "Aw, are you trying to give her a hug?" She said, "Yeah." "Can you give me a big hug?" I asked her, crouching down and throwing my arms wide. "YES!" she yelled, a smile of relief and love breaking across her face. She threw herself into my arms and gave me the BEST big hug ever, and I carried her off the playground, her arms wrapped tightly around my neck, her head laid down on my shoulder.
I can't always save her. But I will for as long as I'm able.
And I will always be there for her to hug.
After we finished our meal and she was getting in five more minutes of playtime, another family showed up, and then another, so what started as quiet solo play on the playscape turned into a full-blown recess with six kids running around. Baby girl, ever the confident, social girl, immediately wandered over to try and interact with some of the kids her age. They kind of just stopped and stared at her. Rather than playing together, they took turns doing something--picking up an acorn, throwing said acorn, jumping, climbing over a low wall--and observing/being observed in return. There wasn't really any talking. It was more what the teacher's at school call "parallel play."
When it was time to go, I walked over and told baby girl to say goodbye. She immediately went in for a hug. Because, you know, that's what you do when you have to leave. You hug the people you've been spending time with. The other little girl, who was just a bit older than baby girl, took a guarded step back. Baby girl hesitated. No one had ever refused a hug before. I saw a look of uncertainty on her face, and she tried to hug the girl again, a bit more cautiously. The girl dodged the hug again.
Suddenly I saw my baby girl lose her confidence. She looked lost. And my heart broke seeing any kind of uncertainty on her face. I know all too well what it feels like to be socially uncomfortable, shy, embarrassed. I wish I could protect her for her entire life from these feelings. I know I can't. But what I can do, what I could do right then, was protect her for that moment, for that evening.
I said, "Aw, are you trying to give her a hug?" She said, "Yeah." "Can you give me a big hug?" I asked her, crouching down and throwing my arms wide. "YES!" she yelled, a smile of relief and love breaking across her face. She threw herself into my arms and gave me the BEST big hug ever, and I carried her off the playground, her arms wrapped tightly around my neck, her head laid down on my shoulder.
I can't always save her. But I will for as long as I'm able.
And I will always be there for her to hug.
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
Just When Things Get Hard
:::Glances at blog title:::
How hard can this be? The question that started it all.
Turns out it can actually be pretty damn hard.
Nearly five months in to this two-kid thing, and I must admit that in the ebb and flow of life, we're mired in an ebb. A trough rather than a peak. A low.
Life with two kids is hectic. It's sort of a constant go-go-go of taking care of both of their momentary needs coupled with trying (usually unsuccessfully) to keep our house in livable order.
Take mornings. On the surface, they're pretty straight forward. I shower and get ready while TH gets up and makes my lunch and packs up the pump parts for me. Then I feed little man and get him dressed and ready and wake up baby girl and get her started with milk and breakfast while TH showers and dresses. Then I'm out the door and TH finishes up feeding and dressing baby girl and gets both kids to school on his way to work.
Look a little closer, though, and it's more like this: After hitting snooze three times, I shower and decide (once again) that I only have time to wash my hair and shave my arm pits, so the legs will have to go another day unshaved. I throw my wet hair into a bun and dig through dirty laundry to find my least-wrinkled pair of slacks and try to pick a shirt that will actually button over my bodacious breastfeeding boobs while TH makes my lunch, packs up the pump parts, and tries to keep a very happy morning baby from squealing so loud that he wakes his sister. Then I feed little man and attempt for five minutes to get a burp out of him. He cries because he'd rather be eating than getting burped, and I pray that his crying doesn't wake his sister. He finally burps and douses me with a healthy stream of spit up in the process. I wipe said spit up off my pants and shrug because, who are we kidding, I already had fished them out of the dirty clothes. I finish feeding him, get him dressed, and deposit him in the living room. He can't be on his play mat because he'll roll over and spit up, so I pick the jumperoo. Whilst he is happily playing with the toys on the jumperoo, I go and wake his sister, who is really not ready to wake up yet and is a sleepy landmine waiting to explode when I unwittingly misstep. We go to brush her teeth and she shrieks that she doesn't want toothpaste (misstep. KaBOOM). I try to gather her amazing bed head into a tamed pony tail and she tells me, "I don't want you to do my hair quite yet, mommy!" Well alrighty then. I get her some milk and a muffin for breakfast, and she wanders over, leaving a trail of muffin crumbs in her wake, to say good morning to little man, who has exhausted his interest in the jumperoo toys and is starting to work on his jumping skills, while I search through her closet, and then her clean clothes basket, for some pants to wear in this new colder weather. She yells, "Mommy! WHERE ARE YOU!?!?" from the other side of the house, and no amount of "I'm in your room!" "I'm picking out your clothes!" "I'm right here!" convinces her that I haven't disappeared into nothingness, so I jog back to the living room, where she flashes me a bright smile and asks for yogurt for breakfast. I hear the shower stop as I pour some yogurt into a bowl and baby girl wails "No Mommy help with yogurt! Only Ali do yogurt! ALI DO YOGURT!!!!" (misstep. KaBOOM) and I try to get her to help scrape out the yogurt remnants into the bowl but she wanted to peel off the top and I RUINED IT FOR HER. TH emerges from our room half dressed and baby girl proceeds to beg for a new yogurt just so that she can peel off the top and then asks if she can watch a video and then says she has no poop in her diaper, just pee. I leave them to their conversation and go back to our room to put on my shirt and jewelry and shoes, and TH joins me, baby girl trailing behind, saying, "Daddy's naked. Where's Daddy's shirt? Daddy needs a work shirt from the closet. Which shirt are you going to wear today, Daddy?" I load my bags into the car and come back to kiss the little man good bye and realize his jumping has prompted explode-a-poo up his back and spit up out his front. I leave him sitting there but at least do give TH a heads up rather than letting him discover it for himself 'cause I'm nice like that. I also tell TH that he has to do baby girl's hair. Good luck with that. I kiss baby girl goodbye and she tells me to have a "very good, nice day" and I swoon. I kiss TH goodbye and I'm out.
Evenings are much the same except they involve more crying from the little man because he's hungry and tired. That plus two bath times. And two bed times. And then, THEN we get to look around the house and triage the needs that will make the biggest impact. Dinner and dishes have to be cleaned up, milk has to be readied for the next day, pump parts have to be washed, laundry has to be done (except a lot of time it isn't because it's right next to the baby's room), thank-you notes have to be written, pictures have to be uploaded off my camera, grocery store runs have to be made, bills have to be paid, litter has to be cleaned, trash has to be taken out. Then I pump one more time and collapse into bed until whatever point in the night the little man decides to wake. Which could be absolutely any time between 11 p.m. and 6 a.m. Because routine? Predictability? That would be too easy. When he wakes, TH goes in first to try and rock him back to sleep, but I don't know why we keep doing that because he can never rock him back to sleep any more, so inevitably he gets frustrated and then comes to wake me up to feed the little guy. And I do. And those 20ish minutes nursing my baby in the middle of the night are the only calm, quiet, slow moments in my life. And then I climb back into bed for anywhere from 6 hours to 30 minutes more of sleep and then my alarm goes off and I hit snooze and it starts all over again.
Like I said. Hectic.
And the thing is, I kind of love it. I love my life. I feel like I've hit my stride parenting two kids, like it's just the right amount of hard.
But TH . . . well . . . not so much. It's too much crazy for him. Too much hectic. Too much chaos. He wants to be able to control things too closely, and he can't, and it drives him crazy. And then his culture kicks in, his upbringing, and all the training he had as a child to focus on the negative and lament the difficulties in life. He constantly asks me when little man will be sleeping through the night, when our lives will be easier. And I get weighed down because I don't notice the bad until he points it out. And it makes me feel like he is unhappy with our crazy, wonderful lives.
So I get frustrated with his frustration. We bicker. We start to feel isolated from each other, which only makes dealing with our lives more difficult because now we feel like less a team and more like trying to take it all on by ourselves. And now that little man is getting older, TH is starting to become more involved in work outside of work hours. He had a golf thing on Sunday. He had a dinner last night. I've been watching the kids more and more on my own. So in addition to feeling emotionally isolated, I feel literally more alone as well.
So it's been a long haul of that. Of constant crazies, of frustrations breeding frustrations, of bickering, of interrupted sleep, of go-go-going. And I've been feeling more and more down. More and more unhappy. And last night, while he was out at his business dinner, little man was crying out of tiredness (he slept all of 75 minutes TOTAL ALL DAY at school), I was trying to make dinner and keep him happy and keep baby girl entertained. I ended up nursing him at the dinner table while trying to read baby girl a book at the same time andplusalso trying to feed myself and I thought how much easier it would all be if I were an octopus mom because surely they have enough hands to do these three things at once with ease and thought, well, even if we are bickering when he's home, at least when TH is here he can help hold the baby. Dinner ended and I was trying my best to incorporate cleaning up the kitchen into our post-dinner dance party (which baby girl quickly caught onto and wanted nothing of) and my god I just needed to pee for just a second. So I put the baby in his jumperoo (cue meltdown) and went to the rest room and realized baby girl wasn't with me, trying to see the pee come out of my body, trying to help me wipe, trying to talk my ear off. In fact, she was strangely quiet. So I hurry out of the rest room and she's there, next to her crying brother, trying to hand him one of his toys with one hand and stroking his head with her other hand.
And my heart exploded.
She saw me and told me with a troubled expression, "Baby brother is crying." I told her "I know, we'll fix it." And I picked him up and he stopped crying and she smiled and said "I helped him not be sad," and I realized that as crazy as my life is, the opportunity to have another child, to see my first born grow into such an amazing, caring, sweet big sister is worth every moment when I look around shell shocked and wonder which task out of the 50 staring me in the face I should tackle next. That one moment is worth it all.
And then last night, after little man woke up at 11 p.m. and TH tried for 30 minutes to rock him back to sleep before coming in to wake me and tell me with a whimper that he just didn't know what to do anymore and me telling him that I would fix it, after little man and I got situated in the nursing chair and settled in, after he ate and ate and pulled at my nose with his hands and tried to look around his dark room while still latched on, just as he was finally, finally drifting off to sleep, he laughed. He laughed in his sleep, and I have no idea what he found so funny. Maybe he was thinking about all the ways he runs his parents ragged. But there, in the dark of his room, he laughed and it was awesome. And that one moment made up for the fact that three out of the four members of our family were awake when we all should have been sleeping.
And then this morning, after another tense morning between me and TH, after more complaining about little man's sleep habits on his part and more shutting down and frustrated good byes on my part, TH called me on his way to work, after he'd dropped off the kids. "I love you," he said. "There's nothing else. No trying to get sex, no complaining, nothing I need from you. I just wanted to tell you that I love you." And I smiled. That one simple phrase is sometimes all I need to hear, especially when I'm not expecting it, to make me get past all the other crap we have going on between us.
Just when I feel so weighed down that the hard starts to be bigger than the wonderful, life has a way of keeping me going. Of reminding me why. Of making it all worth it.
How hard can this be? Really fucking hard.
But really fucking wonderful, too.
How hard can this be? The question that started it all.
Turns out it can actually be pretty damn hard.
Nearly five months in to this two-kid thing, and I must admit that in the ebb and flow of life, we're mired in an ebb. A trough rather than a peak. A low.
Life with two kids is hectic. It's sort of a constant go-go-go of taking care of both of their momentary needs coupled with trying (usually unsuccessfully) to keep our house in livable order.
Take mornings. On the surface, they're pretty straight forward. I shower and get ready while TH gets up and makes my lunch and packs up the pump parts for me. Then I feed little man and get him dressed and ready and wake up baby girl and get her started with milk and breakfast while TH showers and dresses. Then I'm out the door and TH finishes up feeding and dressing baby girl and gets both kids to school on his way to work.
