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
Wednesday, March 12, 2014
Tuesday, July 23, 2013
Five and Six Months
My dear Babycakes,
It is almost impossible to believe, but you have already been on Earth for six whole months. I have failed in writing to you, but I am attempting to get it all down now. I remember when we were planning for your arrival, thinking about when you'd hit the six month mark, and how July 2013 truly felt a lifetime away. Even after you arrived in frigid, frigid January, I couldn't imagine a summer. I couldn't imagine you being more than this tiny, helpless babylette who really couldn't tell me much besides when I was clearly doing a terrible, terrible thing to you (examples: putting a onesie over your head, letting you be cold (sorry! It was January! and -40! and we even put a space heater in the bedroom for extra heat...sometimes, you just gotta have a diaper change.) I called you Mount Saint Ruby in those moments, because you would erupt in angry feelings, but then just as quickly drift back off into babysleepland.
My sweet girl. You are already five months old. How can that be? I scroll through my phone photos and I see the progression, but it still doesn't quite compute.
At five weeks on the dot, you smiled at me. Real smiles. At five months, you smile these giant gummy smiles, complete with a dimple. You scrunch your nose and squinch your eyes; your dad and I call it the "twinkles" smile. You have chubby little thighs and sweet little feet, both of which I kiss over and over and over until you squeal and wave your arms in the air.
You seem to love life, my little one, and I hope that is something that never fades. You watch Ernie and Murray tussle on the floor and smile at their silliness. Your dad walks in the room and it's like all the rest of the world falls away—you gaze at him adoringly and do whatever it takes to catch his eye.
Everywhere we go, people comment on "what a good baby" you are. You smile at them, coo, and you let all of our friends snuggle you, which brings everyone no end of delight. As long as you are with people, you are happy. You are so good, in fact, that Mama and Daddy sometimes forget that you need to have quiet time, or take a nap, or whatever. Sleeping during the day is not so much your thing, and neither is sleeping by yourself. I get it. Cuddles are so nice.
When you were first born, I would lay on my side nad nurse you in bed at night and you would fit from my boob to my belly button. A tiny little bundle. Now we lie together and you can stretch from my shoulders to damn near my knees. When I lay you on the bed, you automatically roll on your side, smiling your gummy smile at me (if you aren't squawking at me to hurry up, that is), and you hold out your hands in just the formation you like them while you nurse to sleep at night.
You thrash around in the morning before you open your eyes, as if coming to for you is like trying to find the surface of the water. I get it. It's hard for me to wake up, too. But the great thing about it is that you often wake me just a few moments before you open your eyes for the first time each day. And each day those huge cornflower-blues open up and look right at me. You blink a couple times, as if to ascertain whether you are dreaming, and then you smile. Those few quiet moments before the day gets started have become so precious to me. I love being with you in those first few moments of consciousness. You often want to get moving right away, but sometimes if I snuggle you up tight, we just melt together and whisper and smile at each other and it is our special time. Baby, you have made me love 5:45 a.m. It's a damn miracle.
I can say with all honesty that I have loved every stage of you. The snuggly, gangly, blurry-eyed swaddled-newborn phase, the three-month hey-am-i-awake-and-is-that-my-hand phase. This five-and-six month phase has been a dream. You are sweet and smart, inquisitive and easily pleased. Watching your ten tiny toes barely graze the floor as you hop around in your exersaucer, watching you curl up into a pretzel to eat your toes, seeing you figure out how to turn over and push up on your kissable biceps... with your one long lock of hair that swoops up in front, your giant eyes with daddy's eyelashes, your dimple--you look like a living, breathing Kewpie doll. You have tried mangoes (which made you smile, even as you got full-body shivers), avocado (you made a terrible face but lunged for more as soon as I offered it), and you try to commandeer drinking glasses ... you tried your own sippy cup this week successfully...you didn't even need my help.
