Ruby has been sick for a few days. She woke with a fever on Monday morning and it rose throughout the day, dark circles deepening under her eyes.
Together, we laid on the couch and watched PBS Kids. It's been so long since she's sunk her entire weight into me and laid her head down for more than a minute or two. Since we don't nurse anymore, she's been all go-go-go--sometimes at naptime I get a little cuddle, or she'll sit on my lap when we read books. I laid there, smelling her little toddler head, stroking her hair, adjusting the blankets (blay-kett on, mama! blay-kett off, mama!), wrapping my arms around her. For two days. The first day, she fell asleep on me at naptime and it took all my will power to carry her up the stairs and lay her in her crib, but I had to because I had deadlines and angry clients.
Near the end of the second day, she started to perk up a bit. Halfway through a show, apropos of nothing (that's the joy of toddlers, is it not?), she looked up at me from her snuggled-in nook in the crook of my arm, put her hand on my cheek, and said, "Mama?"
Me: "Yes, baby?"
Ruby: "You awe my sun-sine, my own-ee sun-sine...."
She suddenly looked a little self-conscious and smiled.
I encouraged her on by singing "You make me..."
And she sang "hap-py!" in her little toddler crackle. And smiled, turned around, and snuggled back in.
This week has been hard. She has been fussy and sick and I've been worried. I've been over my head with work stuff, staying up late to try to tread water. William is in his busiest week of the season. We are stretched really thin with time and energy and good will.
But I won't, ever for a second, regret watching "Cat Hat" and "Tiger" and Wild Kratts for two days straight on the couch with my baby. For just smelling her head and wrapping my arms around her and adjusting the blay-ketts just so.
Her vocabulary is exploding. Her imagination is starting to run wild. Her legs are getting long. She asks to walk instead of be carried. Everything I try to do for her, she says "I self! I self!"
I knew it would go fast. Everyone warned me.
I am totally going to be that mother doing embarrassing things to and for her baby long after she is a baby.
I am so damn lucky to have this child, who makes me laugh, who makes me cry, who shatters my heart, who inspires me to be a kinder, gentler, more patient person, who gives me a purpose beyond anything else I have ever known.
I hope she always knows the fierceness with which I love her, and that if she is ever sick—9 months, 9 years, 29 years, 99 years—I will always curl up on the couch with her and stroke her hair and I will never, ever want to get up.
Wednesday, December 3, 2014
Wednesday, June 4, 2014
The Golden Hour
Photographers have a phrase they use for that magical set of moments that happen just after the day ends but before night begins. It's a sliver between dinner and dusk, when that perfect golden light shimmers down and makes everything glow.
It's the golden hour. It never feels like it lasts a full hour. Or maybe because it's so beautiful and perfect, it just flies by.
I put Ruby down in the golden hour these days. We're hitting those nice, long hours of daylight, and so about 6:30 we head upstairs, and the sun is streaming in her western-facing windows.
First, we change diapers and put on jammies. This has lately often involved some temper tantrums because Ruby has been waking at 5 a.m. (or earlier) and she is not getting enough sleep. She also is soooooo bored by the routine of life—diaper changing and jammie putting-onning that she can't possibly be expected to tolerate for more than thirty seconds because she is busy and has work to do. So what we call dipie-jammy-milkie-ni-ni also involves a bit of performance. First, Twinkle Twinkle was a hit: Ruby would fill in as a backup singer, much to my delight. It would go like this:
Me: Ruby! Ruby! Hey! Let's put our arms in the shirt sleeves, OK?
Ruby: ARRRAAHHGHGHG (thrashing, rolling, kicking)
Me: Hey! You know what? If you just do this, we can be done already. Here, put your arm in.
Ruby: WAHHHHHHH UH-UH! uh-UH! (arm-waving, head shaking)
Me: Ok, um, do you want to sing Twinkle, Twinkle?
Ruby: WAAAH--...
Me: Twinkle, twinkle little star, how I wonder what you
Ruby: awwwwwwwwwh
(In unison now)
Me: Up above the world so high
Ruby: Up bop bop bop
(Ruby drops out)
Me: Like a diamond in the sky/ Twinkle twinkle little
Ruby: saaaaaaawwwwwh
Me: how I wonder what you
Ruby: awwwwwwh
on particularly participatory nights she will start over with the "up bop bop bop" and I will indulge her with another round.