Look a little closer, though, and it's more like this: After hitting snooze three times, I shower and decide (once again) that I only have time to wash my hair and shave my arm pits, so the legs will have to go another day unshaved. I throw my wet hair into a bun and dig through dirty laundry to find my least-wrinkled pair of slacks and try to pick a shirt that will actually button over my bodacious breastfeeding boobs while TH makes my lunch, packs up the pump parts, and tries to keep a very happy morning baby from squealing so loud that he wakes his sister. Then I feed little man and attempt for five minutes to get a burp out of him. He cries because he'd rather be eating than getting burped, and I pray that his crying doesn't wake his sister. He finally burps and douses me with a healthy stream of spit up in the process. I wipe said spit up off my pants and shrug because, who are we kidding, I already had fished them out of the dirty clothes. I finish feeding him, get him dressed, and deposit him in the living room. He can't be on his play mat because he'll roll over and spit up, so I pick the jumperoo. Whilst he is happily playing with the toys on the jumperoo, I go and wake his sister, who is really not ready to wake up yet and is a sleepy landmine waiting to explode when I unwittingly misstep. We go to brush her teeth and she shrieks that she doesn't want toothpaste (misstep. KaBOOM). I try to gather her amazing bed head into a tamed pony tail and she tells me, "I don't want you to do my hair quite yet, mommy!" Well alrighty then. I get her some milk and a muffin for breakfast, and she wanders over, leaving a trail of muffin crumbs in her wake, to say good morning to little man, who has exhausted his interest in the jumperoo toys and is starting to work on his jumping skills, while I search through her closet, and then her clean clothes basket, for some pants to wear in this new colder weather. She yells, "Mommy! WHERE ARE YOU!?!?" from the other side of the house, and no amount of "I'm in your room!" "I'm picking out your clothes!" "I'm right here!" convinces her that I haven't disappeared into nothingness, so I jog back to the living room, where she flashes me a bright smile and asks for yogurt for breakfast. I hear the shower stop as I pour some yogurt into a bowl and baby girl wails "No Mommy help with yogurt! Only Ali do yogurt! ALI DO YOGURT!!!!" (misstep. KaBOOM) and I try to get her to help scrape out the yogurt remnants into the bowl but she wanted to peel off the top and I RUINED IT FOR HER. TH emerges from our room half dressed and baby girl proceeds to beg for a new yogurt just so that she can peel off the top and then asks if she can watch a video and then says she has no poop in her diaper, just pee. I leave them to their conversation and go back to our room to put on my shirt and jewelry and shoes, and TH joins me, baby girl trailing behind, saying, "Daddy's naked. Where's Daddy's shirt? Daddy needs a work shirt from the closet. Which shirt are you going to wear today, Daddy?" I load my bags into the car and come back to kiss the little man good bye and realize his jumping has prompted explode-a-poo up his back and spit up out his front. I leave him sitting there but at least do give TH a heads up rather than letting him discover it for himself 'cause I'm nice like that. I also tell TH that he has to do baby girl's hair. Good luck with that. I kiss baby girl goodbye and she tells me to have a "very good, nice day" and I swoon. I kiss TH goodbye and I'm out.
Evenings are much the same except they involve more crying from the little man because he's hungry and tired. That plus two bath times. And two bed times. And then, THEN we get to look around the house and triage the needs that will make the biggest impact. Dinner and dishes have to be cleaned up, milk has to be readied for the next day, pump parts have to be washed, laundry has to be done (except a lot of time it isn't because it's right next to the baby's room), thank-you notes have to be written, pictures have to be uploaded off my camera, grocery store runs have to be made, bills have to be paid, litter has to be cleaned, trash has to be taken out. Then I pump one more time and collapse into bed until whatever point in the night the little man decides to wake. Which could be absolutely any time between 11 p.m. and 6 a.m. Because routine? Predictability? That would be too easy. When he wakes, TH goes in first to try and rock him back to sleep, but I don't know why we keep doing that because he can never rock him back to sleep any more, so inevitably he gets frustrated and then comes to wake me up to feed the little guy. And I do. And those 20ish minutes nursing my baby in the middle of the night are the only calm, quiet, slow moments in my life. And then I climb back into bed for anywhere from 6 hours to 30 minutes more of sleep and then my alarm goes off and I hit snooze and it starts all over again.
Like I said. Hectic.
And the thing is, I kind of love it. I love my life. I feel like I've hit my stride parenting two kids, like it's just the right amount of hard.
But TH . . . well . . . not so much. It's too much crazy for him. Too much hectic. Too much chaos. He wants to be able to control things too closely, and he can't, and it drives him crazy. And then his culture kicks in, his upbringing, and all the training he had as a child to focus on the negative and lament the difficulties in life. He constantly asks me when little man will be sleeping through the night, when our lives will be easier. And I get weighed down because I don't notice the bad until he points it out. And it makes me feel like he is unhappy with our crazy, wonderful lives.
So I get frustrated with his frustration. We bicker. We start to feel isolated from each other, which only makes dealing with our lives more difficult because now we feel like less a team and more like trying to take it all on by ourselves. And now that little man is getting older, TH is starting to become more involved in work outside of work hours. He had a golf thing on Sunday. He had a dinner last night. I've been watching the kids more and more on my own. So in addition to feeling emotionally isolated, I feel literally more alone as well.
So it's been a long haul of that. Of constant crazies, of frustrations breeding frustrations, of bickering, of interrupted sleep, of go-go-going. And I've been feeling more and more down. More and more unhappy. And last night, while he was out at his business dinner, little man was crying out of tiredness (he slept all of 75 minutes TOTAL ALL DAY at school), I was trying to make dinner and keep him happy and keep baby girl entertained. I ended up nursing him at the dinner table while trying to read baby girl a book at the same time andplusalso trying to feed myself and I thought how much easier it would all be if I were an octopus mom because surely they have enough hands to do these three things at once with ease and thought, well, even if we are bickering when he's home, at least when TH is here he can help hold the baby. Dinner ended and I was trying my best to incorporate cleaning up the kitchen into our post-dinner dance party (which baby girl quickly caught onto and wanted nothing of) and my god I just needed to pee for just a second. So I put the baby in his jumperoo (cue meltdown) and went to the rest room and realized baby girl wasn't with me, trying to see the pee come out of my body, trying to help me wipe, trying to talk my ear off. In fact, she was strangely quiet. So I hurry out of the rest room and she's there, next to her crying brother, trying to hand him one of his toys with one hand and stroking his head with her other hand.
And my heart exploded.
She saw me and told me with a troubled expression, "Baby brother is crying." I told her "I know, we'll fix it." And I picked him up and he stopped crying and she smiled and said "I helped him not be sad," and I realized that as crazy as my life is, the opportunity to have another child, to see my first born grow into such an amazing, caring, sweet big sister is worth every moment when I look around shell shocked and wonder which task out of the 50 staring me in the face I should tackle next. That one moment is worth it all.
And then last night, after little man woke up at 11 p.m. and TH tried for 30 minutes to rock him back to sleep before coming in to wake me and tell me with a whimper that he just didn't know what to do anymore and me telling him that I would fix it, after little man and I got situated in the nursing chair and settled in, after he ate and ate and pulled at my nose with his hands and tried to look around his dark room while still latched on, just as he was finally, finally drifting off to sleep, he laughed. He laughed in his sleep, and I have no idea what he found so funny. Maybe he was thinking about all the ways he runs his parents ragged. But there, in the dark of his room, he laughed and it was awesome. And that one moment made up for the fact that three out of the four members of our family were awake when we all should have been sleeping.
And then this morning, after another tense morning between me and TH, after more complaining about little man's sleep habits on his part and more shutting down and frustrated good byes on my part, TH called me on his way to work, after he'd dropped off the kids. "I love you," he said. "There's nothing else. No trying to get sex, no complaining, nothing I need from you. I just wanted to tell you that I love you." And I smiled. That one simple phrase is sometimes all I need to hear, especially when I'm not expecting it, to make me get past all the other crap we have going on between us.
Just when I feel so weighed down that the hard starts to be bigger than the wonderful, life has a way of keeping me going. Of reminding me why. Of making it all worth it.
How hard can this be? Really fucking hard.
But really fucking wonderful, too.
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
I Don't Think I Can Do It
My husband's company sends all employees on an all-expenses paid trip somewhere tropical if they surpass their numbers for the year. The trip was supposed to fall this month, and I told my husband up front that there was simply no way I could go. With Little Man being only 4 months old, there would be no way I would be comfortable enough to leave him for three days, even if we were leaving him with my parents, who I trust just about as much as I trust myself.
He was super sad. Understandably. He felt like he had earned the trip, and after the stress of having two kids in two years with zero vacations, felt like the break would be welcome. But then he thought about leaving me behind, to deal with our two children on my own, while he was boozing and resting it up on a beach somewhere. He thought about how much that would eat away at him while he was there, and how he wouldn't really be able to enjoy himself when he was constantly feeling guilty about being there with me being here. So he told his company he couldn't go. My hero.
Then, THEN, there was an email from the company saying too many people couldn't go, so they were bumping the trip back to the end of January of next year, and he forwarded the email to me with "OMFGGGGGGGGG!!" as his only commentary. My husband simply doesn't lose control like that in emails. To have multiple Gs and TWO exclamation points made clear to me that he was beside himself with joy. He felt like his deciding to do the right thing and stay home the first time was now being karmically rewarded by a trip that was late enough where we could both go. And I just couldn't tell him no.
So I said yes. Yes, I'd leave my 8-month-old baby behind with my parents (not to mention what we'd do with our 2-yr-old . . . an extended weekend with my ILs . . . ack) and haul my pump down to Latin America for a 3-day vacation. He gave me some grief about the pump, asking if we could just dump all the milk while we were there so that I wouldn't have to worry about things like not drinking and the logistics of getting all that milk back with us. I may or may not have snapped back at him to never ever ever never mention dumping any of my milk ever for any reason.
So he dropped the subject. But I didn't. I kept thinking about the damn trip. About the stress of having to pump 4-5 times a day, of not being able to go on excursions, of having to constantly excuse myself, of risking a supply dip from solely pumping for three days, of risking a nursing strike upon my return, of how much I would(n't) *really* be able to relax worrying about all of those details and then heaping upon that worry the worry of what are my kids doing, what are they eating, are they sleeping, are they crying, what are they wearing, omg I need to hear their voices! And every time I thought about the trip, my stomach would knot and my heart would thump a little harder in my chest.
And then, once, a couple of days ago, I allowed myself to think, what if I don't go? And the relief, oh the sweet relief, was palpable. I could spend the weekend with my kids. I wouldn't have to worry about looking like I'm trying to have fun while really dying on the inside. I could nurse Little Man like normal and not have to worry about any of the 100 things I was worrying about when it came to pumping for three days while on vacation in a foreign country. And TH could still get his vacation. My parents could still come in for the weekend and spend time with us, so I wouldn't be on my own the whole time, and he would still get his trip and his fun that he earned.
It's not that I'm one of those moms who can't leave her kids. I can. I have (my oldest, at least). I appreciate me time. I miss vacations with my husband. But I don't feel bad about not being ready to leave my 8-month-old, who is still nursing around the clock and more often than not, not sleeping through the night. Give me a year. Give me until he's weaned. Give me until my body belongs just to me again so that I can really and truly enjoy the break without worrying about making sure I still devote my body to my obligations and responsibilities to my baby.
It's not that I've opted out of the trip. Not yet, anyway. When I think about not going, it makes me sad that I'm going to miss something so fun. But the stress I feel when I think about going outweighs the sadness I feel when I think about missing it.
And what I hope is that my husband can see that. That he can understand my obligations and responsibilities. That he can understand my need to be around for the first year. That he can forgive me staying home and taking away the couple's vacation he had dreamed about sharing with me.
That he has faith that, in time, it will be our time again. It's just not right now. It's just not yet.
He was super sad. Understandably. He felt like he had earned the trip, and after the stress of having two kids in two years with zero vacations, felt like the break would be welcome. But then he thought about leaving me behind, to deal with our two children on my own, while he was boozing and resting it up on a beach somewhere. He thought about how much that would eat away at him while he was there, and how he wouldn't really be able to enjoy himself when he was constantly feeling guilty about being there with me being here. So he told his company he couldn't go. My hero.
Then, THEN, there was an email from the company saying too many people couldn't go, so they were bumping the trip back to the end of January of next year, and he forwarded the email to me with "OMFGGGGGGGGG!!" as his only commentary. My husband simply doesn't lose control like that in emails. To have multiple Gs and TWO exclamation points made clear to me that he was beside himself with joy. He felt like his deciding to do the right thing and stay home the first time was now being karmically rewarded by a trip that was late enough where we could both go. And I just couldn't tell him no.