Some days I look at you and my eyes fill with tears, because I am so happy to be your mom. There are a few things I am good at, and a lot of things that I am not, but I remember not long after you were born I was rocking you in bed, a total mess: bathrobe, hair everywhere, crap all over the bedroom. Daddy came in and asked what we were up to. My eyes were already full as I told him: This. I was meant to do this.
It's true, baby. I have never felt more purposeful than when I am with you. I know in my heart of hearts I want you to grow and change and hit all your milestones, but my baby, I am not in a hurry for you to grow anywhere. You take your sweet time. I will enjoy every single second of it.
Love,
Mama
It is almost impossible to believe, but you have already been on Earth for six whole months. I have failed in writing to you, but I am attempting to get it all down now. I remember when we were planning for your arrival, thinking about when you'd hit the six month mark, and how July 2013 truly felt a lifetime away. Even after you arrived in frigid, frigid January, I couldn't imagine a summer. I couldn't imagine you being more than this tiny, helpless babylette who really couldn't tell me much besides when I was clearly doing a terrible, terrible thing to you (examples: putting a onesie over your head, letting you be cold (sorry! It was January! and -40! and we even put a space heater in the bedroom for extra heat...sometimes, you just gotta have a diaper change.) I called you Mount Saint Ruby in those moments, because you would erupt in angry feelings, but then just as quickly drift back off into babysleepland.
My sweet girl. You are already five months old. How can that be? I scroll through my phone photos and I see the progression, but it still doesn't quite compute.
At five weeks on the dot, you smiled at me. Real smiles. At five months, you smile these giant gummy smiles, complete with a dimple. You scrunch your nose and squinch your eyes; your dad and I call it the "twinkles" smile. You have chubby little thighs and sweet little feet, both of which I kiss over and over and over until you squeal and wave your arms in the air.
You seem to love life, my little one, and I hope that is something that never fades. You watch Ernie and Murray tussle on the floor and smile at their silliness. Your dad walks in the room and it's like all the rest of the world falls away—you gaze at him adoringly and do whatever it takes to catch his eye.
Everywhere we go, people comment on "what a good baby" you are. You smile at them, coo, and you let all of our friends snuggle you, which brings everyone no end of delight. As long as you are with people, you are happy. You are so good, in fact, that Mama and Daddy sometimes forget that you need to have quiet time, or take a nap, or whatever. Sleeping during the day is not so much your thing, and neither is sleeping by yourself. I get it. Cuddles are so nice.
When you were first born, I would lay on my side nad nurse you in bed at night and you would fit from my boob to my belly button. A tiny little bundle. Now we lie together and you can stretch from my shoulders to damn near my knees. When I lay you on the bed, you automatically roll on your side, smiling your gummy smile at me (if you aren't squawking at me to hurry up, that is), and you hold out your hands in just the formation you like them while you nurse to sleep at night.
You thrash around in the morning before you open your eyes, as if coming to for you is like trying to find the surface of the water. I get it. It's hard for me to wake up, too. But the great thing about it is that you often wake me just a few moments before you open your eyes for the first time each day. And each day those huge cornflower-blues open up and look right at me. You blink a couple times, as if to ascertain whether you are dreaming, and then you smile. Those few quiet moments before the day gets started have become so precious to me. I love being with you in those first few moments of consciousness. You often want to get moving right away, but sometimes if I snuggle you up tight, we just melt together and whisper and smile at each other and it is our special time. Baby, you have made me love 5:45 a.m. It's a damn miracle.
I can say with all honesty that I have loved every stage of you. The snuggly, gangly, blurry-eyed swaddled-newborn phase, the three-month hey-am-i-awake-and-is-that-my-hand phase. This five-and-six month phase has been a dream. You are sweet and smart, inquisitive and easily pleased. Watching your ten tiny toes barely graze the floor as you hop around in your exersaucer, watching you curl up into a pretzel to eat your toes, seeing you figure out how to turn over and push up on your kissable biceps... with your one long lock of hair that swoops up in front, your giant eyes with daddy's eyelashes, your dimple--you look like a living, breathing Kewpie doll. You have tried mangoes (which made you smile, even as you got full-body shivers), avocado (you made a terrible face but lunged for more as soon as I offered it), and you try to commandeer drinking glasses ... you tried your own sippy cup this week successfully...you didn't even need my help.