Then Twinkle, Twinkle lost its distracting capabilities. We moved on to Wheels on the Bus (which I only know a few verses of and I'm quite sure I sing them in the wrong order) because she likes to participate with the swish, swish, swish of the wipers and the "move on back" of the driver, and especially the "shh shh shh" of the mommies on the bus—but not the wah, wah, wah of the babies —oh, the irony, right?
We have also started to incorporate Itsy Bitsy Spider to switch things up a bit.
Sometimes we read a book or two if Ruby can hold out and is interested. I always let her choose which ones she wants to read, and she is starting to be able to communicate that she knows which books have what stories on the inside. (If I choose a book she doesn't want to read, she will say 'uh-UH!' and wave her arms, acting completely affronted.) Two of her books feature some measure of "shhhh"-ing, so when she chooses those books from the shelf, she will approach me making the "shhh" noise and hand me the book. Sometimes we make it through three books. Sometimes we only make it three pages, and she will turn her face to me and want to nurse.
Then we put the books down and snuggle up, her one arm around me, her other arm resting on my chest, and she begins to nurse. The sun coming in the window by this point is golden-hour light. Her flaxen hair glimmers. Our skin glows. We look into each other's eyes and if I smile at her, barely imperceptible crinkles form at the corners of her eyes. If I stroke her hair, rub her earlobes, or run my fingers in circles on her back, her eyes half-close in bliss. I take deep breaths. So does she. Sometimes she will pull away, study my face, and smile up at me. Sometimes I get an un-asked for kiss, which is about the best thing ever and fills my heart to nearly bursting.
Eventually, she drifts off. I have only missed a couple of bedtimes since Ruby was born nearly 17 months ago. That's nearly 72 weeks. 503 bedtimes. There are many nights when she falls asleep within minutes, and I find myself still snuggled up to her a half hour later, watching her face relax, her lashes brushing her cheeks, her chest rise and fall, feeling her little fingers twitch as she slumbers. Sometimes I'm still sitting there long after it has grown dark.
I lay her down in her crib and tiptoe out.
I can remember lying in bed in the summer when I was a little kid. I had Care Bears pillowcases (still do!) and crisp, clean sheets dried in the summer sun, and my nightgowns were often my grandma's creations. My southern-facing windows carried the warmest, sweetest breezes, and would catch the scent of Mr. Marxer's apple blossoms next door, the lilac bush in the backyard. I can remember snuggling up with my mom, reading stories together. Sometimes it would be a set of poems. Maybe a short story or even a magazine article. Eventually we graduated into chapter books. But all of this reminded me of a poem that she taught me, and that I still love:
Between the dark and the daylight,
When the night is beginning to lower,
Comes a pause in the day's occupations,
That is known as the Children's Hour.
I hear in the chamber above me
The patter of little feet,
The sound of a door that is opened,
And voices soft and sweet.
From my study I see in the lamplight,
Descending the broad hall stair,
Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra,
And Edith with golden hair.
A whisper, and then a silence:
Yet I know by their merry eyes
They are plotting and planning together
To take me by surprise.
A sudden rush from the stairway,
A sudden raid from the hall!
By three doors left unguarded
They enter my castle wall!
They climb up into my turret
O'er the arms and back of my chair;
If I try to escape, they surround me;
They seem to be everywhere.
They almost devour me with kisses,
Their arms about me entwine,
Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen
In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine!
Do you think, o blue-eyed banditi,
Because you have scaled the wall,
Such an old mustache as I am
Is not a match for you all!
I have you fast in my fortress,
And will not let you depart,
But put you down into the dungeon
In the round-tower of my heart.
And there will I keep you forever,
Yes, forever and a day,
Till the walls shall crumble to ruin,
And moulder in dust away!!
—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
It's when things feel so beautiful and close and connected. It's a little wisp of time, passing too quickly, but filled with such love and tenderness. It's golden.
It's the golden hour. It never feels like it lasts a full hour. Or maybe because it's so beautiful and perfect, it just flies by.
