Broken

A friend told me recently that you broke me, but in the best way possible. Which you did. After years of stasis, I now find myself in a near-constant state of evolving and adapting. Things that would have made me tense or made me break down in tears at other times in my life now make me smile or just sit down and laugh. You spill Cheerios, wriggle around in poo, or whack me in the face with a toy, and often, my only response is amusement. It warms my heart to see how gleefully you go through life, unaware of the need to show caution or restraint or moderation. I used to know how to do that too, I realize, and somewhere along the way, I forgot a little bit more than I intended.

In breaking me, you also broke so much of what restrained me - so many fears and anxieties that simply don't fit with who you are and what you need from me. You broke my heart too, and you break it every day, when you wail with abandon, when your face crumbles like an empty paper bag, when you clutch your scarf with anticipation of being picked up, when you concentrate so hard on picking up something small. I see you wanting and know that you have a lifetime of wanting ahead, a lifetime of things I can't possibly and shouldn't even consider doing for you. It seems to do me good somehow, though. Perhaps I'm learning that hearts break and get put back together all the time, that this morning's tragedy is quickly forgotten, that a good nap can erase a bad night, that a smile covers up so many frustrations. Being broken is freeing - you can put yourself back together however you like.

You Will...

One day, you'll ask me something, and I'll have to tell you that you don't understand yet, but that eventually you will. You understand all sorts of things for the first time when you have a baby. Thanks to you, I understand new things regularly, so I'll come back to update this from time to time.....

You will, without thinking, lick your thumb and scrub someone's cheek.

You will peel an apple slice for your baby and eat the peel yourself. You will also crunch on the apple slice a few times to "get it started."

You will taste breast milk and marvel that someone can enjoy something that tastes so soapy.

You will bite off bits of a snack to make them a safe size.

You will, when left without a baby wipe, use your fingers to mop away baby spit and sticky liquid infant Tylenol and then lick them clean. You will contemplate the fact that it would just be easier to lick the baby's face....

You will wake up when a leaf lands in the gutter.

You will figure out how to prop a breast pump so you can type, dangle a toy, and eat breakfast all at the same time.

You will use your pinkie as a pacifier and will learn to sleep with it in someone's mouth.

You will at some point be so in awe of a dirty diaper that you'll be sure to point it out to your partner later.

You will develop new fleeting but alarming fears, like a roof leak over your baby's bed that will lead to drowning.

You will pick someone's nose.

You will allow everything in your life to be lukewarm - meals, baths, iced tea.

You will cry at 2 a.m. when a diaper change, nursing, and pacing the hall haven't stopped the crying, not because you're tired or in pain, but because you're sure that your baby is.

You will be tired enough that you will knowingly put on jeans with boogers, spit up, and/or breast milk on them and still smile.

You will leave home with a change of clothes, 700 diapers, a backup pacifier, blankets, gas drops, a spare bottle, a nursing pillow, baby Tylenol, two snack options, a plastic bag for dirty diapers, and with your shirt unbuttoned.

You will say things like, "Do not spit avocado on the cat!" without a hint of irony.

You will marvel at how someone immobile manages to get Cheerios everywhere. There is, at this moment, a Cheerio on top of the recycling bins on the back deck.

Neon Number

So, yesterday, May 10, 2011, was a big day. I was officially older than my mother was when she died. May 9 was not a good day. I kept feeling, not like I should be dying, really, but did catch myself thinking, "Mom only had about two more hours...." And I was short-tempered, but I think that's because part of me is a little jealous of you. You have me, a mother, who loves you and dotes on you, who is able to stay home with you and capture all your little smiles and charms. You have what I have wished for most of my life, and I'm sure there will be days that you'll be angry at me and I'll struggle to understand how you can possibly feel that way when you have me, when I'm still here.

But that was Monday and I was determined to mark Tuesday in some special way if I could. I thought a lot about what would be meaningful - driving off to spend the day in WV, tramping around in the woods, getting a tattoo, being with family - but what I kept thinking was a muddle of what I'd do with my mom if she were still here, what I think she'd have wanted to do if she had one more day, what I'd want to do if I only had one day left, and that all distilled down to spending the day with you and with myself. Not a cliched last day, with a trip to the top of the Eiffel Tower or blowing all the money in the bank account, but a last day of all the joyful small things in life, a good last day if you didn't know what was coming.