So I said yes. Yes, I'd leave my 8-month-old baby behind with my parents (not to mention what we'd do with our 2-yr-old . . . an extended weekend with my ILs . . . ack) and haul my pump down to Latin America for a 3-day vacation. He gave me some grief about the pump, asking if we could just dump all the milk while we were there so that I wouldn't have to worry about things like not drinking and the logistics of getting all that milk back with us. I may or may not have snapped back at him to never ever ever never mention dumping any of my milk ever for any reason.
So he dropped the subject. But I didn't. I kept thinking about the damn trip. About the stress of having to pump 4-5 times a day, of not being able to go on excursions, of having to constantly excuse myself, of risking a supply dip from solely pumping for three days, of risking a nursing strike upon my return, of how much I would(n't) *really* be able to relax worrying about all of those details and then heaping upon that worry the worry of what are my kids doing, what are they eating, are they sleeping, are they crying, what are they wearing, omg I need to hear their voices! And every time I thought about the trip, my stomach would knot and my heart would thump a little harder in my chest.
And then, once, a couple of days ago, I allowed myself to think, what if I don't go? And the relief, oh the sweet relief, was palpable. I could spend the weekend with my kids. I wouldn't have to worry about looking like I'm trying to have fun while really dying on the inside. I could nurse Little Man like normal and not have to worry about any of the 100 things I was worrying about when it came to pumping for three days while on vacation in a foreign country. And TH could still get his vacation. My parents could still come in for the weekend and spend time with us, so I wouldn't be on my own the whole time, and he would still get his trip and his fun that he earned.
It's not that I'm one of those moms who can't leave her kids. I can. I have (my oldest, at least). I appreciate me time. I miss vacations with my husband. But I don't feel bad about not being ready to leave my 8-month-old, who is still nursing around the clock and more often than not, not sleeping through the night. Give me a year. Give me until he's weaned. Give me until my body belongs just to me again so that I can really and truly enjoy the break without worrying about making sure I still devote my body to my obligations and responsibilities to my baby.
It's not that I've opted out of the trip. Not yet, anyway. When I think about not going, it makes me sad that I'm going to miss something so fun. But the stress I feel when I think about going outweighs the sadness I feel when I think about missing it.
And what I hope is that my husband can see that. That he can understand my obligations and responsibilities. That he can understand my need to be around for the first year. That he can forgive me staying home and taking away the couple's vacation he had dreamed about sharing with me.
That he has faith that, in time, it will be our time again. It's just not right now. It's just not yet.
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
If I Knew You Better
If I knew you better, I might hug you and tell you how lucky she was to have only ever known you. The only warmth she ever knew was your perfect warmth. The only sound she ever knew was the sound of your heart. The only feeling she ever knew was the feeling of being completely wrapped in her mother's safe embrace.
She never knew cold, she never knew dissonance, she never knew solitude.
But I don't know you better, so all I say is that I'm so sorry for your loss.
She never knew cold, she never knew dissonance, she never knew solitude.
But I don't know you better, so all I say is that I'm so sorry for your loss.
Friday, October 7, 2011
A Lost Infinity
I had my annual earlier this week. Not only is my OBGYN amazeballs for the number of ultrasounds we get while pregnant, we also get them at our annuals. You know, to check out things on the inside. Make sure it's all looking good and whatnot.
My uterus--perfect. And with a beautiful, thick lining, meaning I'm about to ovulate and it's preparing itself for a nice little nutritional bed for the fertilized egg to nestle down into. (That's right. Ovulating. I'm one of the super lucky ones who gets her monthly cycle despite the fact that I'm breast feeding. Yay!)
Right ovary--perfect.
Left ovary--with one big 22mm follicle. It looked like a big, black ball on the u/s screen. The doctor said that's what it looks like right before rupturing. Right before releasing the egg.
I look at that screen, that follicle, that about-to-be-released egg, and I feel a pang of sadness. In that egg is an infinity of future. Who would that egg have become? A person who will never be. And that person's actions will never be. The people who would have known that person will never be impacted by him or her. There are more babies (my grandbabies) who will never exist. And their children. And so on. On and on and on.
A lost infinity.
I look at my two beautiful children, and I know what potential that egg has. What potential for beauty and miracles.
And I almost feel like apologizing to it. I'm sorry you'll never become what you have the potential to become.
And I suddenly get a glimpse of what it must be like to be one of those women who just keeps having baby after baby after baby. To be able to continue to give the gift of life, to continue to enable these infinities inside me to come into being, to exist. What a thing that is.
There will be no baby 9 months from now. This egg won't catch fire. But still I think of it inside me, knowing it's there, ready, waiting. And I love it for its potential, for the only window it will ever have with me.
And I'm suddenly glad I got to see it. And glad that I won't see any more for at least a year. I don't want to be reminded every month of what could be, but isn't.
My uterus--perfect. And with a beautiful, thick lining, meaning I'm about to ovulate and it's preparing itself for a nice little nutritional bed for the fertilized egg to nestle down into. (That's right. Ovulating. I'm one of the super lucky ones who gets her monthly cycle despite the fact that I'm breast feeding. Yay!)
Right ovary--perfect.
Left ovary--with one big 22mm follicle. It looked like a big, black ball on the u/s screen. The doctor said that's what it looks like right before rupturing. Right before releasing the egg.
I look at that screen, that follicle, that about-to-be-released egg, and I feel a pang of sadness. In that egg is an infinity of future. Who would that egg have become? A person who will never be. And that person's actions will never be. The people who would have known that person will never be impacted by him or her. There are more babies (my grandbabies) who will never exist. And their children. And so on. On and on and on.
A lost infinity.
I look at my two beautiful children, and I know what potential that egg has. What potential for beauty and miracles.
And I almost feel like apologizing to it. I'm sorry you'll never become what you have the potential to become.
And I suddenly get a glimpse of what it must be like to be one of those women who just keeps having baby after baby after baby. To be able to continue to give the gift of life, to continue to enable these infinities inside me to come into being, to exist. What a thing that is.
There will be no baby 9 months from now. This egg won't catch fire. But still I think of it inside me, knowing it's there, ready, waiting. And I love it for its potential, for the only window it will ever have with me.
And I'm suddenly glad I got to see it. And glad that I won't see any more for at least a year. I don't want to be reminded every month of what could be, but isn't.
Sunday, September 25, 2011
4 months
Dear Little Man,
Today you are 4 months old. Sometimes that still sounds so young to me. Four months is still so tiny! Your dad and I find ourselves expecting things of you, things like sleeping for 12 hours straight and sitting up nicely for your baths. We forget that you are only 4 months old. And then on the other hand, sometimes 4 months sounds so old. You are already 4 months old?? That's 33% of the way through your first year! Already! We could already be starting solids (we aren't)! We could already be doing sleep training (we aren't)! We could be putting you to bed without a swaddle (we are. sigh.)!
Sometimes it feels like the first three months of a baby's life move in slow motion. That infant window is characterized largely by a squirmy, relatively helpless little baby who really just eats and sleeps. But then, you hit 3 months old and you start to wake up. You start to be able to do things. And time speeds up. From here on out, you will continue to astound us with the rate at which you acquire new abilities.
You started this month more like a newborn and you ended it more like a baby. You started being able to grab things this month. You reach out and grab whatever you want and bring it straight to your mouth to explore. You can pull the ring on your frog toy to make it play music. You found your feet and they are your favorite thing to grab. I positively adore this habit, as it curves you into a round little ball of baby sweetness and your roll around, grabbing your toes and gurgling and smiling and melting my heart. You have rapidly gained the strength you need to start sitting independently. You can tripod sit like a champ now, and can even sit upright for a few seconds on your own (before tipping headfirst into the carpet). And you started rolling from your back to your tummy. I have to admit, sweet boy, I wasn't quite ready for this big milestone yet. This is the "hard" way to roll, and it took your sister a full two months longer to do it! While I'm thrilled with your strength, it also means that we had to start deswaddling you a little bit sooner than we were ready to. But it was probably the right thing to do. You are incredibly strong and have been breaking out of your swaddle for weeks and weeks now. We even started double swaddling you, but not even that could hold you. You are as strong as your name suggests, and I have little doubt that you will continue to amaze me with your physicality.
As far as sleep goes, you're still waking up once a night (most nights) to eat. It's kind of like playing the nightly lottery. Your dad and I are never quite sure how the night is going to go. Sometimes you sleep six hours before waking. Sometimes you sleep almost 11 hours. Though the 11-hr nights are nice, I don't mind getting up to feed you. I know one day soon you won't wake up any more. You won't need me to come feed you, to come comfort you and snuggle. The night nursings are some of my favorite--they're so quiet and intimate and peaceful. We're also working with you on trying to get you to fall asleep on your own, without needing to be rocked. To be honest, this is one transition that's really hard for me. I love rocking you to sleep. I love seeing your sleeping face nestled snugly against the crook of my arm. I love holding you while you breath in and out so slowly and peacefully. I know it's important for you to learn to handle it on your own . . . but it's hard for me to let go of that aspect of your infancy.
Aside from the physical, you have positively blossomed this month. You are the smiliest, giggliest, chillest little man I could have imagined! We had some friends over for dinner the other night and they kept commenting on how they kept forgetting that there was a baby in the room! You are so content to just bounce in your bouncer and chew on your fingers or toys and watch the world around you. When you're awake, you're happy. The only time you ever really cry is when we're trying to get you to go to sleep. I think it's just because you're so happy with your life that you just want to be awake and enjoying it. I get that, little man. I really do.
Perhaps my absolute favorite thing that you do now is reaching for me when I go to pick you up. You don't have full control over your arms quite yet, so you don't reach up with your hands. Instead, you break into a huge smile and arch your back. It's like you're reaching up for me with your whole body and it makes me die of happiness every time.
I can't believe you're sitting. And rolling. And grabbing. And laughing. And charming the socks off of everyone you meet. I can't believe how adorable you are.
I can't believe you're already . . . and only . . . four months old.
Love love love everything about you,
Mom
Today you are 4 months old. Sometimes that still sounds so young to me. Four months is still so tiny! Your dad and I find ourselves expecting things of you, things like sleeping for 12 hours straight and sitting up nicely for your baths. We forget that you are only 4 months old. And then on the other hand, sometimes 4 months sounds so old. You are already 4 months old?? That's 33% of the way through your first year! Already! We could already be starting solids (we aren't)! We could already be doing sleep training (we aren't)! We could be putting you to bed without a swaddle (we are. sigh.)!
Sometimes it feels like the first three months of a baby's life move in slow motion. That infant window is characterized largely by a squirmy, relatively helpless little baby who really just eats and sleeps. But then, you hit 3 months old and you start to wake up. You start to be able to do things. And time speeds up. From here on out, you will continue to astound us with the rate at which you acquire new abilities.
You started this month more like a newborn and you ended it more like a baby. You started being able to grab things this month. You reach out and grab whatever you want and bring it straight to your mouth to explore. You can pull the ring on your frog toy to make it play music. You found your feet and they are your favorite thing to grab. I positively adore this habit, as it curves you into a round little ball of baby sweetness and your roll around, grabbing your toes and gurgling and smiling and melting my heart. You have rapidly gained the strength you need to start sitting independently. You can tripod sit like a champ now, and can even sit upright for a few seconds on your own (before tipping headfirst into the carpet). And you started rolling from your back to your tummy. I have to admit, sweet boy, I wasn't quite ready for this big milestone yet. This is the "hard" way to roll, and it took your sister a full two months longer to do it! While I'm thrilled with your strength, it also means that we had to start deswaddling you a little bit sooner than we were ready to. But it was probably the right thing to do. You are incredibly strong and have been breaking out of your swaddle for weeks and weeks now. We even started double swaddling you, but not even that could hold you. You are as strong as your name suggests, and I have little doubt that you will continue to amaze me with your physicality.
As far as sleep goes, you're still waking up once a night (most nights) to eat. It's kind of like playing the nightly lottery. Your dad and I are never quite sure how the night is going to go. Sometimes you sleep six hours before waking. Sometimes you sleep almost 11 hours. Though the 11-hr nights are nice, I don't mind getting up to feed you. I know one day soon you won't wake up any more. You won't need me to come feed you, to come comfort you and snuggle. The night nursings are some of my favorite--they're so quiet and intimate and peaceful. We're also working with you on trying to get you to fall asleep on your own, without needing to be rocked. To be honest, this is one transition that's really hard for me. I love rocking you to sleep. I love seeing your sleeping face nestled snugly against the crook of my arm. I love holding you while you breath in and out so slowly and peacefully. I know it's important for you to learn to handle it on your own . . . but it's hard for me to let go of that aspect of your infancy.
