I can't believe you've been here one whole year already. (Well, almost - today is your due date actually and I spent what seemed like a year waiting another four days for you to make your appearance.) Sometimes, it seems as though the year has flown by and like you only just got here, but sometimes it seems as though you've been here forever, because I can only get the vaguest sense of memories of life before you.
I'm a little sad. I love you so much, so much more than I could possibly say, and over the last few weeks, you've started taking steps toward becoming a real person, your own person. You're no longer content to be just where you've been put, to play with what you've been handed, to eat what's been given to you. You're moving around like mad - you can roll and wriggle and flail your way just about anywhere now, you're feeding yourself more and more without my help, you're starting to develop opinions (that you share, sometimes loudly) about what you want to do and where you want to be.
People think that the journey begins when a baby arrives, and it does, in some ways. The adventure certainly begins, but I've come to realize that we've been sort of drifting this past year, you and I, in a sheltered, peaceful harbor. Most of the time, it's just been the two of us, preparing the ship for a voyage. We've been learning the ropes, figuring out how things work, how to steer, how to weather storms, doing little practice drills for the bigger things that lie ahead. Will I meet opposition with anger, frustration, patience, wisdom, a combination? Can I take control of my mood or yours and shift from one to another?
We've just been tacking back and forth, lazily seeing the sights and getting the hang of working together as a crew, but before long, we'll actually set out on voyages, do more than sail up to the edge of the harbor and peep out. We'll make longer and longer trips, but I know that this is the first step toward the day when you'll leave the harbor on your own, when you'll be able to set off on your own voyage, and while I'm so excited to see where you go, it makes me cry a little to think about leaving this little world we have together. Bon voyage, sweet baby....
Friday, September 2, 2011
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
Right This Minute
I don't know how it's been so long since I've written, but that seems to happen lots - I make a plan to do something and then lie down in bed at night only to realize it never got done. I do this several days, apparently several weeks in a row. Time does, in fact, get away from me. So, instead of tomorrow or yesterday, I'm thinking of right this minute.
You are making the most of all your time. Right now, you are sitting up in your playpen taking note of what happens when you bang various things with your pacifier. You just capsized. Capsizing is probably inaccurate, as it implies a gradual act, while you went over all at once. More "falling off a log" than "capsizing," I think. Now you're attempting to roll over but you keep getting distracted by what you can pick up with your toes and by the tag on the underside of the changing station. Perhaps it is best to express your frustrations to your scarf and wave your left foot emphatically in the air. Or grab Puff Dogg's tail and wave him triumphantly over your head. Or root around like you're sleepy, which you probably are. Or somehow in the last three seconds have managed to rotate yourself 90 degrees. Time to pick up another object and hold it up between your feet for further examination. And now it's time to get you up and let you nurse and put you down for your nap - whenever you start drawing your scarf over your face in shades of, "I want to be alone," it's time for bed. But wait, now it's time to body-slam Winnie-the-Pooh. Grab him by the ears and smash his fat face! And then laugh. You are a strange and funny little person....
You are making the most of all your time. Right now, you are sitting up in your playpen taking note of what happens when you bang various things with your pacifier. You just capsized. Capsizing is probably inaccurate, as it implies a gradual act, while you went over all at once. More "falling off a log" than "capsizing," I think. Now you're attempting to roll over but you keep getting distracted by what you can pick up with your toes and by the tag on the underside of the changing station. Perhaps it is best to express your frustrations to your scarf and wave your left foot emphatically in the air. Or grab Puff Dogg's tail and wave him triumphantly over your head. Or root around like you're sleepy, which you probably are. Or somehow in the last three seconds have managed to rotate yourself 90 degrees. Time to pick up another object and hold it up between your feet for further examination. And now it's time to get you up and let you nurse and put you down for your nap - whenever you start drawing your scarf over your face in shades of, "I want to be alone," it's time for bed. But wait, now it's time to body-slam Winnie-the-Pooh. Grab him by the ears and smash his fat face! And then laugh. You are a strange and funny little person....
Sunday, July 10, 2011
Conveyor Belt
So this morning I cried over diaper covers. Seriously, I did. We're canceling the diaper service (going to do the laundry ourselves and just save a few bucks) and today I had to get everything ready for the last pickup. We gathered stacks of clean diapers from all over the house and piled up the four diaper covers we've rented from the service - melon pink, candy pink, pale green (celery), and pale yellow (butter). And when your father stuffed them into a garbage bag with the extra clean diapers, all I could think about was how small they were and how I'd put them on you hundreds of times and how I'd patted your little pink/green/yellow bottom a million times. I cried and cried, even after you went upstairs to take your nap and he left for work. When they came to pick them up, I even had a fleeting urge to run outside, snatch one back and tell them to bill me for it.