So, if your grandma was here and she came for a visit, we'd go out for breakfast, so first thing in the morning, we headed to our favorite bakery for a cinnamon roll. On the way, we saw a pair of great blue herons in flight. And then, of course, she'd want to shop for books and she'd be blown away by Half Price Books. She would, of course, buy me whatever I wanted and buy books for you too, so that's just what I did. I got you special editions of Charlotte's Web and Little House in the Big Woods, and I found myself looking for something meaningful or at least a favorite of your grandma's. But no Daphne du Maurier, no new Stephen King, no Taylor Caldwell. And then, just as I was turning around, I saw on the shelf the book I was reading when I suddenly, desperately knew that I wanted you - The Beach Street Knitting Society and Yarn Club (a terrible Americanized title for Divas Don't Knit - if it tells you anything there's not even a yarn club!). It's a light British novel about a woman taking control of her life and she has two little boys who are so imperfectly charming that they spoke to something inside me that wanted children. And the sequel, Needles and Pearls! I also bought myself three newer books - Sarah's Key, The Night Watch, and A Discovery of Witches - along with some pretty note cards, because, I reasoned, your grandma would have bought them for me.

And of course, she'd want to shop for you! So we went to Once Upon a Child and got you two cute dresses, four onesies, and two swimsuits.

Your grandma loved Chinese food, possible just because in West Virginia in the 1970s and 1980s, it was terribly cosmopolitan and hard to come by. So, we got Chinese takeout at Lucky House for lunch - some soup and lo mein - and headed home.

On our way, we stopped off to buy red flowers at Sambuca's. Red was your grandma's favorite color and when she died, there weren't any red flowers left at the three florists in town and there were hardly any left in neighboring counties, I imagine. I bought two big pots of geraniums for the front porch.

And for our last stop, we went to Linda's 3 in town and spent an exorbitant amount of money to have a photo of your grandma and me beautifully framed with Linda's impeccably tasteful assistance. And I picked up a little miniature monkey for your collection of small things and a little heart-shaped stoneware dish with glass in the glaze, because your grandma loved and collected hearts. When Linda started to pack it up in a recycled gift bag, she found a note that said, "You are a strong, faithful and sensitive person." It felt like a message, so I kept it.

We came home, you nursed and I ate my takeout, and then I did what I'd do if I only had one day left - laid down with you, read you stories, cuddled with you and napped with you for three hours. I tried to stare at you as hard as I would if I knew I were never going to see you again, but it either made me cry or I lost focus. I don't think we're meant to be able to really allow ourselves to think of life that way or else we'd be too terrified to really live it. I settled for just listening to you breathe and being grateful....

We got up, rushed off to pick up Daddy and stopped to get ice cream on the way home - if it was the last day, that would be a good thing. We had a lovely evening at home, just fixed a nice dinner together, gave you a bath, tucked you in and hung out on the couch. It was an awesome, perfect "last day" and I'm so glad you were in it. Being your mother is such a joy and a privilege and I hope I get to keep the job a long, long time. "But if I don't," my mind is whispering, but I've made it this far, so I'm not going to think about that. I'm going to think about having one more last day, and another one, and another one, and another one....

Tina Fey

I found this by Tina Fey and wanted to keep it here for you to read someday. The "all-at-once exhausted, bored, and in love" is so very, very true - the most accurate description. And so is the poop everywhere. One of the things that breaks my heart is that if something were to happen to me now, you might never understand how much I loved you, how much I cared for you, how much I gave to you when I was so beyond having anything to give. I want you to know that someone loved you like that, because now that I've done it, I can safely say, no one, ever in your whole in entire life, will love you as much I as do. And no one will love me as much as my mother. Knowing that is the gift you gave me....

A mother's prayer:

First, Lord: No tattoos. May neither Chinese symbol for truth nor Winnie-the-Pooh holding the FSU logo stain her tender haunches.

May she be Beautiful but not Damaged, for it’s the Damage that draws the creepy soccer coach’s eye, not the Beauty.

When the Crystal Meth is offered, may she remember the parents who cut her grapes in half And stick with Beer.

Guide her, protect her when crossing the street, stepping onto boats, swimming in the ocean, swimming in pools, walking near pools, standing on the subway platform, crossing 86th Street, stepping off of boats, using mall restrooms, getting on and off escalators, driving on country roads while arguing, leaning on large windows, walking in parking lots, riding Ferris wheels, roller-coasters, log flumes, or anything called “Hell Drop,” “Tower of Torture,” or “The Death Spiral Rock ‘N Zero G Roll featuring Aerosmith,” and standing on any kind of balcony ever, anywhere, at any age.

