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.
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
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.
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
Back to LIfe, Back to Reality
I go back to work a week from tomorrow.
And woah boy, is life going to suddenly get a lot harder.
Staying home with little man these last 11 weeks has been amazingly blissful. Yes, there were days (cough-yesterday-cough) when he fought his naps and was cranky and fussy and generally made me check the clock every 45 minutes to see if it was time for TH to get home yet. But overall? Blissful. Easy. Wonderful. Delightful.
Not only is my little guy a really easy baby (for the most part. cough-yesterday-cough.), but I have had TIME. Time to do laundry. And dishes. And cook dinner every night. And pick up the house. And work out. And visit with friends. Time to do all the things that keep our little family-of-four lives running. And I promise you these things don't happen in the evenings, after TH and baby girl get home and we are eating dinner and squeezing in 45 more minutes of play and taking baths and reading books and going to sleep, only to nurse the other kid and coo and goo and make faces and give another bath and rock to sleep (sometimes again and again and again). Nope. The things that I've had time to do while staying home have all happened during the day, while little man naps or hangs out on his play mat making out with his thumb or while I wear him around the house, singing to him and occasionally stopping what I'm doing to plant a kiss on his soft little head.
But a week from tomorrow, I'm returning to the world of full-time working mom. All that time? Gone. I will once again have to figure out how to fit all the things I had been doing during the day into my limited time in the evenings and weekends, those precious windows when I'm actually home with my kids and would rather be spending time with them than folding clothes or washing dishes or cleaning.
I know we'll figure it out. I know we'll find our new normal rhythm, and a month from now (or two or three), we'll have a routine figured out where I can start to feel like we are actually doing it, like we're actually fitting everything into our lives that we need to.
But today, sitting on the brink of the return to work, the BIG CHANGE (said in a booming, ominous voice), I'm grumpy and fearful and sad.
I wish there were simply more hours in the day. Enough hours for me to do the work that I love, to feel like I'm continuing to build on myself outside of my role as a mother. Enough hours for me to run our lives, to do laundry and dishes and cook and clean and run errands and work out. And enough hours for me to get in all the snuggles and laughs and hugs that I want with both of my kids.
Life is a balancing act, and even though I know we'll regain our footing, ours is about to get rocked.
And woah boy, is life going to suddenly get a lot harder.
Staying home with little man these last 11 weeks has been amazingly blissful. Yes, there were days (cough-yesterday-cough) when he fought his naps and was cranky and fussy and generally made me check the clock every 45 minutes to see if it was time for TH to get home yet. But overall? Blissful. Easy. Wonderful. Delightful.
Not only is my little guy a really easy baby (for the most part. cough-yesterday-cough.), but I have had TIME. Time to do laundry. And dishes. And cook dinner every night. And pick up the house. And work out. And visit with friends. Time to do all the things that keep our little family-of-four lives running. And I promise you these things don't happen in the evenings, after TH and baby girl get home and we are eating dinner and squeezing in 45 more minutes of play and taking baths and reading books and going to sleep, only to nurse the other kid and coo and goo and make faces and give another bath and rock to sleep (sometimes again and again and again). Nope. The things that I've had time to do while staying home have all happened during the day, while little man naps or hangs out on his play mat making out with his thumb or while I wear him around the house, singing to him and occasionally stopping what I'm doing to plant a kiss on his soft little head.
But a week from tomorrow, I'm returning to the world of full-time working mom. All that time? Gone. I will once again have to figure out how to fit all the things I had been doing during the day into my limited time in the evenings and weekends, those precious windows when I'm actually home with my kids and would rather be spending time with them than folding clothes or washing dishes or cleaning.
I know we'll figure it out. I know we'll find our new normal rhythm, and a month from now (or two or three), we'll have a routine figured out where I can start to feel like we are actually doing it, like we're actually fitting everything into our lives that we need to.
But today, sitting on the brink of the return to work, the BIG CHANGE (said in a booming, ominous voice), I'm grumpy and fearful and sad.
I wish there were simply more hours in the day. Enough hours for me to do the work that I love, to feel like I'm continuing to build on myself outside of my role as a mother. Enough hours for me to run our lives, to do laundry and dishes and cook and clean and run errands and work out. And enough hours for me to get in all the snuggles and laughs and hugs that I want with both of my kids.
Life is a balancing act, and even though I know we'll regain our footing, ours is about to get rocked.
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