Some days I look at you and my eyes fill with tears, because I am so happy to be your mom. There are a few things I am good at, and a lot of things that I am not, but I remember not long after you were born I was rocking you in bed, a total mess: bathrobe, hair everywhere, crap all over the bedroom. Daddy came in and asked what we were up to. My eyes were already full as I told him: This. I was meant to do this.
It's true, baby. I have never felt more purposeful than when I am with you. I know in my heart of hearts I want you to grow and change and hit all your milestones, but my baby, I am not in a hurry for you to grow anywhere. You take your sweet time. I will enjoy every single second of it.
Love,
Mama
Sunday, January 6, 2013
Any Minute (or Maybe Not)
Dear Babycakes,
Man, I have No Idea what you are up to in there. Last week, the midwife said I'm dilating, even just lying here on the couch. And right now I can feel you moving around—it feels like you are trying to swim right out.
When I woke up this morning, I had that same eyes-snapping-open feeling I had the day after I found out you were trying to make a hasty exit. Cramps and racing heart and sweaty palms. In fact, I've been having cramps on and off for a couple of days. I have to think that maybe, maybe—no, surely—we are a little bit, or a lot bit, closer than we were even just four days ago.
I did not really bring myself to think about the end of pregnancy for this entire pregnancy. Because you spend so much time holding this baby in, hoping things get baked to the right degree, hoping against everything for sheer normalcy.
I didn't think about what it would feel like to be a ticking time bomb. About to go at any minute. But yet, here we are. It really could be any minute.Your dad went to a basketball game tonight and I so wanted him to. We need our friend time and time out of the house (He might as well have it, even if I can't), but on the other hand I want to keep him tethered close to me, because I cannot do this without him and even though I know the odds are it will take awhile, we have family history and your impatience to know that it might also happen kind of fast.
But again: I am working on my resolution to Let Go. It could be days. It could be weeks. But probably not.
Soon, soon we will see your sweet face and we will truly meet you for the first time. Because even though you and I have been one for months, we will start a whole new chapter, where we are two separate beings, and your dad and I (and your fursiblings) can learn all about who you are. And that, my child, THAT is what is most exciting of all.
love,
Mama
Man, I have No Idea what you are up to in there. Last week, the midwife said I'm dilating, even just lying here on the couch. And right now I can feel you moving around—it feels like you are trying to swim right out.
When I woke up this morning, I had that same eyes-snapping-open feeling I had the day after I found out you were trying to make a hasty exit. Cramps and racing heart and sweaty palms. In fact, I've been having cramps on and off for a couple of days. I have to think that maybe, maybe—no, surely—we are a little bit, or a lot bit, closer than we were even just four days ago.
I did not really bring myself to think about the end of pregnancy for this entire pregnancy. Because you spend so much time holding this baby in, hoping things get baked to the right degree, hoping against everything for sheer normalcy.
I didn't think about what it would feel like to be a ticking time bomb. About to go at any minute. But yet, here we are. It really could be any minute.Your dad went to a basketball game tonight and I so wanted him to. We need our friend time and time out of the house (He might as well have it, even if I can't), but on the other hand I want to keep him tethered close to me, because I cannot do this without him and even though I know the odds are it will take awhile, we have family history and your impatience to know that it might also happen kind of fast.
But again: I am working on my resolution to Let Go. It could be days. It could be weeks. But probably not.
Soon, soon we will see your sweet face and we will truly meet you for the first time. Because even though you and I have been one for months, we will start a whole new chapter, where we are two separate beings, and your dad and I (and your fursiblings) can learn all about who you are. And that, my child, THAT is what is most exciting of all.
love,
Mama
Monday, December 31, 2012
Year in Review (Spoiler Alert: I'm Growing a Baby)
1. What did you do in
2012 that you’d never done before?