Lead her away from Acting but not all the way to Finance.Something where she can make her own hours but still feel intellectually fulfilled and get outside sometimes And not have to wear high heels. What would that be, Lord? Architecture? Midwifery? Golf course design? I’m asking You, because if I knew, I’d be doing it, Youdammit.

May she play the Drums to the fiery rhythm of her Own Heart with the sinewy strength of her Own Arms, so she need Not Lie With Drummers.

Grant her a Rough Patch from twelve to seventeen.Let her draw horses and be interested in Barbies for much too long, For childhood is short – a Tiger Flower blooming Magenta for one day – And adulthood is long and dry-humping in cars will wait.

O Lord, break the Internet forever, that she may be spared the misspelled invective of her peers And the online marketing campaign for Rape Hostel V: Girls Just Wanna Get Stabbed.

And when she one day turns on me and calls me a bitch in front of Hollister, Give me the strength, Lord, to yank her directly into a cab in front of her friends, For I will not have that shit. I will not have it.

And should she choose to be a Mother one day, be my eyes, Lord, that I may see her, lying on a blanket on the floor at 4:50 A.M., all-at-once exhausted, bored, and in love with the little creature whose poop is leaking up its back. “My mother did this for me once,”she will realize as she cleans feces off her baby’s neck. “My mother did this for me.” And the delayed gratitude will wash over her as it does each generation and she will make a Mental Note to call me. And she will forget. But I’ll know, because I peeped it with Your God eyes.

Amen.

In the Teeth of the Marketing Machine

Recently, we had to run into the hideously named "BuyBuyBaby" (honestly, not even a thinly veiled blatant commercialism?) to purchase a thing or two for you. We were making a lap through the store, which sort of reminded me of that Bugs Bunny cartoon where Yosemite Sam is tiptoeing through the lion den as a Roman gladiator, trying not to make eye contact, but just get through intact. And we made it about as far as the cribs in the back when I started to tear up.

Rationally, this makes no sense. I know this. I know you have no need for any of these things. I know you can't possibly have a desire for them. I know that most of them are cheap imported junk made from molded plastic and stapled laminated wood and fabrics awash with flame retardants. And yet I found myself feeling awful that you didn't have the "perfect" room with a set of matching furniture (furniture your father summarily dismissed as "garbage") with matching ribbon-embroidered rosettes and your name on every available flat surface.

Your father gently reminded me that my ability or my willingness to purchase things for you did not define my parenting abilities or the quality of your childhood and then he said, "You know, you shouldn't feel guilty. What you should feel is mad. You should be angry that corporate executives are all too happy to mine a mother's desire to do the best for her child in order to create this kind of guilt just to make a buck." And the more I thought about it, the more I realized he was right. I should feel angry about that, that someone has figured out how to manipulate my best biological instincts, to subvert my intentions and my hopes, just to make money, that I should feel hurt or "bad" or upset that despite being home with you and nursing you and turning my body over for the repeated pummeling that is pregnancy and childbirth and breastfeeding, I'm still made to feel as if I've not done enough for you because you don't have a rug emblazoned with your initials or large "N" bookends shellacked with white enamel paint. Selling emotionally raw people that kind of idea is a lousy thing to do.

And, while we're on the subject, I'm also annoyed that society tends to make mothers feel like their instincts aren't good enough. If you're doing this someday without me and I can't tell you anything else, I'll tell you this: trust your instincts. I hope you'll mother in a different world, but the one we're in currently makes a lot of money off of telling mothers all sorts of things that just muddy the waters. Child health and safety have improved dramatically, but women have been raising children literally since the dawn of man. Literally. Think about that for a moment. And there were no baby safe feeders or baby monitors with lcd displays or talking heads spouting off endless nonsense about what sort of emotional problems sleeping issues will cause. It has to be an instinctual process and it is, if you can just get everything else out of the way and not doubt what your gut tells you to do. We have somehow decided to let people tell us how to do something that we've known how to do for centuries.

I'm off to assuage my guilt by reading to you lots and lots and lots. I will read Brown Bear, Brown Bear, What Do You See? until I'm hoarse, but I'll probably still be thinking of those $&*# embroidered crib blankets....