Aside from the physical, you have positively blossomed this month. You are the smiliest, giggliest, chillest little man I could have imagined! We had some friends over for dinner the other night and they kept commenting on how they kept forgetting that there was a baby in the room! You are so content to just bounce in your bouncer and chew on your fingers or toys and watch the world around you. When you're awake, you're happy. The only time you ever really cry is when we're trying to get you to go to sleep. I think it's just because you're so happy with your life that you just want to be awake and enjoying it. I get that, little man. I really do.
Perhaps my absolute favorite thing that you do now is reaching for me when I go to pick you up. You don't have full control over your arms quite yet, so you don't reach up with your hands. Instead, you break into a huge smile and arch your back. It's like you're reaching up for me with your whole body and it makes me die of happiness every time.
I can't believe you're sitting. And rolling. And grabbing. And laughing. And charming the socks off of everyone you meet. I can't believe how adorable you are.
I can't believe you're already . . . and only . . . four months old.
Love love love everything about you,
Mom
Friday, September 23, 2011
Biting the Pencil
The title is not as dirty as you might think, despite the fact that this post is, ultimately, about sex.
I once heard a valuable tidbit that I've kept with me every day since then (and anything that I still remember these days, after two kids' worth of sleep deprivation, MUST be important): If you're in a bad mood, bite a pencil. Sideways. Hold it in your mouth. The muscles it takes to do so mimic the act of smiling, and your mood will actually improve because your body (muscles) are "smiling." (or your mood will improve because you'll realize you look like a goober sitting there with a pencil clenched between your teeth. Whatevs.)
Having a newborn is hard on any marriage. Truth. Having a newborn while also having a toddler is haaarrrdddd on any marriage. We've actually done a bang-up job of not fighting with each other when mental and physical exhaustion get the best of us. Our relationship hasn't really suffered. If anything, I think I appreciate TH more now as a parent than I did even before. I couldn't have asked for a better parenting partner. He's involved. He's loving. He's involved. He's devoted. He's involved. (Did I already mention that he's involved?)
So, our relationship as parents has actually grown.
But our relationship outside of our parenting roles? That old relationship? The one that is just about him and me, husband and wife?
Practically nonexistant.
It's not that we're bad . . . in fact, like I said, overall we're actually really good. But we're good as our parent-role, not necessarily as our husband-wife role.
It may sound like an excuse, but quite frankly, we just don't have the time or energy right now. I know how important it is to maintain the husband-wife relationship, especially once you become parents. But with little man still so little, still so needy, still so-not-sleeping-through-the-night, we just don't have the capacity to really focus on "us" like we should. Like we would like to.
The problem is, TH still wants to have sex. Like, a lot. And above the fact that I lack the time and energy to accommodate him as much as he would like, I also just don't feel the same level of intimacy that would allow me to want to accommodate him as much as he would like. Put another way, men need sex to feel intimacy, and women need intimacy to want to have sex. It's a cart/horse conundrum.
So I feel like he's been jumping to the sex and neglecting the intimacy that would, in my opinion, lead to the sex if it were taken care of first.
But I care about him and his needs and desires and feelings. So sometimes I throw him a bone (yep . . . intended) just for his sake.
And you know what? After those times when we have sex even though I never ever ever would have initiated it on my own, those times when I'd rather be sleeping or doing laundry or getting 10 glorious minutes to myself . . . or even *gasp* sitting and talking with him and working on our intimacy . . . even after those times, I actually do end up feeling somewhat more like a husband and wife.
Because often times doing the action brings about the desired emotion.
Kinda like biting the pencil actually ends up cheering you up.
This isn't to say that I'm abandoning my stance of wanting, of needing, to work on our intimacy. I will forever and ever believe that a husband and wife who are emotionally connected will have better and more frequent sex than those who aren't. But in times when that's not happening, it's good to remember that biting the pencil can help get you there, too.
I once heard a valuable tidbit that I've kept with me every day since then (and anything that I still remember these days, after two kids' worth of sleep deprivation, MUST be important): If you're in a bad mood, bite a pencil. Sideways. Hold it in your mouth. The muscles it takes to do so mimic the act of smiling, and your mood will actually improve because your body (muscles) are "smiling." (or your mood will improve because you'll realize you look like a goober sitting there with a pencil clenched between your teeth. Whatevs.)
Having a newborn is hard on any marriage. Truth. Having a newborn while also having a toddler is haaarrrdddd on any marriage. We've actually done a bang-up job of not fighting with each other when mental and physical exhaustion get the best of us. Our relationship hasn't really suffered. If anything, I think I appreciate TH more now as a parent than I did even before. I couldn't have asked for a better parenting partner. He's involved. He's loving. He's involved. He's devoted. He's involved. (Did I already mention that he's involved?)
So, our relationship as parents has actually grown.
But our relationship outside of our parenting roles? That old relationship? The one that is just about him and me, husband and wife?
Practically nonexistant.
It's not that we're bad . . . in fact, like I said, overall we're actually really good. But we're good as our parent-role, not necessarily as our husband-wife role.
It may sound like an excuse, but quite frankly, we just don't have the time or energy right now. I know how important it is to maintain the husband-wife relationship, especially once you become parents. But with little man still so little, still so needy, still so-not-sleeping-through-the-night, we just don't have the capacity to really focus on "us" like we should. Like we would like to.
The problem is, TH still wants to have sex. Like, a lot. And above the fact that I lack the time and energy to accommodate him as much as he would like, I also just don't feel the same level of intimacy that would allow me to want to accommodate him as much as he would like. Put another way, men need sex to feel intimacy, and women need intimacy to want to have sex. It's a cart/horse conundrum.
So I feel like he's been jumping to the sex and neglecting the intimacy that would, in my opinion, lead to the sex if it were taken care of first.
But I care about him and his needs and desires and feelings. So sometimes I throw him a bone (yep . . . intended) just for his sake.
And you know what? After those times when we have sex even though I never ever ever would have initiated it on my own, those times when I'd rather be sleeping or doing laundry or getting 10 glorious minutes to myself . . . or even *gasp* sitting and talking with him and working on our intimacy . . . even after those times, I actually do end up feeling somewhat more like a husband and wife.
Because often times doing the action brings about the desired emotion.
Kinda like biting the pencil actually ends up cheering you up.
This isn't to say that I'm abandoning my stance of wanting, of needing, to work on our intimacy. I will forever and ever believe that a husband and wife who are emotionally connected will have better and more frequent sex than those who aren't. But in times when that's not happening, it's good to remember that biting the pencil can help get you there, too.
Thursday, September 15, 2011
Two.
Baby girl,
Happy 2nd birthday! I went to bed last night not quite able to believe that you were about to turn two years old, and when I woke up this morning, the feeling had not subsided. Two years old. I can't believe it's been two whole years since the first time I held you in my arms. I can't believe how much you have grown and changed in the last two years. I can't believe how happy you've made me, how delightful you are, how you light up the lives of everyone you encounter.
If I thought the first year was amazing with all its milestones and growth, the second year was even more awesome. You've gone from a crawling, two-or-three words baby to a running, chattering little kid. In fact, your run is one of my favorite things to watch. It's a bouncy little trot that makes all the curls on your head bob as you bounce up to hug me. You get a very serious look on your face when you're trying to run fast. Your fast speed is pretty much the exact same as your regular speed, but the look of concentration is priceless and you look back at me from across the room as if to say, "Wow, mom, did you see that? THAT was fast."
You are totally off the charts with your verbal skills. You say things like, "I already ate a bite of turkey" when I ask you to eat some meat and "Hmmm . . . let's see . . . " when I ask you to pick if you want one thing or another, and "We're going to see Dr. Cepeda right this minute!" when we're on the way to your doctor's office. You know how to say something using other words when I'm not able to understand something you're telling me. You already know how to grasp the concept of time and are using words like yesterday, today, tomorrow, and this (or next) weekend correctly. You hold conversations with me. Like, actual, legitimate conversations. One of my most favorite things to do is to have conversations with you. I love to hear the way your mind works. I love the sound of your voice.
You use your verbal skills to good use already. You are our little negotiator. I'll never forget one afternoon as I listened in on a diaper change your dad was trying to wrangle you into. You started by telling him, "No Ali dirty diaper. DADDY dirty diaper," and ended with another tack, "No big poop! Teeny tiny poop! No change diaper for teeny tiny poop!" Your mind is always always always working, and it is fabulous.
One of my favorite memories this year was one afternoon when you told me that your tummy hurt. You were a touch constipated (eating too many bananas!), so I told you that we'd give you some grapes when we got home and they would help your tummy feel better. When we got home, I cut up some grapes for you, and you gently took one, lifted up your shirt, and started rubbing it on your stomach, saying "grapes make Ali's tummy feel better." ADORABLE.
You sing with me in the car. We have a CD of nursery rhymes and songs, and you tell me, "Mommy, sing!" and once I go through two or three songs, you decide to join me and we sing along together all the way home. We even sing the non-words parts of the song. You tell me, "Mommy, sing 'do-do-do'" and you and I will sing "do-do-do-do" to the tune while we wait for the words to come back. It's one of my favorite times of the day.
The rate at which you are learning things now astounds me. You absorb language at an incredible rate. You know all your letters and their sounds, and can sight-read mom, dad, Ali, and Sam. The other day we started watching one of your favorite videos (Numbers Ahoy!), and you started reciting the dialogue right along with the movie. For all characters. You had memorized it. You sing songs on your own, songs like "Mary, Mary" and "One, Two, Buckle My Shoe" and when we read you books at night, you can finish the sentence no matter where we stop.
It's not just letters that you are showing strength with. You can count to 20 already (though you do get tripped up through the teens) and can know what it means--and can answer correctly--when we ask you to count how many of something there are. You are so amazingly smart. I can't wait to see what you do with that intelligence in your life.
You are still our rock star sleeper. You'll sleep around 13 hours at night and usually take a 1-2 hour nap in the afternoon. Our bedtime routine is one of my favorite things to do with you. After your bath, we gather in your room to put on your pjs. You tell whichever of us is not reading to you that night "Good night" and give big hugs and kisses. Then you grab Matt the Monkey and climb into your special chair, and if it's my night, I sit on the floor next to you and read you books. We always read two books--you pick one and I pick one, usually (unless you are feeling particularly opinionated in which two books we read)--and then I scoop you up and reassure you that we'll read more books "after your good nap." (Any sleep time for you is called a "good nap.") Then I give you your bear and piggy (you sleep with all three of your "friends" at night) and I hold you in a cradle hold, just like I did when you were a baby. Then, with you there in my arms and your three friends held in your arms, we go through the list of all the people who love you. We always start with mommy, daddy, and baby Sammy, and then run through all of your grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, great-grandparents, and Icky and Loki, our cats. As I list all the people who love you, you lay quietly in my arms, with a small smile on your face. Then I kiss you goodnight and reassure you one more time that we'll read more books in the morning. (You are a girl who LOVES books. In fact, the night before your birthday party, I told you, "and do you know what's happening tomorrow? We're going to have your birthday party!!" and you said, "And we'll read more books??") I lay you in your crib and cover you up with the "cozy blanket" that you just started asking to sleep with a couple of weeks ago, gently sweep your curls out of your face, and leave the room. I love how easy you are to put to bed for the night and how comfortable you are when you sleep.
Even though you are my big, tall girl (35 inches at 2 years, which is the 80%), you still ride rear-facing in the car. You don't mind one bit (probably because you've never known any different). If you get tired of having your legs bent, you kick them up to the top of the seat in front of you or dangle them over the sides of your chair. You are a fantastic car girl, perfectly content to read books or sing songs or look out the window in a game of car-color I-spy.
You're still a pretty good eater. Though your hands-down favorite is noodles, you also eat bell peppers, mushrooms, zucchini, green beans, sugar snap peas, and any and all fresh fruit. So even though you're not a big meat eater right now, your diet is pretty healthy. Yay! And amazingly enough, I think you might not like chocolate. You had a big bite of chocolate chip in a cookie I shared with you, and you spat it out. Don't worry, baby girl. It's an acquired taste.