I put Ruby down in the golden hour these days. We're hitting those nice, long hours of daylight, and so about 6:30 we head upstairs, and the sun is streaming in her western-facing windows.
First, we change diapers and put on jammies. This has lately often involved some temper tantrums because Ruby has been waking at 5 a.m. (or earlier) and she is not getting enough sleep. She also is soooooo bored by the routine of life—diaper changing and jammie putting-onning that she can't possibly be expected to tolerate for more than thirty seconds because she is busy and has work to do. So what we call dipie-jammy-milkie-ni-ni also involves a bit of performance. First, Twinkle Twinkle was a hit: Ruby would fill in as a backup singer, much to my delight. It would go like this:
Me: Ruby! Ruby! Hey! Let's put our arms in the shirt sleeves, OK?
Ruby: ARRRAAHHGHGHG (thrashing, rolling, kicking)
Me: Hey! You know what? If you just do this, we can be done already. Here, put your arm in.
Ruby: WAHHHHHHH UH-UH! uh-UH! (arm-waving, head shaking)
Me: Ok, um, do you want to sing Twinkle, Twinkle?
Ruby: WAAAH--...
Me: Twinkle, twinkle little star, how I wonder what you
Ruby: awwwwwwwwwh
(In unison now)
Me: Up above the world so high
Ruby: Up bop bop bop
(Ruby drops out)
Me: Like a diamond in the sky/ Twinkle twinkle little
Ruby: saaaaaaawwwwwh
Me: how I wonder what you
Ruby: awwwwwwh
on particularly participatory nights she will start over with the "up bop bop bop" and I will indulge her with another round.
Then Twinkle, Twinkle lost its distracting capabilities. We moved on to Wheels on the Bus (which I only know a few verses of and I'm quite sure I sing them in the wrong order) because she likes to participate with the swish, swish, swish of the wipers and the "move on back" of the driver, and especially the "shh shh shh" of the mommies on the bus—but not the wah, wah, wah of the babies —oh, the irony, right?
We have also started to incorporate Itsy Bitsy Spider to switch things up a bit.
Sometimes we read a book or two if Ruby can hold out and is interested. I always let her choose which ones she wants to read, and she is starting to be able to communicate that she knows which books have what stories on the inside. (If I choose a book she doesn't want to read, she will say 'uh-UH!' and wave her arms, acting completely affronted.) Two of her books feature some measure of "shhhh"-ing, so when she chooses those books from the shelf, she will approach me making the "shhh" noise and hand me the book. Sometimes we make it through three books. Sometimes we only make it three pages, and she will turn her face to me and want to nurse.
Then we put the books down and snuggle up, her one arm around me, her other arm resting on my chest, and she begins to nurse. The sun coming in the window by this point is golden-hour light. Her flaxen hair glimmers. Our skin glows. We look into each other's eyes and if I smile at her, barely imperceptible crinkles form at the corners of her eyes. If I stroke her hair, rub her earlobes, or run my fingers in circles on her back, her eyes half-close in bliss. I take deep breaths. So does she. Sometimes she will pull away, study my face, and smile up at me. Sometimes I get an un-asked for kiss, which is about the best thing ever and fills my heart to nearly bursting.
Eventually, she drifts off. I have only missed a couple of bedtimes since Ruby was born nearly 17 months ago. That's nearly 72 weeks. 503 bedtimes. There are many nights when she falls asleep within minutes, and I find myself still snuggled up to her a half hour later, watching her face relax, her lashes brushing her cheeks, her chest rise and fall, feeling her little fingers twitch as she slumbers. Sometimes I'm still sitting there long after it has grown dark.
I lay her down in her crib and tiptoe out.
I can remember lying in bed in the summer when I was a little kid. I had Care Bears pillowcases (still do!) and crisp, clean sheets dried in the summer sun, and my nightgowns were often my grandma's creations. My southern-facing windows carried the warmest, sweetest breezes, and would catch the scent of Mr. Marxer's apple blossoms next door, the lilac bush in the backyard. I can remember snuggling up with my mom, reading stories together. Sometimes it would be a set of poems. Maybe a short story or even a magazine article. Eventually we graduated into chapter books. But all of this reminded me of a poem that she taught me, and that I still love:
Between the dark and the daylight,
When the night is beginning to lower,
Comes a pause in the day's occupations,
That is known as the Children's Hour.