I don't know why. You're getting bigger. That's what people, what living things, do - progress and grow and develop. And I'm excited about that, about all the yous that stretch out into the future: the chubby-cheeked little monkey that climbs into our bed in the mornings, the little girl with pigtails who asks questions every thirty seconds, the awkward middle-schooler taking the first steps toward becoming her own person, the teenager who charms and sulks and surprises, the young woman taking what we've taught her and what she's discovered to create someone new.
But with each step toward those people, we leave other versions of you behind forever and I'm sad to see them go. I love the you that you are now so very much that it's hard not to be sad to see that you slipping into the rear-view mirror. Sometimes I wish I could keep you small forever, sometimes I wish I could keep 60 different versions of you (but I suppose your room would get crowded!), and sometimes I get a little bit impatient for another version to arrive. (Not usually because I'm tired of dealing with whatever the current stage entails, but more because I'm excited for what the next stage brings....)
It's like standing in some sort of cosmic bucket brigade with random objects being handed to you on the right and you have to keep passing objects to the left and letting go. Sometimes what you're looking at is something you're not particularly crazy about or something painful to hold, like a rock or a plastic bottle cap or a thistle, and passing it on is easy, or it just goes by without much notice. But so often, it's something beautiful or sweet or precious, like a flower or a childhood memory or a photograph of someone you love so much. And you want to hold it just a minute longer, just stare at it a second more and memorize every detail, or slip it in your pocket, just because you can't bear to pass it on, to know you'll never see it again, or just because what you have is so wonderful, so tangible, that you find it hard to give it up in anticipation of what might be next. Who wants to trade an orchid for a hairpin? But, of course, you only have the hairpin for a minute too, and then it's a beautiful journal, a polished glass bead, an empty cigarette box, or a light bulb. All of those things have a purpose, a moment, and maybe that's what makes a moment special, when what the cosmos hands you is just what you need at that very moment. Some people seem to spend their lives out of sync, always wishing that what they had would have arrived five minutes earlier or five minutes later.... The trick is, as they say, wanting what you have, especially when what you have keeps changing.
Some day, when you're bigger, I'll teach you to hunt for shark teeth. I can wander a beach for hours, entering into a Zen-like trance when all that matters is what is right at my feet, what's right in front of me. And I'm always surprised when I finally look up to realize that I'm miles from where I started, because to me, when I'm hunting, I'm always looking for the next big one, thinking whenever I consider turning back, "But what if there's a Megalodon carcharodon tooth just ahead, just one shell pile further? What if the Big One is just ahead?" Maybe there are two kinds of people in life - those who say, "Let's call it a day" and head for home and those who keep wandering, looking up every so often to be amazed at how far they've come.
I don't know why. You're getting bigger. That's what people, what living things, do - progress and grow and develop. And I'm excited about that, about all the yous that stretch out into the future: the chubby-cheeked little monkey that climbs into our bed in the mornings, the little girl with pigtails who asks questions every thirty seconds, the awkward middle-schooler taking the first steps toward becoming her own person, the teenager who charms and sulks and surprises, the young woman taking what we've taught her and what she's discovered to create someone new.
But with each step toward those people, we leave other versions of you behind forever and I'm sad to see them go. I love the you that you are now so very much that it's hard not to be sad to see that you slipping into the rear-view mirror. Sometimes I wish I could keep you small forever, sometimes I wish I could keep 60 different versions of you (but I suppose your room would get crowded!), and sometimes I get a little bit impatient for another version to arrive. (Not usually because I'm tired of dealing with whatever the current stage entails, but more because I'm excited for what the next stage brings....)
It's like standing in some sort of cosmic bucket brigade with random objects being handed to you on the right and you have to keep passing objects to the left and letting go. Sometimes what you're looking at is something you're not particularly crazy about or something painful to hold, like a rock or a plastic bottle cap or a thistle, and passing it on is easy, or it just goes by without much notice. But so often, it's something beautiful or sweet or precious, like a flower or a childhood memory or a photograph of someone you love so much. And you want to hold it just a minute longer, just stare at it a second more and memorize every detail, or slip it in your pocket, just because you can't bear to pass it on, to know you'll never see it again, or just because what you have is so wonderful, so tangible, that you find it hard to give it up in anticipation of what might be next. Who wants to trade an orchid for a hairpin? But, of course, you only have the hairpin for a minute too, and then it's a beautiful journal, a polished glass bead, an empty cigarette box, or a light bulb. All of those things have a purpose, a moment, and maybe that's what makes a moment special, when what the cosmos hands you is just what you need at that very moment. Some people seem to spend their lives out of sync, always wishing that what they had would have arrived five minutes earlier or five minutes later.... The trick is, as they say, wanting what you have, especially when what you have keeps changing.