The pregnancy. And everything that goes along with it. Hm, well I might have set a record for dry heaving while brushing my teeth? Found ways to casually drop into conversation that I was pregnant? Saw my baby girl for the first time on an ultrasound. I mean, I grew her bones and nervous system and everything! I also went on bed rest and tried to hold her in. I think she’s definitely going to be a 2013 baby now!
2. Did you keep your New Year’s resolutions, and will you make more for next year?
The pregnancy. And everything that goes along with it. Hm, well I might have set a record for dry heaving while brushing my teeth? Found ways to casually drop into conversation that I was pregnant? Saw my baby girl for the first time on an ultrasound. I mean, I grew her bones and nervous system and everything! I also went on bed rest and tried to hold her in. I think she’s definitely going to be a 2013 baby now!
2. Did you keep your New Year’s resolutions, and will you make more for next year?
I don’t actually
think I made any last year. I should make some for next year, to hang onto when
I feel like I’m drowning in new motherhood.
3. Did anyone close to you have a child?
3. Did anyone close to you have a child?
Babies, babies
everywhere! Yes! Not to put a ranking on it, but the baby born that is closest
to me is my nephew, born Memorial Day weekend. He is pretty much the cutest,
sweetest, happiest, squeezeable-ist, most loveable-ist baby in the WORLD. Oh
Gus, we are so in love with you, buddy. You rock my world.
4. Did anyone close to you die?
4. Did anyone close to you die?
No. Thank God.
5. Where did you travel?
5. Where did you travel?
To the midwife and back again. Yeah, we didn’t go
anywhere this year.
6. What would you like to have in 2013 that you lacked in 2012?
6. What would you like to have in 2013 that you lacked in 2012?
A happy,
healthy, darling, squeezable baby! (Not that the pregnancy was lacking...well, you know what I mean).
And a niiiiiiiice
glass of whiskey.
And oh my god, I want
to be able to take a damn ibuprofen for a headache.
Oh, and to drink the
bottle of Veuve Cliquot that has been waiting for me since our wedding
anniversary.
I'm not even going to attempt to say "free time" here.
7. What dates from 2012 will remain etched upon your memory?
I can’t remember the exact date, but I will never forget the look on William’s face when I told him that I was pregnant. He said, “Really?” And I nodded my head yes. And then he said, “Really really?” And I said, “yes!” And he picked me up and swung me around in the sunroom. (That was pre-nausea.)
8. What was your biggest achievement of the year?
Well, I managed to puke and rally on one of the hottest days of the year to help William at an outdoor craft fair! I got a great review at work. I grew a baby. Are we sensing a pattern here?
9. Did you suffer illness or injury?
7. What dates from 2012 will remain etched upon your memory?
I can’t remember the exact date, but I will never forget the look on William’s face when I told him that I was pregnant. He said, “Really?” And I nodded my head yes. And then he said, “Really really?” And I said, “yes!” And he picked me up and swung me around in the sunroom. (That was pre-nausea.)
8. What was your biggest achievement of the year?
Well, I managed to puke and rally on one of the hottest days of the year to help William at an outdoor craft fair! I got a great review at work. I grew a baby. Are we sensing a pattern here?
9. Did you suffer illness or injury?
No injury, and
pregnancy isn’t an illness, I realize, but oh man, it certainly has its low
points. That first trimester-plus was HORRIFIC. And also instantly (nearly)
forgotten when I saw her little profile on the 20-week ultrasound.
10. What was the best thing you bought?
10. What was the best thing you bought?
I suppose my First
Response pregnancy test!
11. Whose behavior merited celebration?
Oh man, there were some voters who I would like to personally hug and kiss for their smart choices.
11. Whose behavior merited celebration?
Oh man, there were some voters who I would like to personally hug and kiss for their smart choices.