I hear in the chamber above me
The patter of little feet,
The sound of a door that is opened,
And voices soft and sweet.
From my study I see in the lamplight,
Descending the broad hall stair,
Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra,
And Edith with golden hair.
A whisper, and then a silence:
Yet I know by their merry eyes
They are plotting and planning together
To take me by surprise.
A sudden rush from the stairway,
A sudden raid from the hall!
By three doors left unguarded
They enter my castle wall!
They climb up into my turret
O'er the arms and back of my chair;
If I try to escape, they surround me;
They seem to be everywhere.
They almost devour me with kisses,
Their arms about me entwine,
Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen
In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine!
Do you think, o blue-eyed banditi,
Because you have scaled the wall,
Such an old mustache as I am
Is not a match for you all!
I have you fast in my fortress,
And will not let you depart,
But put you down into the dungeon
In the round-tower of my heart.
And there will I keep you forever,
Yes, forever and a day,
Till the walls shall crumble to ruin,
And moulder in dust away!!
—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
It's when things feel so beautiful and close and connected. It's a little wisp of time, passing too quickly, but filled with such love and tenderness. It's golden.
Wednesday, March 12, 2014
13-14 Months
My dear Babycakes,
I'm rarely at my computer anymore to write to you, and yet it's one thing I want to make sure I do. Because I can't bottle up all of the things I feel right now to uncork later when I need to, or maybe someday if you want to. That's what this place is for.
But I can't tear myself away from you. For real. I spend so much time with you because I can see that it is slipping away much more quickly than I would like it to.
I'm a weirdo, I think. I have loved every stage of you. Each time you enter a new phase, I think, "This is the best!" Certainly there hard, frustrating, challenging moments, but you have also challenged me to be a better human being. To dig deep. To "practice patience," as I say to you when you bang your hands angrily on your highchair tray or try to spaghetti-limb your way out of the car seat. To say "This too shall pass," when something feels so hard or never-ending. To embrace change. To realize I can't do it all, and that I can't quite keep up with my social life (and a few other things, like housework) the way I'd like to.
Last night after you went to bed, I was scrolling through my phone photos. Even photos taken of you at Christmastime—I see a baby. You crossed over into toddlerhood somewhere when I wasn't looking. I did not allow this, and yet it happened.
I realize over and over again how being a parent is really an exercise in letting go.
Randomly, and not planned in any way, you stopped sleeping in my arms at night. This has been harder than I thought it would be. I went out for a birthday party and after a goodly fight between you and your daddy, you slept in the crib. He didn't intend to put you in there until you fell asleep, just to get a quick break. He thought you'd want to come back and snuggle after a minute. Instead you passed right out. We've run with it. you've slept in your crib for nearly a week now. You are still waking at night a few times, but we think between Daylight Savings and the transition (and I think I spot a molar in there) it makes sense that it's not perfect yet.
Part of my parenting plan is to let things happen. For you to signal to us in one way or another that you are ready for something. For example, you are nearly 14 months old, and we are still breastfeeding. You have asked for it less during the day, but you still seem to relish our morning and evening feedings, and it helps you fall asleep for afternoon naps. It also comforts you while teething. I'm loath to give up something that seems so easy for me and you, and that provides nourishment and comfort. And frankly, now that you are such a busybody, it's so nice to have some cuddle time (when you aren't trying to do three-legged dog or downward dog while nursing, that is).
So I'm letting it happen. I'm rolling with you moving into your crib. But I'm already missing you in my arms, snuggling in for the night together, waking up at midnight with your hand nestled in mine. I miss feeling your sweet breath on my skin, or watching your eyes flutter open for the first time each day. The last two nights you have fallen asleep pretty quickly in my arms, and I have sat there in the dark for much longer, hugging your warm little footie-pajama-clad body and just feeling so damn grateful to be your mom.
But on the other hand, your words and comprehension are exploding. You went from saying "hi," "mama," and "daddy" around 7 months, adding in a few things along the way. Then you had a quiet period where you regressed back to only those three words. And now, another explosion. You are starting to parrot things we say.