Some day, when you're bigger, I'll teach you to hunt for shark teeth. I can wander a beach for hours, entering into a Zen-like trance when all that matters is what is right at my feet, what's right in front of me. And I'm always surprised when I finally look up to realize that I'm miles from where I started, because to me, when I'm hunting, I'm always looking for the next big one, thinking whenever I consider turning back, "But what if there's a Megalodon carcharodon tooth just ahead, just one shell pile further? What if the Big One is just ahead?" Maybe there are two kinds of people in life - those who say, "Let's call it a day" and head for home and those who keep wandering, looking up every so often to be amazed at how far they've come.
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
The Rest
I do think about things besides you. That's probably a surprise to you (and anyone else who might be reading this), but it's true. It's impossible to focus so relentlessly on just one thing, and I do have other thoughts that shift in and out of my mind. The problem is that, to me, everything other than you is hopelessly banal for the most part, and to other people, everything you is hopelessly banal for the most part. Therein, as Dharma says, squats the toad. So I spend a lot of time keeping my own counsel.
And reading. I thumb my nose at everyone who told me that I wouldn't read again after you were born. I read less, certainly, mostly just because I'm bone-tired when I hit bed at night and can barely keep my eyes open. (And because indulging in bouts of insomnia that allow me to read until 4 a.m. are dangerous.) I've read 20+ books since you were born, and I'm not quite back to my average of 4-5 books a month, but I'm getting there. Since September, I've read, among other things:
Packing for Mars
The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nighttime
Silent on the Moor
At Home: A Short History of Private Life
The Lace Reader
Motherless Mothers
Room
Freckles and The Girl of the Limberlost (favorites of your grandma's)
Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society
The Sex Lives of Cannibals: Adrift in the Equatorial Pacific
Thinking in Pictures: My Life with Autism
The Secret Life of Marilyn Monroe
Matterhorn
Fingersmith
And, of course, I work. In the months since you've arrived, your father (and I) curated an exhibition at the Decorative Arts Center of Ohio and wrote an exhibition catalogue on Ohio decorative arts. And organized a Midwestern decorative arts conference. And lectured several places, including the Hudson, Ohio public library and the Oglebay Antiques Show. I've written newsletter articles about everything from Waterford crystal to William Henry Harrison, Christmas ornaments to the Chinese Cultural Revolution.
I've taken care of Elvis, our very sick cat; lost 40 pounds; started making homemade vegetable stock; planted nine tomato plants, three peonies, and some rhubarb; knitted socks and dishcloths; shopped for Christmas and birthdays; signed us up for a CSA membership and discovered the joys of garlic scapes; and helped your father assemble an Oldenburg wardrobe. This is how you're going to be a year old soon and I find myself wondering where the time went....
And reading. I thumb my nose at everyone who told me that I wouldn't read again after you were born. I read less, certainly, mostly just because I'm bone-tired when I hit bed at night and can barely keep my eyes open. (And because indulging in bouts of insomnia that allow me to read until 4 a.m. are dangerous.) I've read 20+ books since you were born, and I'm not quite back to my average of 4-5 books a month, but I'm getting there. Since September, I've read, among other things:
Packing for Mars
The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nighttime
Silent on the Moor
At Home: A Short History of Private Life
The Lace Reader
Motherless Mothers
Room
Freckles and The Girl of the Limberlost (favorites of your grandma's)
Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society
The Sex Lives of Cannibals: Adrift in the Equatorial Pacific
Thinking in Pictures: My Life with Autism
The Secret Life of Marilyn Monroe
Matterhorn
Fingersmith
And, of course, I work. In the months since you've arrived, your father (and I) curated an exhibition at the Decorative Arts Center of Ohio and wrote an exhibition catalogue on Ohio decorative arts. And organized a Midwestern decorative arts conference. And lectured several places, including the Hudson, Ohio public library and the Oglebay Antiques Show. I've written newsletter articles about everything from Waterford crystal to William Henry Harrison, Christmas ornaments to the Chinese Cultural Revolution.
I've taken care of Elvis, our very sick cat; lost 40 pounds; started making homemade vegetable stock; planted nine tomato plants, three peonies, and some rhubarb; knitted socks and dishcloths; shopped for Christmas and birthdays; signed us up for a CSA membership and discovered the joys of garlic scapes; and helped your father assemble an Oldenburg wardrobe. This is how you're going to be a year old soon and I find myself wondering where the time went....
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
Christmas
Having babies is difficult and women seem so often to feel bad about just how it turned out. They did or did not want an epidural, they planned or did not plan on a c-section, they were or were not going to breastfeed. Maybe they get to make the decision, maybe it gets made for them, but after living with it for awhile, they find themselves wishing something different.