William has been so
awesome while I have been on bed rest—attending to everything while getting
through the busy season for work and getting ready for the baby.
My family has been
incredible for that, too. New pjs, help around the house, errand running,
dinner making. They have been on the BALL.
And my friends who
have sent gifts from far and wide, celebrated this upcoming arrival with us,
weathered this last little storm with us before she gets here.
12. Whose behavior made you appalled and depressed?
12. Whose behavior made you appalled and depressed?
Ugh, a laundry list.
And yet, I have to keep believing there are more good people in the world, and
more benign people, than there are evil and unkind people. Because it’s true,
and because, what good is living life if you don’t believe that?
13. Where did most of your money go?
13. Where did most of your money go?
Bills.
14. What did you get really, really, really excited about?
The baby!
15. What song will always remind you of 2012?
15. What song will always remind you of 2012?
Probably anything off
the Black Keys’ El Camino album: Lonely Boy, Gold on the Ceiling, etc. We saw them
play live (again) right before I found out I was pregnant, and they rocked (as
usual)! I wasn’t super plugged in to the new music scene this year; too
distracted.
16. Compared to this
time last year, are you: a) happier or sadder? b) thinner or fatter? c) richer
or poorer?
I forgot to do this
last year, I wish I had it to compare to, but I am happier, fatter, and about
to be a whole lot poorer. Interesting how that equation works, isn’t it?
17. What do you wish you’d done more of?
17. What do you wish you’d done more of?
More fun writing.
More friend-timing. More yoga.
18. What do you wish you’d done less of?
18. What do you wish you’d done less of?
Puking, or feeling on the verge of puking. And worrying.
19. How did you spend Christmas?
19. How did you spend Christmas?
It was a weird
Christmas, but I at least got to leave the house. I spent Christmas Eve on my
sister’s couch, and Christmas Day in my dad’s recliner. Gus and I read a book
about frogs about 8 gazillion times and it was delightful. We have another
Christmas scheduled in the New Year. Poor Wm got really sick so he spent
Christmas Day in bed.
20. What was your favorite TV program?
20. What was your favorite TV program?
Freaks and Geeks! We
just watched the series for the first time. Sons of Anarchy. I had a hard time
staying awake for a lot of TV this year due to the PG Tireds.
Wait. This was missing a #21?
22. What was the best book you read?
Hands down, Unbroken. She should win every
award ever for putting that epic story to paper.
23. What was your greatest musical discovery?
23. What was your greatest musical discovery?
Again, I was kinda
distracted this year. So nothing new and mindblowing. I continue to love the Foo Fighters, mourn the breakup of R.E.M., and dig into all the old soul singers and Motown sounds.
24. What did you want and get?
24. What did you want and get?
A growing baby!
25. What did you want and not get?
25. What did you want and not get?
Financial abundance,
ha!
26. What was your favorite film of this year?
Um, I didn’t really
see any movies this year. The only movie I saw in the theaters was The Dark
Knight Rises, which I liked but didn’t love as much as The Dark Knight. We watch a lot of Netflix though.
27. What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you?
I turned 32. 32! Is
that number for REAL? My birthday was a weirrrrrd day. Started out with the
innocuous trip to the midwife, only to find out I was in preterm labor, had to
go to the hospital for steroid shots and start bedrest immediately. I didn’t
think I’d still be pregnant by now, the way they were talking. William saved
the day by making me delicious New York Strip steak and cake. I got fancy shoes
for my birthday gift but I’ve yet to wear them!
28. What one [or three] thing[s] would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying?
28. What one [or three] thing[s] would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying?
I think, per usual,
less worrying. But overall, this has been a year where I couldn’t ask for much
more. When you have a mostly healthy pregnancy, that really ranks right up
there.
29. How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2012?
29. How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2012?
Well, I wore a lot of
leggings. And wrap sweaters. And anything else that maybe still fit me.
Maternity on the cheap! I look forward to the day when I can wear my normal
clothes, although I must confess it was nice to have a little pass on the
fashion thing for a bit.