Just last night you pointed to the mobile above your changing table. I said "That's an owl. Can you say owl? And what does the owl say? Hoot hoot!" Tonight, you did the same thing. I said, "That's an owl." You said, "Ow-oh. Hoo hoo!" You also called your cousin by name finally—but called him Dups instead of Gus. So endearing. You are saying "up, up, up" and holding your hands out to be held or carried. I think you tried to say "help" tonight. You say "too-stie" when you see a cup of water or milk. You called Papa—my daddy—Papa the other day. You looove your daddy. You love to watch him out the window if he's working in the yard. You wave and yell "Di-ddy! Di-ddy" over and over. Speaking of people you love, you are CRAY over your auntie Susie, who you are named after. Every Monday when she comes to play with you, you go bananas. You wiggle your hands and wave out the window and last week you even squealed with delight when you saw her coming up the walk. I love it. It makes me so happy that you have a special relationship with my sister, and one of my best friends.
You are in a books phase. Sometimes you will spend upwards of 15 minutes sitting on a pillow in front of your bookshelf, flipping the pages of board books. One night I read a magazine as you did this. Then I had a flash of feeling like I should be more directly engaged with you. I looked up to see if you were bored. You looked up at me and just BEAMED. It was the best. You will sit in our laps and let us read several in a row sometimes, too. You will bring a book over to one of us, drop it in our lap or hand, and then hold your hands out to be lifted onto our laps. You snuggle your body into us and it is the sweetest, most wonderful moment, every single time.
When we say "uh oh," you often look at Ernie, because he is so naughty! That one cracks me up. You love the dogs. They make you laugh. And you are 99 percent of the time very gentle with or toward them. Ernie loves you very much. Murray is terrified of you, but he is making progress—he even sniffed your hand the other day. He is terrified of life, so I don't really see this as a black mark on your record.
You have wild hair and big fat teeth and a giant dimple in your right cheek and round blue eyes. You are silly and charming and funny and maybe a little impy. You are curious and sweet, rocking your baby doll and patting her on the back. You give your stuffed animals kisses. You whisper words when you aren't quite sure how to say them, or if you are feeling shy. You love rides on your bumblebee roller toy and being tossed in the air and tickled. You are petite—tall but small-boned, and you are a skinny little minnie. You love food. You have not turned down a thing yet, from spicy Thai soup to posole at day care to pineapple and grapefruit. You love ham and chicken and broccoli. Anything we have, you want.
I hope you always throw yourself into life this way. I hope you always love so freely, that you stay true to you. I hope you always let people see your sweet nature and that it will remain uncompromised by "cooler" pursuits or attitudes. I hope you always feel so confident to say hi to a stranger or try a new food. I hope you will be an adventurer, but never stray far from your roots. Because I would miss you too much.
Love,
Mama
I'm rarely at my computer anymore to write to you, and yet it's one thing I want to make sure I do. Because I can't bottle up all of the things I feel right now to uncork later when I need to, or maybe someday if you want to. That's what this place is for.
But I can't tear myself away from you. For real. I spend so much time with you because I can see that it is slipping away much more quickly than I would like it to.
I'm a weirdo, I think. I have loved every stage of you. Each time you enter a new phase, I think, "This is the best!" Certainly there hard, frustrating, challenging moments, but you have also challenged me to be a better human being. To dig deep. To "practice patience," as I say to you when you bang your hands angrily on your highchair tray or try to spaghetti-limb your way out of the car seat. To say "This too shall pass," when something feels so hard or never-ending. To embrace change. To realize I can't do it all, and that I can't quite keep up with my social life (and a few other things, like housework) the way I'd like to.
Last night after you went to bed, I was scrolling through my phone photos. Even photos taken of you at Christmastime—I see a baby. You crossed over into toddlerhood somewhere when I wasn't looking. I did not allow this, and yet it happened.
I realize over and over again how being a parent is really an exercise in letting go.
Randomly, and not planned in any way, you stopped sleeping in my arms at night. This has been harder than I thought it would be. I went out for a birthday party and after a goodly fight between you and your daddy, you slept in the crib. He didn't intend to put you in there until you fell asleep, just to get a quick break. He thought you'd want to come back and snuggle after a minute. Instead you passed right out. We've run with it. you've slept in your crib for nearly a week now. You are still waking at night a few times, but we think between Daylight Savings and the transition (and I think I spot a molar in there) it makes sense that it's not perfect yet.