Maybe it's a little like Christmas, you know? Where you think *this* year you'll have the perfect one, and you'll get the right tree and get it up weeks in advance and actually get your holiday cards out on time and you'll bake four different kinds of cookies and make time to watch all your favorite specials and you'll have your shopping done two weeks ahead of time and everything wrapped, and no matter how you plan, you end up on Christmas Eve standing in the line at the store, or trying to fit in three holiday movies before bed, or just wrapping presents at midnight on Christmas Eve and wondering exactly where you went wrong and vowing that you'll do it different next time. And you will. But you still won't get it all done just the way you'd envisioned.
At the same time, I've realized lately that this is part of the poignancy of babies, part of what makes all mothers nostalgic and tender in the presence of someone else's new baby - you can't really go back. That's a hard truth to grasp in life, especially in the world we live in. You didn't have the wedding you wanted? Spend a mint and renew your vows! You were distracted during a concert? Buy another ticket and go again! You hated being on the road over the holidays? Next year, stay home and do it up however you like! But children are different. They're like the proverbial river - you never interact with the same child twice and there's something sad and lost about that. I can never have you at three months or six months or nine months again. Those yous are gone and there are days that I break down and cry because I feel like I missed them, like I should have been watching constantly, like I was cheated out of so much by postpartum psychosis.
I have to tell you - I would put my life on a loop if I could. I would do everything over again, even the terrible parts because they lead me to you, if I could, just to keep being your mother for as long as I possibly could. And while I can't go back, I try to concentrate on looking forward - there are so many yous for me to know yet and I'm excited for all of them, even the ones that won't be my favorites. There's the you with your first skinned knee and the you with your first report card and the you with your first sleepover and the you turning one and two and three and four.... When I was pregnant, I couldn't wait to meet you, to know who you are, to see what you'd look like, but I've since realized that I will never be done knowing who you are, never done knowing what you look like, and that's an amazing thing. You're Christmas every day, with a whole new tree and a whole new set of gifts and a whole new set of joys.
I read somewhere once that there is nothing so precious and amazing and awe-inspiring as something on the verge of becoming - becoming something else, something bigger, something more - and that, my little person, is you: constantly on the verge, constantly surprising me, constantly emerging, constantly in metamorphosis from two cells to the person you'll be at the end of your life. It's all I can do not to stare in wonder at you every moment.
Maybe it's a little like Christmas, you know? Where you think *this* year you'll have the perfect one, and you'll get the right tree and get it up weeks in advance and actually get your holiday cards out on time and you'll bake four different kinds of cookies and make time to watch all your favorite specials and you'll have your shopping done two weeks ahead of time and everything wrapped, and no matter how you plan, you end up on Christmas Eve standing in the line at the store, or trying to fit in three holiday movies before bed, or just wrapping presents at midnight on Christmas Eve and wondering exactly where you went wrong and vowing that you'll do it different next time. And you will. But you still won't get it all done just the way you'd envisioned.
At the same time, I've realized lately that this is part of the poignancy of babies, part of what makes all mothers nostalgic and tender in the presence of someone else's new baby - you can't really go back. That's a hard truth to grasp in life, especially in the world we live in. You didn't have the wedding you wanted? Spend a mint and renew your vows! You were distracted during a concert? Buy another ticket and go again! You hated being on the road over the holidays? Next year, stay home and do it up however you like! But children are different. They're like the proverbial river - you never interact with the same child twice and there's something sad and lost about that. I can never have you at three months or six months or nine months again. Those yous are gone and there are days that I break down and cry because I feel like I missed them, like I should have been watching constantly, like I was cheated out of so much by postpartum psychosis.
I have to tell you - I would put my life on a loop if I could. I would do everything over again, even the terrible parts because they lead me to you, if I could, just to keep being your mother for as long as I possibly could. And while I can't go back, I try to concentrate on looking forward - there are so many yous for me to know yet and I'm excited for all of them, even the ones that won't be my favorites. There's the you with your first skinned knee and the you with your first report card and the you with your first sleepover and the you turning one and two and three and four.... When I was pregnant, I couldn't wait to meet you, to know who you are, to see what you'd look like, but I've since realized that I will never be done knowing who you are, never done knowing what you look like, and that's an amazing thing. You're Christmas every day, with a whole new tree and a whole new set of gifts and a whole new set of joys.
I read somewhere once that there is nothing so precious and amazing and awe-inspiring as something on the verge of becoming - becoming something else, something bigger, something more - and that, my little person, is you: constantly on the verge, constantly surprising me, constantly emerging, constantly in metamorphosis from two cells to the person you'll be at the end of your life. It's all I can do not to stare in wonder at you every moment.
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
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.
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.
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
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.
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.
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