Of all the things you amazed me with this year, perhaps the most amazing thing of all was the grace and joy with which I saw you transition from only-child to big sister. In the beginning, you thought there was a baby in mommy's tummy, in daddy's tummy, in Ali's tummy. Cute. Eventually you came to understand that there was a BABY coming, and you were so excited to be a big sister. Then the day came, and when my parents brought you to the hospital to meet baby Sam, you walked right in and asked, "Where's baby Sam?" Then you walked right up to him and stared in wonder. You wanted to touch his cheek and give him a hug. You had the biggest smile on your face. And in the days and weeks to come, you fell immediately and naturally into your big sister role. When Sam would cry, you'd demand, "Where's baby Sammy's milk!?!?" and when he was out of eye-sight, you'd ask, "Where's baby Sammy?" You wanted to make sure he was always taken care of, always remembered. You love giving him big hugs and kisses and are so helpful getting his toys for him. It makes my heart overflow to see you interact with him, to see the tenderness and love that already exists between the two of you.
You are two years old today. Old enough not to be called baby girl anymore, considering you now carry on entire conversations with me. You are your own little person. So far from the baby I held in my arms two years ago today.
Today you asked me to "talk about Ali's birthday" over and over and over again. So I did. I told you about your birthday. I told you that two years ago, we had been waiting to meet you and were so excited. And then right on your due date, you decided to come out! We went to the hospital and waited all day long, and that finally, finally, you were born a very special way. And then your dad and I finally got to meet you and hug you and kiss you and tell you hi. And that we loved you so much from that moment on.
You never got tired of hearing that story. You made me tell it four or five times in a row. And I'll never get tired of telling you that story. Two years ago you made me a mom for the first time. You have taught me everything I know about it. I couldn't have asked for a better, sweeter, more rewarding teacher. You amaze me every day, and I can't wait to spend the next year with you, excitedly witnessing everything that you'll learn next, all the new ways you will impress and amaze us.
I love you more than words could ever describe. More than I ever thought possible. You light up my entire life.
Happy second birthday, sweet pea.
Love,
Mom
Happy 2nd birthday! I went to bed last night not quite able to believe that you were about to turn two years old, and when I woke up this morning, the feeling had not subsided. Two years old. I can't believe it's been two whole years since the first time I held you in my arms. I can't believe how much you have grown and changed in the last two years. I can't believe how happy you've made me, how delightful you are, how you light up the lives of everyone you encounter.
If I thought the first year was amazing with all its milestones and growth, the second year was even more awesome. You've gone from a crawling, two-or-three words baby to a running, chattering little kid. In fact, your run is one of my favorite things to watch. It's a bouncy little trot that makes all the curls on your head bob as you bounce up to hug me. You get a very serious look on your face when you're trying to run fast. Your fast speed is pretty much the exact same as your regular speed, but the look of concentration is priceless and you look back at me from across the room as if to say, "Wow, mom, did you see that? THAT was fast."
You are totally off the charts with your verbal skills. You say things like, "I already ate a bite of turkey" when I ask you to eat some meat and "Hmmm . . . let's see . . . " when I ask you to pick if you want one thing or another, and "We're going to see Dr. Cepeda right this minute!" when we're on the way to your doctor's office. You know how to say something using other words when I'm not able to understand something you're telling me. You already know how to grasp the concept of time and are using words like yesterday, today, tomorrow, and this (or next) weekend correctly. You hold conversations with me. Like, actual, legitimate conversations. One of my most favorite things to do is to have conversations with you. I love to hear the way your mind works. I love the sound of your voice.
You use your verbal skills to good use already. You are our little negotiator. I'll never forget one afternoon as I listened in on a diaper change your dad was trying to wrangle you into. You started by telling him, "No Ali dirty diaper. DADDY dirty diaper," and ended with another tack, "No big poop! Teeny tiny poop! No change diaper for teeny tiny poop!" Your mind is always always always working, and it is fabulous.
One of my favorite memories this year was one afternoon when you told me that your tummy hurt. You were a touch constipated (eating too many bananas!), so I told you that we'd give you some grapes when we got home and they would help your tummy feel better. When we got home, I cut up some grapes for you, and you gently took one, lifted up your shirt, and started rubbing it on your stomach, saying "grapes make Ali's tummy feel better." ADORABLE.
You sing with me in the car. We have a CD of nursery rhymes and songs, and you tell me, "Mommy, sing!" and once I go through two or three songs, you decide to join me and we sing along together all the way home. We even sing the non-words parts of the song. You tell me, "Mommy, sing 'do-do-do'" and you and I will sing "do-do-do-do" to the tune while we wait for the words to come back. It's one of my favorite times of the day.
The rate at which you are learning things now astounds me. You absorb language at an incredible rate. You know all your letters and their sounds, and can sight-read mom, dad, Ali, and Sam. The other day we started watching one of your favorite videos (Numbers Ahoy!), and you started reciting the dialogue right along with the movie. For all characters. You had memorized it. You sing songs on your own, songs like "Mary, Mary" and "One, Two, Buckle My Shoe" and when we read you books at night, you can finish the sentence no matter where we stop.
It's not just letters that you are showing strength with. You can count to 20 already (though you do get tripped up through the teens) and can know what it means--and can answer correctly--when we ask you to count how many of something there are. You are so amazingly smart. I can't wait to see what you do with that intelligence in your life.
You are still our rock star sleeper. You'll sleep around 13 hours at night and usually take a 1-2 hour nap in the afternoon. Our bedtime routine is one of my favorite things to do with you. After your bath, we gather in your room to put on your pjs. You tell whichever of us is not reading to you that night "Good night" and give big hugs and kisses. Then you grab Matt the Monkey and climb into your special chair, and if it's my night, I sit on the floor next to you and read you books. We always read two books--you pick one and I pick one, usually (unless you are feeling particularly opinionated in which two books we read)--and then I scoop you up and reassure you that we'll read more books "after your good nap." (Any sleep time for you is called a "good nap.") Then I give you your bear and piggy (you sleep with all three of your "friends" at night) and I hold you in a cradle hold, just like I did when you were a baby. Then, with you there in my arms and your three friends held in your arms, we go through the list of all the people who love you. We always start with mommy, daddy, and baby Sammy, and then run through all of your grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, great-grandparents, and Icky and Loki, our cats. As I list all the people who love you, you lay quietly in my arms, with a small smile on your face. Then I kiss you goodnight and reassure you one more time that we'll read more books in the morning. (You are a girl who LOVES books. In fact, the night before your birthday party, I told you, "and do you know what's happening tomorrow? We're going to have your birthday party!!" and you said, "And we'll read more books??") I lay you in your crib and cover you up with the "cozy blanket" that you just started asking to sleep with a couple of weeks ago, gently sweep your curls out of your face, and leave the room. I love how easy you are to put to bed for the night and how comfortable you are when you sleep.
Even though you are my big, tall girl (35 inches at 2 years, which is the 80%), you still ride rear-facing in the car. You don't mind one bit (probably because you've never known any different). If you get tired of having your legs bent, you kick them up to the top of the seat in front of you or dangle them over the sides of your chair. You are a fantastic car girl, perfectly content to read books or sing songs or look out the window in a game of car-color I-spy.
You're still a pretty good eater. Though your hands-down favorite is noodles, you also eat bell peppers, mushrooms, zucchini, green beans, sugar snap peas, and any and all fresh fruit. So even though you're not a big meat eater right now, your diet is pretty healthy. Yay! And amazingly enough, I think you might not like chocolate. You had a big bite of chocolate chip in a cookie I shared with you, and you spat it out. Don't worry, baby girl. It's an acquired taste.
Of all the things you amazed me with this year, perhaps the most amazing thing of all was the grace and joy with which I saw you transition from only-child to big sister. In the beginning, you thought there was a baby in mommy's tummy, in daddy's tummy, in Ali's tummy. Cute. Eventually you came to understand that there was a BABY coming, and you were so excited to be a big sister. Then the day came, and when my parents brought you to the hospital to meet baby Sam, you walked right in and asked, "Where's baby Sam?" Then you walked right up to him and stared in wonder. You wanted to touch his cheek and give him a hug. You had the biggest smile on your face. And in the days and weeks to come, you fell immediately and naturally into your big sister role. When Sam would cry, you'd demand, "Where's baby Sammy's milk!?!?" and when he was out of eye-sight, you'd ask, "Where's baby Sammy?" You wanted to make sure he was always taken care of, always remembered. You love giving him big hugs and kisses and are so helpful getting his toys for him. It makes my heart overflow to see you interact with him, to see the tenderness and love that already exists between the two of you.
You are two years old today. Old enough not to be called baby girl anymore, considering you now carry on entire conversations with me. You are your own little person. So far from the baby I held in my arms two years ago today.
Today you asked me to "talk about Ali's birthday" over and over and over again. So I did. I told you about your birthday. I told you that two years ago, we had been waiting to meet you and were so excited. And then right on your due date, you decided to come out! We went to the hospital and waited all day long, and that finally, finally, you were born a very special way. And then your dad and I finally got to meet you and hug you and kiss you and tell you hi. And that we loved you so much from that moment on.
You never got tired of hearing that story. You made me tell it four or five times in a row. And I'll never get tired of telling you that story. Two years ago you made me a mom for the first time. You have taught me everything I know about it. I couldn't have asked for a better, sweeter, more rewarding teacher. You amaze me every day, and I can't wait to spend the next year with you, excitedly witnessing everything that you'll learn next, all the new ways you will impress and amaze us.
I love you more than words could ever describe. More than I ever thought possible. You light up my entire life.
Happy second birthday, sweet pea.
Love,
Mom
Friday, September 9, 2011
Learning to love someone new
(I wrote this on 7/11/11 and never published it. I was worried it wasn't coherent--that was back in the haze of having a true newborn. But after reading it again, I don't have anything I want to change. So here it is.)
I never had the explosion-of-love-when-she-was-born feeling with my daughter. I was exhausted. Drugged. Scared. I remember feeling relief and happiness, but the love-bomb thing never happened. It took me months to get my anxiety under control, to actually relax enough with her to trust myself and start enjoying motherhood.
With my son, I got the love-bomb. It's impossible to describe the feelings that engulfed me when he was placed on my stomach for me to love on while we waited for his cord to stop pulsing. I finally understood why people say the day your child is born is the most amazing day of your life.
I was worried, at first, that my less-than-ideal experience the first time around and my ideal experience the second time around would create problems for me. I once read a blog by a mother who had much the same experiences as I did, and she confessed to loving her son more. I was scared that my own emotions would follow suit. Scared that my great birth experience, my love-bomb, my immediate comfort with my son, how easy he's been, what an early, sweet smiler he was, would all lead me to creating a bond with him that was stronger than the one I have with my daughter, a bond born in adversity and wrought over months of struggling with my own emotions and fears.
I shouldn't have worried.
I was singing to Little Man the other day, as I do every day. He was smiling and cooing and I was loving life. And then I started to sing him "You Are My Sunshine" and immediately it felt . . . wrong. I suddenly felt like I was cheating on Baby Girl. That was our song. SHE was my sunshine, had been my sunshine for nearly two years now. And here I was, telling my son that he was my sunshine, my only sunshine, and it just felt all wrong.
And then I thought about how much I miss my girl all day, every day. How much I miss our time together. How I miss getting her up and ready in the mornings. How I long to see her smile when she walks in the door with her dad at the end of the day. How my very favorite thing in the entire world is her funny little bouncing trot as she runs up to me to hug me. How I don't mind at all when she demands that I carry her while I try to make dinner one-handed, or when she asks me to read her a book during dinner, because we have so little time now, just the two of us, that these moments that connect us are even more precious to me than ever before.
I realized that my love for my son may have started more easily, but that my love for my daughter was so special, so intense, so thick and strong after nearly two years of time together, that the two simply don't compare.
I have no doubt that my feelings for my son will one day reach the same intensity. It takes time for people to learn each other, for relationships to form. But I no longer worry that the different ways in which my relationships with my kids began is going to have any affect whatsoever on my relationships with them in general.