30. What kept you sane?
30. What kept you sane?
The usuals: long
talks with friends, love from William, the kindness and support of my family.
Oh and to add to
that: advice from doulas, acupuncture, breaaaathing deeply. (I miss yoga!)
31. Which celebrity/public figure did you fancy the most?
31. Which celebrity/public figure did you fancy the most?
Hillary! Hillary!
Hillary! And that Obama guy.
32. What political issue stirred you the most?
32. What political issue stirred you the most?
Ahahahahhahaha… as if
there were just one! I wish. I mean, this could be a blog series in and of
itself.
But seriously, the
marriage amendment failing in Minnesota is something I will be super proud to
tell future generations about. I got to be a part of saying that intolerance
will not be tolerated in the state where I live. I cried when I found out that
we had managed to win.
33. Who did you miss?
Friends who have
scattered far and wide.
34. Who was the best
new person you met?
Every year I get to
meet cool and interesting people and manage to make new friends. All of them
are the best for one reason or another (or many reasons)! But I will say hiring
a doula team: best idea ever for my pregnancy.
35. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2012.
I never, ever, ever, EVER thought I’d say this, but man, having a baby is a miracle. It has already changed my life in one million and one ways.
35. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2012.
I never, ever, ever, EVER thought I’d say this, but man, having a baby is a miracle. It has already changed my life in one million and one ways.
Thursday, December 20, 2012
Counting
If I were an old-timey prisoner, I'd be carving hash marks into the walls and dragging my cup along the bars, demanding food, justice—or maybe both.
But I am here, in the present day, and I'm instead counting the days. Counting the days up—10 since I've found out that Babycakes is trying to make her way into the world early. Counting down...to when she arrives. Except we no longer have any idea at all about when that might be. We just know it might be much sooner than we thought.
When I made the appointment, the receptionist looked at me and said "How about December 10?" I said, "oh! That's my birthday!" She said, "Oh, you probably don't want to come on your birthday, let me see what else we have here."
But I stopped her from finding a date the following week. "It'll be a gift to hear her heartbeat on my birthday," I said. "Book it."
Thank goodness we did.
We spent the first part of the appointment chatting about pregnancy symptoms (I, blissfully ignorant, only listed some exhasution and a little hip pain). The midwife clapped her hands efficiently and said, "Well, you're breezing right through! Get up on the table and we'll have a listen."
While she listened for the heartbeat, I asked if Babycakes was still head down. I'd been getting some hard bulge on my right side near my ribs and there'd been a lot of activity the weekend before. I wondered if she got off track.
The midwife felt around. "Hm," she said, sort of puzzled. "I can't find her head."
I giggled. Headless baby.
Then her face got kind of serious, and she said "You know, I'm going to have you get undressed. I'll be back."
I looked over at William. "Shit?" I said, but sort of asked. William looked concerned.
The midwife breezed back in. "I'm just going to do a check," she said, as she snapped on some gloves. I steeled myself.
"Um, well, there's her head," she said.
What?
"You're done with everything. No going to the office. No laundry. No walking dogs." She took the gloves off.
What?
So yes, we learned the baby was head down....and heading down. I had no idea. No symptoms, really. Things are tenuous at best, I realized. And it's too early. "On a scale of one to ten, how freaked out should I be?" asked her. I needed some kind of gauge.
"Well, you're likely looking at NICU time if you deliver now," she said. Oh. That kind of freaked out. She never did give me a number.
Ultrasound revealed long femurs. And a possibly 5.5-pound baby. Who is definitely trying to make her way out.
So for ten days, that's what I've been thinking about. How my baby is already sneaking up on me, taking the wheel, upending my life. How my life is already being given over to hers. Lying here in hopes she doesn't show up before Christmas. Or even before the new year.
It's a weird feeling to be confined to the bed, or the couch, but not feel sick. And not feel like I'm having anything really happen yet. I have to remind myself not to get up for menial tasks. To say yes when people offer help. To stay calm.