Orbit

In the beginning, we were a very different kind of us. Not a you-and-me, give-and-take, back-and-forth us, but an us that neither one of us will really ever be with anyone else. An US us, welded together.

And then we took our first step apart and became just an us like every other pair with your birth. We formed a close, tight orbit, a dizzying and suffocating spin around and around each other. Initially, it seemed as though you were the center, but I'm come to realize it may be me. For months, I thought I shifted around you, that you were the only fixed point in the world and I was bound by you, unable to wander far from the course you permitted. But now, I think it may be different, that it's my job to sit, steadily anchoring the center of your universe.

Strangely, I'm a little flummoxed by this, not sure whether it is better or preferable or enviable to be the orbiter or the orbitee, but in the end, what I think about it doesn't matter. Maybe your rotations seem to be on a daily basis now, still snugged up close to me, but as time goes on, you'll become your own increasingly independent little universe, only coming close periodically. Perhaps there'll even come a day when you're very distant, stretching the bounds of my ability to hold you in balance, far enough from me that you're barely able to see the light of my love, let alone feel its warmth. But it will not be your job to be fixed and I will never set my compass by you as you will by me.

I'm a bit frightened by the idea of being a center for anyone and sometimes it seems so cosmically sad, the idea of being a sun, but perhaps it is a metaphor for motherhood. You burn with a fierce light, your nurturing makes life on the "planet" of your child possible, and too tight an orbit burns them up, while charting too wide a track freezes them out. And then you glow and glow with a self-immolating intensity....

Never Go Anywhere Empty-Handed

We're past that initial exhilaration and desperation, and somehow, those first months are already fading in my memory. When I think back, I can only seem to muster a handful of extremes. Short on sleep, pain of nursing, drowning in adoration, all spent in either whole days on the couch or what seem like whole years on the road, nursing and changing you in rest area parking lots, behind gas stations, corners of park-and-ride lots, staring at the front of outlet malls. You're sleeping on your own, soundly, only nursing about four times a day, and seeming more and more contented to drift a little further away.

So it seems like a good time to begin offering little bits of advice and life philosophies and all those things that you'll be hearing from me constantly and not really be interested in until I'm dead and you find yourself saying them to your own children. And there's no better place to start than your namesake's favorite - "Never go anywhere empty-handed."

Your great-grandmother said this all the time. This could be because when I knew her, she lived in a beautiful split-level house that was positively state of the art when your grandfather built it in the late 1950s or early 1960s. (I know it was state of the art because there's a newspaper article somewhere of your grandfather standing with his cows in the field that refers to the house and it's "state of the art" or "latest style" or "up to the minute" or something else equally valued in the 1950s....) Anyway, this meant that you walked in to a wide tiled entryway (which was always the coolest place in my world in the summer - they had central air and we never did) with a "rec room" off to the left ("rec rooms" being a must in 1950s homes). Straight ahead, and this seemed completely normally then, but completely strange now, was a half bathroom where your grandfather could scrub up before really coming into the house. The strange part is that there was also a file cabinet in there with a roll-top desk where all the household accounts and documents from his businesses were stored. Anyway, from there, you could go down seven steps to the basement (which always smelled so good because your great-grandmother used gallons of fabric softener - your grandmother never did - and she line-dried all the sheets) or, from the hallway, go up seven steps to the living room, dining room and kitchen. The three bedrooms and only full bath were up another flight of seven stairs.

Anyway, living in a house where you had to go up seven steps to go to the bathroom or down fourteen steps to do laundry probably made her very efficient. As a result, if she had to up to use the bathroom, she'd take the shampoo she bought at the store. When she came down, she'd bring the dirty laundry. If she had to go the basement with the dirty laundry, she'd come back up with the cans of tomatoes she'd need for dinner. Once we got big enough to do her bidding, she'd send us to the basement for potatoes or frozen vegetables from the chest freezer, but before we could dart off, she'd press something into our hands with instructions on what to do with it on the way.

Like most good instructions, it seems simple on the surface of things, but only deepens with examination. To never go anywhere empty-handed requires forethought, planning, awareness, and remembering. It fostered in my small self a sense of intention and later, it served well as social advice too, reminding me to always bring a hostess gift, a willingness to help. "Life's complicated," it says, "so think about what you're going to do, make a plan, and go out into the world prepared." The world is full of people who show up, metaphysically and literally, with their hands empty, and I don't want you to be like that. Show up with something to offer, show up with your hands full.