It's a strange thing to develop that incredibly special mother-child relationship with a new child. What was once sacred is now being replicated, shared with another. But what I'm realizing is that in reality, it's not. I'm not sharing or replicating the relationship I have with my daughter with my son. I will never--could never--replicate that relationship with anyone. It will forever and ever remain sacred. I am building a new, different relationship with my son that will, in the same way, be wholly unique and sacred.
There are some things that siblings must share. Time. Attention. Toys. But there are other things that will forever and ever remain theirs alone. My feelings for my son don't touch my feelings for my daughter. And my feelings for my son are likewise growing on their own, untouched by others. My kids will forever and ever each have their own unique relationship with me.
I never had the explosion-of-love-when-she-was-born feeling with my daughter. I was exhausted. Drugged. Scared. I remember feeling relief and happiness, but the love-bomb thing never happened. It took me months to get my anxiety under control, to actually relax enough with her to trust myself and start enjoying motherhood.
With my son, I got the love-bomb. It's impossible to describe the feelings that engulfed me when he was placed on my stomach for me to love on while we waited for his cord to stop pulsing. I finally understood why people say the day your child is born is the most amazing day of your life.
I was worried, at first, that my less-than-ideal experience the first time around and my ideal experience the second time around would create problems for me. I once read a blog by a mother who had much the same experiences as I did, and she confessed to loving her son more. I was scared that my own emotions would follow suit. Scared that my great birth experience, my love-bomb, my immediate comfort with my son, how easy he's been, what an early, sweet smiler he was, would all lead me to creating a bond with him that was stronger than the one I have with my daughter, a bond born in adversity and wrought over months of struggling with my own emotions and fears.
I shouldn't have worried.
I was singing to Little Man the other day, as I do every day. He was smiling and cooing and I was loving life. And then I started to sing him "You Are My Sunshine" and immediately it felt . . . wrong. I suddenly felt like I was cheating on Baby Girl. That was our song. SHE was my sunshine, had been my sunshine for nearly two years now. And here I was, telling my son that he was my sunshine, my only sunshine, and it just felt all wrong.
And then I thought about how much I miss my girl all day, every day. How much I miss our time together. How I miss getting her up and ready in the mornings. How I long to see her smile when she walks in the door with her dad at the end of the day. How my very favorite thing in the entire world is her funny little bouncing trot as she runs up to me to hug me. How I don't mind at all when she demands that I carry her while I try to make dinner one-handed, or when she asks me to read her a book during dinner, because we have so little time now, just the two of us, that these moments that connect us are even more precious to me than ever before.
I realized that my love for my son may have started more easily, but that my love for my daughter was so special, so intense, so thick and strong after nearly two years of time together, that the two simply don't compare.
I have no doubt that my feelings for my son will one day reach the same intensity. It takes time for people to learn each other, for relationships to form. But I no longer worry that the different ways in which my relationships with my kids began is going to have any affect whatsoever on my relationships with them in general.
It's a strange thing to develop that incredibly special mother-child relationship with a new child. What was once sacred is now being replicated, shared with another. But what I'm realizing is that in reality, it's not. I'm not sharing or replicating the relationship I have with my daughter with my son. I will never--could never--replicate that relationship with anyone. It will forever and ever remain sacred. I am building a new, different relationship with my son that will, in the same way, be wholly unique and sacred.
There are some things that siblings must share. Time. Attention. Toys. But there are other things that will forever and ever remain theirs alone. My feelings for my son don't touch my feelings for my daughter. And my feelings for my son are likewise growing on their own, untouched by others. My kids will forever and ever each have their own unique relationship with me.
Thursday, September 8, 2011
1 Year
A year ago I saw this:
And today that little, light second line has turned into this:
What an incredible year. I didn't know if we were ready, but I wouldn't change a single thing.
And today that little, light second line has turned into this:
What an incredible year. I didn't know if we were ready, but I wouldn't change a single thing.
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Happy First Birthday
As far as I can tell, it was one year ago today that my son was born.
Born from nothing into something.
From two halves into an amazing whole.
One year ago today that he sparked and started shining and growing and changing our lives.
They say that the first year goes quickly, that the changes wrought in that year are astounding, from newborn to walking, talking, wonderful toddler.
But I'm talking about the real first year. From single cell to a smiling, laughing, cooing, hugging, snuggling heart stealer.
I've had one whole year with my son. A whole year of the most wonderful love I could ever know.
Happiest of happy birthdays to him.
Born from nothing into something.
From two halves into an amazing whole.
One year ago today that he sparked and started shining and growing and changing our lives.
They say that the first year goes quickly, that the changes wrought in that year are astounding, from newborn to walking, talking, wonderful toddler.
But I'm talking about the real first year. From single cell to a smiling, laughing, cooing, hugging, snuggling heart stealer.
I've had one whole year with my son. A whole year of the most wonderful love I could ever know.
Happiest of happy birthdays to him.
Monday, August 29, 2011
The Me of Yesterday
Once upon a time, I had a newborn. He would wake every few hours in the night, needing to eat or snuggle, as newborns are wont to do. And I would feed him, and snuggle him, and feel the singular feeling of his face nuzzled into my neck, and breathe in his sleeping peacefulness.
I can remember it. I know it happened. But my memory of it is not the same as my experiencing it. My memory of the snuggles and nuzzles and peace are not the same as the nights I sat there in the glider in the dark, feeling it first hand. The haze of sleep deprivation and exhaustion and chasing around my toddler and returning to work and having a million other things to do hangs like a curtain between my memory of it and the actual event, obscuring it just slightly, blurring the edges.
Though I remember those nights, in reality, the crispness of the moment belonged only to the me who was sitting there right then. The memory--beautiful but not the same--is all the me of today has left.
I remember another night. It was my second time to be awake. I was sleeping in only 2-3 hour chunks. I was exhausted and wanted nothing more than for him to be sleeping, for him not to be crying and hungry. But I went and nursed him and snuggled him and he fell back asleep, and as he was drifting off, hunger satisfied, need for reassurance satisfied, he laughed. He laughed in his sleep. And the me of that night was there to witness it, a moment that would never have been if he had not woken, if I had not been with him. That sleep-laugh was perfect in its beauty, its simplicity, its joy. At that moment, my heart overflowed. It's one of my favorite memories already of the last three months, but again, the memory of it is simply not the same as the raw moment we shared. That sleep-laugh, too, belongs only to the me of that night.
The afternoon I held him in my arms at the doctor's office while he slept, while we waited for him to pee so that we could run a urinalysis to see if something was wrong. That afternoon nap, when I should have been working and he should have been at school, but instead I was getting to hold his sleeping sweetness, that belonged to the me of that day.
And my girl? My baby girl who is not a baby anymore, who has been such a total rock star at adjusting to sharing her life with a baby brother? Of course there are a million moments with her, too. Moments she'll come over and hug me or kiss me with no warning. Moments she'll laugh uproariously at some game we're playing, some face I'm making. Conversations we'll have where she'll show me just how smart and perceptive and funny she is already, at 23 months. Yesterday we took a couple of hours just for the girls and went to a bounce-house place in town. We jumped together and flung ourselves on the floor and laughed. We got her face painted for the first time (a blue butterfly mask around her eyes). We ate dinner together. And on the way home, she would tell me to sing along with her music and I would sing and she, after hearing me make a fool of myself for a couple of songs, jumped in herself after realizing that singing loud and offkey is a totally wonderful thing to do in this family, and we sang, loudly and offkey, together all the way home. That afternoon, that belongs to the me of yesterday as well.
Memories are all the me of today has, and though wonderful and soul-sustaining, they aren't the real deal.
And this is what I remember when I'm up in the middle of the night with a baby who is either hungry or just missing his mom. Or when I'm rocking him to sleep for the third time in a row. Or when my daughter needs my time, too, in a much different way than my son.
I remember that the moments that are happening right.now are the only moments that really belong to the me of today. The things that happen, which will one day become memories, will never be remembered with the clarity of the actual event. The smell of my baby, the feel of him sleeping with his cheek pressed up against my arm, the sound of my daughter's laughter--these are things that exist only in the moment. So I won't wish them away. I won't ignore them. I won't take them for granted.
The memories will belong to the me of tomorrow. But the clarity of the moment, the full experience, the raw emotions and joy that they bring--these things only belong to the me of today.
I can remember it. I know it happened. But my memory of it is not the same as my experiencing it. My memory of the snuggles and nuzzles and peace are not the same as the nights I sat there in the glider in the dark, feeling it first hand. The haze of sleep deprivation and exhaustion and chasing around my toddler and returning to work and having a million other things to do hangs like a curtain between my memory of it and the actual event, obscuring it just slightly, blurring the edges.
Though I remember those nights, in reality, the crispness of the moment belonged only to the me who was sitting there right then. The memory--beautiful but not the same--is all the me of today has left.
I remember another night. It was my second time to be awake. I was sleeping in only 2-3 hour chunks. I was exhausted and wanted nothing more than for him to be sleeping, for him not to be crying and hungry. But I went and nursed him and snuggled him and he fell back asleep, and as he was drifting off, hunger satisfied, need for reassurance satisfied, he laughed. He laughed in his sleep. And the me of that night was there to witness it, a moment that would never have been if he had not woken, if I had not been with him. That sleep-laugh was perfect in its beauty, its simplicity, its joy. At that moment, my heart overflowed. It's one of my favorite memories already of the last three months, but again, the memory of it is simply not the same as the raw moment we shared. That sleep-laugh, too, belongs only to the me of that night.
The afternoon I held him in my arms at the doctor's office while he slept, while we waited for him to pee so that we could run a urinalysis to see if something was wrong. That afternoon nap, when I should have been working and he should have been at school, but instead I was getting to hold his sleeping sweetness, that belonged to the me of that day.
And my girl? My baby girl who is not a baby anymore, who has been such a total rock star at adjusting to sharing her life with a baby brother? Of course there are a million moments with her, too. Moments she'll come over and hug me or kiss me with no warning. Moments she'll laugh uproariously at some game we're playing, some face I'm making. Conversations we'll have where she'll show me just how smart and perceptive and funny she is already, at 23 months. Yesterday we took a couple of hours just for the girls and went to a bounce-house place in town. We jumped together and flung ourselves on the floor and laughed. We got her face painted for the first time (a blue butterfly mask around her eyes). We ate dinner together. And on the way home, she would tell me to sing along with her music and I would sing and she, after hearing me make a fool of myself for a couple of songs, jumped in herself after realizing that singing loud and offkey is a totally wonderful thing to do in this family, and we sang, loudly and offkey, together all the way home. That afternoon, that belongs to the me of yesterday as well.
Memories are all the me of today has, and though wonderful and soul-sustaining, they aren't the real deal.
And this is what I remember when I'm up in the middle of the night with a baby who is either hungry or just missing his mom. Or when I'm rocking him to sleep for the third time in a row. Or when my daughter needs my time, too, in a much different way than my son.
I remember that the moments that are happening right.now are the only moments that really belong to the me of today. The things that happen, which will one day become memories, will never be remembered with the clarity of the actual event. The smell of my baby, the feel of him sleeping with his cheek pressed up against my arm, the sound of my daughter's laughter--these are things that exist only in the moment. So I won't wish them away. I won't ignore them. I won't take them for granted.
The memories will belong to the me of tomorrow. But the clarity of the moment, the full experience, the raw emotions and joy that they bring--these things only belong to the me of today.
Thursday, August 25, 2011
3 Months
Dear Little Man,
Today you are 3 months old. It's a milestone--the passing from the "newborn" into the ever-so-much-more-grown-up "baby" phase. I no longer have a newborn. My newborn, the little man who used to sleep snuggled into the nape of my neck, is now a big, rolling, alert, smiling, laughing, talking little baby.
That's right! You are a big, healthy boy. You moved into 3-6 month sleepers a couple of weeks ago because you are so long, and now are in 3-6 month sizes of all the other clothes as well. I love pinching your sweet thigh and wrist chubs. (And don't worry . . . that's something that only goes along with the baby phase, and one day, in the not too distant future, you will have outgrown that, too.) Your bald newborn days are gone, your hair growing in thick and golden. I can't believe I have a little blond boy. You steal my heart in ways I never expected.