Part of my parenting plan is to let things happen. For you to signal to us in one way or another that you are ready for something. For example, you are nearly 14 months old, and we are still breastfeeding. You have asked for it less during the day, but you still seem to relish our morning and evening feedings, and it helps you fall asleep for afternoon naps. It also comforts you while teething. I'm loath to give up something that seems so easy for me and you, and that provides nourishment and comfort. And frankly, now that you are such a busybody, it's so nice to have some cuddle time (when you aren't trying to do three-legged dog or downward dog while nursing, that is).
So I'm letting it happen. I'm rolling with you moving into your crib. But I'm already missing you in my arms, snuggling in for the night together, waking up at midnight with your hand nestled in mine. I miss feeling your sweet breath on my skin, or watching your eyes flutter open for the first time each day. The last two nights you have fallen asleep pretty quickly in my arms, and I have sat there in the dark for much longer, hugging your warm little footie-pajama-clad body and just feeling so damn grateful to be your mom.
But on the other hand, your words and comprehension are exploding. You went from saying "hi," "mama," and "daddy" around 7 months, adding in a few things along the way. Then you had a quiet period where you regressed back to only those three words. And now, another explosion. You are starting to parrot things we say.
Just last night you pointed to the mobile above your changing table. I said "That's an owl. Can you say owl? And what does the owl say? Hoot hoot!" Tonight, you did the same thing. I said, "That's an owl." You said, "Ow-oh. Hoo hoo!" You also called your cousin by name finally—but called him Dups instead of Gus. So endearing. You are saying "up, up, up" and holding your hands out to be held or carried. I think you tried to say "help" tonight. You say "too-stie" when you see a cup of water or milk. You called Papa—my daddy—Papa the other day. You looove your daddy. You love to watch him out the window if he's working in the yard. You wave and yell "Di-ddy! Di-ddy" over and over. Speaking of people you love, you are CRAY over your auntie Susie, who you are named after. Every Monday when she comes to play with you, you go bananas. You wiggle your hands and wave out the window and last week you even squealed with delight when you saw her coming up the walk. I love it. It makes me so happy that you have a special relationship with my sister, and one of my best friends.
You are in a books phase. Sometimes you will spend upwards of 15 minutes sitting on a pillow in front of your bookshelf, flipping the pages of board books. One night I read a magazine as you did this. Then I had a flash of feeling like I should be more directly engaged with you. I looked up to see if you were bored. You looked up at me and just BEAMED. It was the best. You will sit in our laps and let us read several in a row sometimes, too. You will bring a book over to one of us, drop it in our lap or hand, and then hold your hands out to be lifted onto our laps. You snuggle your body into us and it is the sweetest, most wonderful moment, every single time.
When we say "uh oh," you often look at Ernie, because he is so naughty! That one cracks me up. You love the dogs. They make you laugh. And you are 99 percent of the time very gentle with or toward them. Ernie loves you very much. Murray is terrified of you, but he is making progress—he even sniffed your hand the other day. He is terrified of life, so I don't really see this as a black mark on your record.
You have wild hair and big fat teeth and a giant dimple in your right cheek and round blue eyes. You are silly and charming and funny and maybe a little impy. You are curious and sweet, rocking your baby doll and patting her on the back. You give your stuffed animals kisses. You whisper words when you aren't quite sure how to say them, or if you are feeling shy. You love rides on your bumblebee roller toy and being tossed in the air and tickled. You are petite—tall but small-boned, and you are a skinny little minnie. You love food. You have not turned down a thing yet, from spicy Thai soup to posole at day care to pineapple and grapefruit. You love ham and chicken and broccoli. Anything we have, you want.
I hope you always throw yourself into life this way. I hope you always love so freely, that you stay true to you. I hope you always let people see your sweet nature and that it will remain uncompromised by "cooler" pursuits or attitudes. I hope you always feel so confident to say hi to a stranger or try a new food. I hope you will be an adventurer, but never stray far from your roots. Because I would miss you too much.
Love,
Mama
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