After the steroid shot and the exams...my husband attempted to make my birthday special. To erase the freaked-out present I got earlier in the day. He went to a fancy grocery store and asked for their two best New York strip steaks. He told the butcher his wife got bedrest for a present and needed some cheering up.
He melted blue cheese on the top, made spicy broccoli, mashed potatoes. We ate off china while I laid on the couch, and he lit a single candle for me to blow out on my red velvet cake.
I think it was the first dinner where we maybe felt like parents. Not like starry-eyed parents-to-be. Like honest-to-god, holy shit there is a human being in there we need to protect and worry about parents. Sobering. I guess maybe that's what happens when you turn 32 and you're pregnant.
Since then, there's been a flurry of activity around me as I watch from my perch. William frantically getting orders out the door in case the baby comes. My mom coming to make me lunch and clean the kitchen and make grocery runs. Friends appearing with food, well wishes, good distractions. My sister brings pajama pants and socks, my brother brings food. Me wrapping up my own work in hopes it's not a shambles while I'm on leave.
And then I have these moments of stillness. Where all I'm supposed to do is lie here and be quiet. Just me and Babycakes. I breathe deeply. I tell her she'd be an awesome Christmas present, but she'd sure be screwed for birthdays for her whole life. That it's cold outside and she should stay warm. That even though I am starting to let myself dream of her face, what she might be like, or look like, that I can wait a little while longer, and she should too. That I'd hoped she'd get her patience from somewhere else in the gene pool, and not to be impatient like her mom and dad. Be a good girl. I'm already admonishing her.
I'm just not a still, quiet person. I dream every night of losing my locker combination, being late to class, being unprepared for a test. Over and over and over. I practice being quiet. I count her hiccups. I think about what to put in the hospital bag. I pet the dogs. I read. I finish a mountain of thank-you notes. In some ways, I've never been so efficient.
I remind myself when I get restless of the second day after I found out. Eyes snapped open at 4:30 a.m. Feeling pukey. Something not right. Taking a shower and feeling my belly round out and harden over and over. Thinking, nonononononononono.
No. Not yet.
Maybe she's practicing too, I realize, because since then, so far, so good. 10 days down. Who knows how many to go. I wait.
But I am here, in the present day, and I'm instead counting the days. Counting the days up—10 since I've found out that Babycakes is trying to make her way into the world early. Counting down...to when she arrives. Except we no longer have any idea at all about when that might be. We just know it might be much sooner than we thought.
When I made the appointment, the receptionist looked at me and said "How about December 10?" I said, "oh! That's my birthday!" She said, "Oh, you probably don't want to come on your birthday, let me see what else we have here."
But I stopped her from finding a date the following week. "It'll be a gift to hear her heartbeat on my birthday," I said. "Book it."
Thank goodness we did.
We spent the first part of the appointment chatting about pregnancy symptoms (I, blissfully ignorant, only listed some exhasution and a little hip pain). The midwife clapped her hands efficiently and said, "Well, you're breezing right through! Get up on the table and we'll have a listen."
While she listened for the heartbeat, I asked if Babycakes was still head down. I'd been getting some hard bulge on my right side near my ribs and there'd been a lot of activity the weekend before. I wondered if she got off track.
The midwife felt around. "Hm," she said, sort of puzzled. "I can't find her head."
I giggled. Headless baby.
Then her face got kind of serious, and she said "You know, I'm going to have you get undressed. I'll be back."
I looked over at William. "Shit?" I said, but sort of asked. William looked concerned.
The midwife breezed back in. "I'm just going to do a check," she said, as she snapped on some gloves. I steeled myself.
"Um, well, there's her head," she said.
What?
"You're done with everything. No going to the office. No laundry. No walking dogs." She took the gloves off.
What?
So yes, we learned the baby was head down....and heading down. I had no idea. No symptoms, really. Things are tenuous at best, I realized. And it's too early. "On a scale of one to ten, how freaked out should I be?" asked her. I needed some kind of gauge.