You are such an alert little man! Even your teachers at school send home notes commenting on what a social baby you are, how confident and engaging and talkative. You love to watch everything that is going on around you, and your new favorite thing is to watch your sister play. You are so content to sit and watch her and listen to her, with a giant smile lighting up your face every time. And she is more and more smitten with you every day. She is constantly wanting to hug you and kiss you, and more and more she's asking for you to be able to participate in her play. Yesterday we were all practicing jumping, and she kept asking for you to jump with us. I can't wait until the two of you can play together--you are going to be such amazing friends!
You are cooing and gooing and making the "m" sound already (maybe we'll get "mama" before "dada" this time?). We can sit for 10 or 15 minutes at a time and just talk back and forth to each other. You are so expressive--you already use so many expressions and volumes during our conversations, I can only imagine all the passions inside you are expressing! You are going to be an amazing orator. And your laugh--what a cute giggle it is!! You are so easily entertained, so easily amused. I love making you laugh by making funny faces and funny noises at you. The other day I was sticking my tongue out at you, and you copied me! You are such a smart little man. You impress me every day!
You rolled over for the first time this month (and the second, third, fourth, and fifth time)! You made it look so easy. Far from the usual first roll, where the child gets frustrated and stuck halfway and has to flail and kick their leg to make it all the way over, you quickly figured out that leading with your head would create the momentum necessary to roll over in one fluid motion! I am so glad I was able to catch it on video. You are also starting to bat at and reach for things (one of my favorites is how you wrap your little fist around the strap of my tank top while I feed you). I love how exciting the first year is with all its big milestones!
You have adapted well to being at school all day--better than I've adapted to being at work. Though you had a hard time sleeping through all the light and noise at first, you are starting to feel more comfortable there and fall into a rhythm. On the other hand, I still miss you terribly each and every minute of the day. I miss being the one you talk to all day long, I miss being the one to feel your feet in their ever-moving kick-kick-kicks. I miss singing to you while I change your diaper and I miss being the one to rock you to sleep for your naps. I know that you are growing up, and that being in a different environment where you'll learn new things will only be good for you. But I miss our newborn days together.
Your sleep is still hit or miss. We usually have you asleep by 8 p.m. and then do one more dream feed around 9:30 (I feed you one more time without really waking you up). After that, you usually sleep 'til anywhere from 2:30 a.m. to 6 a.m. Your dad used to be able to go in and rock you back to sleep himself, but more and more you are waiting to go back to sleep until I come in to feed you. Considering I'm getting up to pump around midnight, some nights this means I'm only sleeping in 2-hour chunks all night long. But you know what? I don't mind. I'm tired all the time and dream of sleeping in long, glorious stretches, but the nights that your dad has offered to give you a bottle so that I can stay asleep, I always say no. I know that one day, in the not-too-distant future, you won't need me to come and snuggle with you in the middle of the night anymore. You are already growing up so fast--I don't mind hanging onto this part of our relationship just a little while longer. In the small hours of the morning, after I've fed you and you have drifted back to sleep, I hold your peaceful, sweet body in my arms just a few minutes before putting you back to bed. I love holding you while you sleep. It's a moment that exists just between the two of us, and I will always look back on those moments with such love.
So here we are. Three months old. The newborn phase behind us, the baby phase and all that it entails--rolling and crawling and teething and pulling up and solid food and sippy cups and first words and first steps--ahead of us.
Thank you for the wonderful three newborn months. I have loved every second.
Smoochies on your baby chubs,
Mom
Today you are 3 months old. It's a milestone--the passing from the "newborn" into the ever-so-much-more-grown-up "baby" phase. I no longer have a newborn. My newborn, the little man who used to sleep snuggled into the nape of my neck, is now a big, rolling, alert, smiling, laughing, talking little baby.
That's right! You are a big, healthy boy. You moved into 3-6 month sleepers a couple of weeks ago because you are so long, and now are in 3-6 month sizes of all the other clothes as well. I love pinching your sweet thigh and wrist chubs. (And don't worry . . . that's something that only goes along with the baby phase, and one day, in the not too distant future, you will have outgrown that, too.) Your bald newborn days are gone, your hair growing in thick and golden. I can't believe I have a little blond boy. You steal my heart in ways I never expected.
You are such an alert little man! Even your teachers at school send home notes commenting on what a social baby you are, how confident and engaging and talkative. You love to watch everything that is going on around you, and your new favorite thing is to watch your sister play. You are so content to sit and watch her and listen to her, with a giant smile lighting up your face every time. And she is more and more smitten with you every day. She is constantly wanting to hug you and kiss you, and more and more she's asking for you to be able to participate in her play. Yesterday we were all practicing jumping, and she kept asking for you to jump with us. I can't wait until the two of you can play together--you are going to be such amazing friends!
You are cooing and gooing and making the "m" sound already (maybe we'll get "mama" before "dada" this time?). We can sit for 10 or 15 minutes at a time and just talk back and forth to each other. You are so expressive--you already use so many expressions and volumes during our conversations, I can only imagine all the passions inside you are expressing! You are going to be an amazing orator. And your laugh--what a cute giggle it is!! You are so easily entertained, so easily amused. I love making you laugh by making funny faces and funny noises at you. The other day I was sticking my tongue out at you, and you copied me! You are such a smart little man. You impress me every day!
You rolled over for the first time this month (and the second, third, fourth, and fifth time)! You made it look so easy. Far from the usual first roll, where the child gets frustrated and stuck halfway and has to flail and kick their leg to make it all the way over, you quickly figured out that leading with your head would create the momentum necessary to roll over in one fluid motion! I am so glad I was able to catch it on video. You are also starting to bat at and reach for things (one of my favorites is how you wrap your little fist around the strap of my tank top while I feed you). I love how exciting the first year is with all its big milestones!
You have adapted well to being at school all day--better than I've adapted to being at work. Though you had a hard time sleeping through all the light and noise at first, you are starting to feel more comfortable there and fall into a rhythm. On the other hand, I still miss you terribly each and every minute of the day. I miss being the one you talk to all day long, I miss being the one to feel your feet in their ever-moving kick-kick-kicks. I miss singing to you while I change your diaper and I miss being the one to rock you to sleep for your naps. I know that you are growing up, and that being in a different environment where you'll learn new things will only be good for you. But I miss our newborn days together.
Your sleep is still hit or miss. We usually have you asleep by 8 p.m. and then do one more dream feed around 9:30 (I feed you one more time without really waking you up). After that, you usually sleep 'til anywhere from 2:30 a.m. to 6 a.m. Your dad used to be able to go in and rock you back to sleep himself, but more and more you are waiting to go back to sleep until I come in to feed you. Considering I'm getting up to pump around midnight, some nights this means I'm only sleeping in 2-hour chunks all night long. But you know what? I don't mind. I'm tired all the time and dream of sleeping in long, glorious stretches, but the nights that your dad has offered to give you a bottle so that I can stay asleep, I always say no. I know that one day, in the not-too-distant future, you won't need me to come and snuggle with you in the middle of the night anymore. You are already growing up so fast--I don't mind hanging onto this part of our relationship just a little while longer. In the small hours of the morning, after I've fed you and you have drifted back to sleep, I hold your peaceful, sweet body in my arms just a few minutes before putting you back to bed. I love holding you while you sleep. It's a moment that exists just between the two of us, and I will always look back on those moments with such love.
So here we are. Three months old. The newborn phase behind us, the baby phase and all that it entails--rolling and crawling and teething and pulling up and solid food and sippy cups and first words and first steps--ahead of us.
Thank you for the wonderful three newborn months. I have loved every second.
Smoochies on your baby chubs,
Mom
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
Here's a Mom Tip: Don't be a Bitch
A pretty smart guy named Plato once said, "Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle."
Ain't that the truth. I can only speak for my own hard battle, but as a parent, life is hard! Nevermind adding working/stay-at-home, one kid or many kids, etc. etc. etc. to that. Being a parent is hard. Period. So it seems to me that when you meet other parents, the incentive to be kind should be doubled. I mean, you know first hand how hard that other parent's battle is.
We took baby girl to Gymboree this weekend. We were considering it as a location for her second birthday party (ZOMG, wasn't her first birthday just LAST WEEK???), so we signed up for a free preview class to see if she loved it.
There were only a few other kids in the class we attended, and only one other girl. If you're not familiar with the way Gymboree works (and we weren't, so don't think I'm stating the obvious here), you pay a monthly fee and then most parents have four set classes they go to, one per week. So the kids in the class we attended were "regulars."
It was verrrryyyy clear that the other girl (let's call her Peyton) and her mom were used to being the queens of the class. Peyton was a cute little girl with wispy blonde hair pulled into a side braid. She was sporting a snazzy little outfit: skirt with leggings, matching hoodie. I smiled at her and her mom as baby girl and I wandered our way into class, looking wildly out of place. I received only a half-smile back from the mom. Okay then.
Peyton and her mom knew the routine. Of course they did. This was their domain. Baby girl and I watched them and muddled our way through the songs and dances. When it was time to "act like a dog," and crawl over an obstacle course, my not-very-physically-daring darling took her sweet time. Peyton got stuck behind her. I tossed an apologetic smile at the mom, as if to say, "Sorry! She's just not too sure of herself yet." I was ignored. I said, "Hey baby girl, why don't we let this other little girl go by, okay?" when what I wanted to say was, "Hey Peyton, how about you step off my baby and wait your freaking turn. Patience is a virtue." Her mom ignored me again and helped Peyton stepover around baby girl. When it came time to search for doggy bones, Peyton ran over and scooped them all up. When baby girl walked over to participate, Peyton didn't offer to share and her mom didn't encourage her to, either. When we played hide and seek with the doggies, when baby girl found two doggies, Peyton's mom quickly told Peyton where three other doggies were and then loudly announced she had found three.
Her mom sang the words to every song loudly. When it was clear that baby girl was pretty talkative and started answering the teacher's questions before Peyton did, the mom started loudly trying to prompt her daughter to answer. Insert big fat eye rolls from me and, if we're being honest, smirking that my newcomer daughter was giving queen Peyton a run for her money.
But really, the whole time I was wondering, whatthehell is wrong with this woman? Is she really so insecure or territorial that she can't be kind to us? And I shudder to think about the girl and woman that little Peyton is going to turn into with such a woman modeling this kind of behavior for her.
And then there's the mom at my kids' school. When TH was getting little man's car seat out of the car seat closet the other day, he said the edge of little man's blanket was resting on another child's seat. That child's mother came in and said (are you ready for this?), "Excuse me. Would you mind keeping your kid's shit off of my kid's things? Thanks."
What.the.fuck.
It boggles the mind why parents feel it necessary or even acceptable to be so mean to each other.
So parents, let's keep in mind that small eyes and ears are always following us, learning about the correct ways to interact with and treat others. So keep Plato in mind, remember that we're all fighting hard battles, and don't be a bunch of bitches, mm'kay?
Ain't that the truth. I can only speak for my own hard battle, but as a parent, life is hard! Nevermind adding working/stay-at-home, one kid or many kids, etc. etc. etc. to that. Being a parent is hard. Period. So it seems to me that when you meet other parents, the incentive to be kind should be doubled. I mean, you know first hand how hard that other parent's battle is.
We took baby girl to Gymboree this weekend. We were considering it as a location for her second birthday party (ZOMG, wasn't her first birthday just LAST WEEK???), so we signed up for a free preview class to see if she loved it.
There were only a few other kids in the class we attended, and only one other girl. If you're not familiar with the way Gymboree works (and we weren't, so don't think I'm stating the obvious here), you pay a monthly fee and then most parents have four set classes they go to, one per week. So the kids in the class we attended were "regulars."
It was verrrryyyy clear that the other girl (let's call her Peyton) and her mom were used to being the queens of the class. Peyton was a cute little girl with wispy blonde hair pulled into a side braid. She was sporting a snazzy little outfit: skirt with leggings, matching hoodie. I smiled at her and her mom as baby girl and I wandered our way into class, looking wildly out of place. I received only a half-smile back from the mom. Okay then.
Peyton and her mom knew the routine. Of course they did. This was their domain. Baby girl and I watched them and muddled our way through the songs and dances. When it was time to "act like a dog," and crawl over an obstacle course, my not-very-physically-daring darling took her sweet time. Peyton got stuck behind her. I tossed an apologetic smile at the mom, as if to say, "Sorry! She's just not too sure of herself yet." I was ignored. I said, "Hey baby girl, why don't we let this other little girl go by, okay?" when what I wanted to say was, "Hey Peyton, how about you step off my baby and wait your freaking turn. Patience is a virtue." Her mom ignored me again and helped Peyton step
Her mom sang the words to every song loudly. When it was clear that baby girl was pretty talkative and started answering the teacher's questions before Peyton did, the mom started loudly trying to prompt her daughter to answer. Insert big fat eye rolls from me and, if we're being honest, smirking that my newcomer daughter was giving queen Peyton a run for her money.
But really, the whole time I was wondering, whatthehell is wrong with this woman? Is she really so insecure or territorial that she can't be kind to us? And I shudder to think about the girl and woman that little Peyton is going to turn into with such a woman modeling this kind of behavior for her.
And then there's the mom at my kids' school. When TH was getting little man's car seat out of the car seat closet the other day, he said the edge of little man's blanket was resting on another child's seat. That child's mother came in and said (are you ready for this?), "Excuse me. Would you mind keeping your kid's shit off of my kid's things? Thanks."
What.the.fuck.
It boggles the mind why parents feel it necessary or even acceptable to be so mean to each other.
So parents, let's keep in mind that small eyes and ears are always following us, learning about the correct ways to interact with and treat others. So keep Plato in mind, remember that we're all fighting hard battles, and don't be a bunch of bitches, mm'kay?
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
Working Mom Math
I give 100% of myself to my daughter.
And 100% to my son. (hmmmm . . . already seeing the tricky math here?)
That leaves about 90% for me to give at work (okay, let's be honest . . . most days it's more like 80%).
I give about 30% of myself to our house chores, things like laundry, dishes, cooking, cleaning, etc.
I give about 60% to my husband. This is shameful, but it's the reality of my life as a working mom with two kids under two, one of whom still qualifies as a newborn. I'm so looking forward to the day I can get back to giving him all of me that he deserves.
So far, that's 380% of myself given throughout the day.
And that's without saving anything for myself.
Working mom math is a hard lesson.
And 100% to my son. (hmmmm . . . already seeing the tricky math here?)
That leaves about 90% for me to give at work (okay, let's be honest . . . most days it's more like 80%).
I give about 30% of myself to our house chores, things like laundry, dishes, cooking, cleaning, etc.
I give about 60% to my husband. This is shameful, but it's the reality of my life as a working mom with two kids under two, one of whom still qualifies as a newborn. I'm so looking forward to the day I can get back to giving him all of me that he deserves.
So far, that's 380% of myself given throughout the day.
And that's without saving anything for myself.
Working mom math is a hard lesson.
Thursday, August 18, 2011
Baby Bonding Time
This is what my leave administration called the last six weeks of my maternity leave.
"Baby Bonding Time."
The first six weeks are the healing weeks. But after that, after I'm cleared to return to work but am staying home still, those weeks are for bonding.
Tuesday afternoon marked the end of our baby bonding time, sweet boy. The end of our 12 weeks (because seriously, the bonding began the second you were laid on top of me, looking around in wonder at your new world).
There is no adequate way to describe our bonding. The hours spent smiling and laughing and talking to each other. The countless naps where I rocked you to sleep in my arms, gazing at your perfect sleeping features. The snuggles. Always and forever I will remember the snuggles.
Tuesday evening rolled around. Your dad and sister were on their way home. It was the final minutes of our bay bonding time. The next day I would return to work, and from that moment on, quiet time at home with just the two of us would be a rare thing indeed. You didn't leave my arms in those final minutes and hours. I carried you around the house with me, talking and kissing and snuggling. It was time for your last nap, but still I kept you with me, your arm thrown gently over mine, your head resting on my shoulder. I didn't want those last few minutes to end. And then, as I rocked you to sleep one last time, I held you longer than I needed to. Your body was perfectly relaxed in my arms. Your eyes were gently closed in slumber. Your sweet little lips moved here and there as you dreamed about eating or talking or laughing. Your cheek rested in the nook of my elbow and I held you long after I should have put you down.
If I could, I would have bottled that moment to carry around with me every day forever so that any time I wanted, I could relive, just for a second, that last moment of quietness between us, with you in my arms and my heart so full of your peace.
"Baby Bonding Time."
The first six weeks are the healing weeks. But after that, after I'm cleared to return to work but am staying home still, those weeks are for bonding.
Tuesday afternoon marked the end of our baby bonding time, sweet boy. The end of our 12 weeks (because seriously, the bonding began the second you were laid on top of me, looking around in wonder at your new world).
There is no adequate way to describe our bonding. The hours spent smiling and laughing and talking to each other. The countless naps where I rocked you to sleep in my arms, gazing at your perfect sleeping features. The snuggles. Always and forever I will remember the snuggles.
Tuesday evening rolled around. Your dad and sister were on their way home. It was the final minutes of our bay bonding time. The next day I would return to work, and from that moment on, quiet time at home with just the two of us would be a rare thing indeed. You didn't leave my arms in those final minutes and hours. I carried you around the house with me, talking and kissing and snuggling. It was time for your last nap, but still I kept you with me, your arm thrown gently over mine, your head resting on my shoulder. I didn't want those last few minutes to end. And then, as I rocked you to sleep one last time, I held you longer than I needed to. Your body was perfectly relaxed in my arms. Your eyes were gently closed in slumber. Your sweet little lips moved here and there as you dreamed about eating or talking or laughing. Your cheek rested in the nook of my elbow and I held you long after I should have put you down.
If I could, I would have bottled that moment to carry around with me every day forever so that any time I wanted, I could relive, just for a second, that last moment of quietness between us, with you in my arms and my heart so full of your peace.
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
Momnesia
I'm back at work today.
Walking into the parking garage, using my badge to take the elevator up to my floor, putting my things in the break room, turning on the lights in my office, signing into my computer . . . all these things that once felt so normal to me suddenly felt so . . . alien.
My maternity leave with baby girl was an exercise in adaptability and endurance. I went through such profound life changes with her, changes that I had a hard time adapting to, that my return to work, while difficult, was still a welcome break. It was a return, for me, to the person I had been before. It was reclaiming a piece of my identity that I needed to reclaim, that I needed to hold onto to avoid losing my sense of self completely in the new world of motherhood I'd been submersed in.
How different my leave has been . . . or rather, was . . . with my little man. With him, I didn't go through an identity crisis. I already was a mom when he came along. He simply added to my role as a mother. I didn't face any of the struggles I'd endured the first time around with things like coming to terms with the birth, struggles with breastfeeding, never knowing if I was doing the right thing as a parent, wondering if I was constantly making a mistake. With him, I knew from experience that everything would be okay. If he nurses poorly for one session, if he misses a nap, if he cries inexplicably . . . I knew that all of these things were temporary blips that were bound to happen and then be gone. I was more relaxed. I was more confident. I was able to let go of all that anxiety and just enjoy being a mother to a teeny tiny newborn. To a teeny, tiny, incredibly easy newborn. I had time to snuggle him and play and visit with my friends and run errands and work out and cook dinner and do chores. Yes there were bad nap days, and days I looked at the clock to make sure that my husband would be coming home soon to give me a break, but those days were so few and far between. My leave with my little man has been 12 weeks of reveling in life with my baby.
And somewhere along the way, I lost myself.
The old me.
The professional me who valued my career and relished the intellectual challenges it gave me. The athletic me who found clarity in pushing myself farther or harder. Even the wife-me, the me who values my relationship with my husband above and apart from our kids, from our roles as parents.
For the last 12 weeks, I've sunk deeper and deeper into the mom-me. And I've loved it. The feelings of fulfillment and joy a mom gets from her kids is unmatched. It became all I needed. I started thinking about myself only in terms of my role as a mother. I started identifying myself only in terms of my role as a mother.
I don't remember who I was before.
Which is why walking into my office building this morning was so dissonant for me. This is a place the mom-me didn't rule. I have pictures of my kids up, decorating my office, of course, but this is where the other parts of me got their fair attention. This is where I continued to nurture and develop the other parts of me that had nothing to do with my role as a mother.
And this morning, I couldn't remember what those other parts were, much less why I'd want to spend my time and attention developing them when I could be at home, snuggling my baby.
It's a strange feeling to know that you have forgotten who you used to be.
But the thing is, I know that I'm not so far gone that I have no interest in remembering.
I know it's important to have other aspects to my identity. I know that rationally (while on my emotional level, all I want is to pack up my stuff, go home with my kids and never look back). Being here will help me remember why. Being here will help me rediscover the other parts of me, the other things that used to be important and that likely still are, somewhere deep inside, buried underneath 12 weeks of newborn snuggles.
Going through emails, seeing the names of coworkers and old projects, already have started to help me remember who I was. And as I get a new project to work on, new goals, new tasks, new challenges, those will all help bring out the old me, too.
But it will be a new-old me. I'll remember my old priorities and identities (yes, plural), but those will be tempered with my new priorities and identity as the mom of two, just like what happened when I became the mom of one.
And someday soon, I know, I'll emerge from this cloud of momnesia a new, old, better, stronger, more complete woman.
Walking into the parking garage, using my badge to take the elevator up to my floor, putting my things in the break room, turning on the lights in my office, signing into my computer . . . all these things that once felt so normal to me suddenly felt so . . . alien.
My maternity leave with baby girl was an exercise in adaptability and endurance. I went through such profound life changes with her, changes that I had a hard time adapting to, that my return to work, while difficult, was still a welcome break. It was a return, for me, to the person I had been before. It was reclaiming a piece of my identity that I needed to reclaim, that I needed to hold onto to avoid losing my sense of self completely in the new world of motherhood I'd been submersed in.
How different my leave has been . . . or rather, was . . . with my little man. With him, I didn't go through an identity crisis. I already was a mom when he came along. He simply added to my role as a mother. I didn't face any of the struggles I'd endured the first time around with things like coming to terms with the birth, struggles with breastfeeding, never knowing if I was doing the right thing as a parent, wondering if I was constantly making a mistake. With him, I knew from experience that everything would be okay. If he nurses poorly for one session, if he misses a nap, if he cries inexplicably . . . I knew that all of these things were temporary blips that were bound to happen and then be gone. I was more relaxed. I was more confident. I was able to let go of all that anxiety and just enjoy being a mother to a teeny tiny newborn. To a teeny, tiny, incredibly easy newborn. I had time to snuggle him and play and visit with my friends and run errands and work out and cook dinner and do chores. Yes there were bad nap days, and days I looked at the clock to make sure that my husband would be coming home soon to give me a break, but those days were so few and far between. My leave with my little man has been 12 weeks of reveling in life with my baby.
And somewhere along the way, I lost myself.
The old me.
The professional me who valued my career and relished the intellectual challenges it gave me. The athletic me who found clarity in pushing myself farther or harder. Even the wife-me, the me who values my relationship with my husband above and apart from our kids, from our roles as parents.
For the last 12 weeks, I've sunk deeper and deeper into the mom-me. And I've loved it. The feelings of fulfillment and joy a mom gets from her kids is unmatched. It became all I needed. I started thinking about myself only in terms of my role as a mother. I started identifying myself only in terms of my role as a mother.
I don't remember who I was before.
Which is why walking into my office building this morning was so dissonant for me. This is a place the mom-me didn't rule. I have pictures of my kids up, decorating my office, of course, but this is where the other parts of me got their fair attention. This is where I continued to nurture and develop the other parts of me that had nothing to do with my role as a mother.
And this morning, I couldn't remember what those other parts were, much less why I'd want to spend my time and attention developing them when I could be at home, snuggling my baby.
It's a strange feeling to know that you have forgotten who you used to be.
But the thing is, I know that I'm not so far gone that I have no interest in remembering.
I know it's important to have other aspects to my identity. I know that rationally (while on my emotional level, all I want is to pack up my stuff, go home with my kids and never look back). Being here will help me remember why. Being here will help me rediscover the other parts of me, the other things that used to be important and that likely still are, somewhere deep inside, buried underneath 12 weeks of newborn snuggles.
Going through emails, seeing the names of coworkers and old projects, already have started to help me remember who I was. And as I get a new project to work on, new goals, new tasks, new challenges, those will all help bring out the old me, too.
But it will be a new-old me. I'll remember my old priorities and identities (yes, plural), but those will be tempered with my new priorities and identity as the mom of two, just like what happened when I became the mom of one.
And someday soon, I know, I'll emerge from this cloud of momnesia a new, old, better, stronger, more complete woman.
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