"Well, you're likely looking at NICU time if you deliver now," she said. Oh. That kind of freaked out. She never did give me a number.
Ultrasound revealed long femurs. And a possibly 5.5-pound baby. Who is definitely trying to make her way out.
So for ten days, that's what I've been thinking about. How my baby is already sneaking up on me, taking the wheel, upending my life. How my life is already being given over to hers. Lying here in hopes she doesn't show up before Christmas. Or even before the new year.
It's a weird feeling to be confined to the bed, or the couch, but not feel sick. And not feel like I'm having anything really happen yet. I have to remind myself not to get up for menial tasks. To say yes when people offer help. To stay calm.
After the steroid shot and the exams...my husband attempted to make my birthday special. To erase the freaked-out present I got earlier in the day. He went to a fancy grocery store and asked for their two best New York strip steaks. He told the butcher his wife got bedrest for a present and needed some cheering up.
He melted blue cheese on the top, made spicy broccoli, mashed potatoes. We ate off china while I laid on the couch, and he lit a single candle for me to blow out on my red velvet cake.
I think it was the first dinner where we maybe felt like parents. Not like starry-eyed parents-to-be. Like honest-to-god, holy shit there is a human being in there we need to protect and worry about parents. Sobering. I guess maybe that's what happens when you turn 32 and you're pregnant.
Since then, there's been a flurry of activity around me as I watch from my perch. William frantically getting orders out the door in case the baby comes. My mom coming to make me lunch and clean the kitchen and make grocery runs. Friends appearing with food, well wishes, good distractions. My sister brings pajama pants and socks, my brother brings food. Me wrapping up my own work in hopes it's not a shambles while I'm on leave.
And then I have these moments of stillness. Where all I'm supposed to do is lie here and be quiet. Just me and Babycakes. I breathe deeply. I tell her she'd be an awesome Christmas present, but she'd sure be screwed for birthdays for her whole life. That it's cold outside and she should stay warm. That even though I am starting to let myself dream of her face, what she might be like, or look like, that I can wait a little while longer, and she should too. That I'd hoped she'd get her patience from somewhere else in the gene pool, and not to be impatient like her mom and dad. Be a good girl. I'm already admonishing her.
I'm just not a still, quiet person. I dream every night of losing my locker combination, being late to class, being unprepared for a test. Over and over and over. I practice being quiet. I count her hiccups. I think about what to put in the hospital bag. I pet the dogs. I read. I finish a mountain of thank-you notes. In some ways, I've never been so efficient.
I remind myself when I get restless of the second day after I found out. Eyes snapped open at 4:30 a.m. Feeling pukey. Something not right. Taking a shower and feeling my belly round out and harden over and over. Thinking, nonononononononono.
No. Not yet.
Maybe she's practicing too, I realize, because since then, so far, so good. 10 days down. Who knows how many to go. I wait.
Tuesday, November 27, 2012
31 Weeks
Dear Babycakes,
I mean to write to you more often. Isn't that terrible? It's not that I'm not thinking of you—much of my brain is now devoted to your well being on the inside, your journey out, and what happens on the outside. But we are in the throes of the final-finals, here. I mean, just yesterday the midwife confirmed that you are head down. Head down! You are getting ready, too, I see.
So far I have felt pretty calm about your arrival. I have made jokes about being freaked out, but I never really mean it. Except for maybe, uh, now. Reality is setting in. My belly is getting rounder by the day. I feel you move on the regular—an elbow here, a knee there (I am not sure which is which, but it's no longer the popping-popcorn muscle-twitch feeling). Two mornings ago, I woke up to a chin full of pimples. And my dentist confirmed I have three cavities. Do you see what I am doing for you? Probably not. And probably won't...until you have your own someday (if you decide to do that). It is getting a lot harder to put my socks and shoes on, but at this point, I can still do it.
People regularly ask when I am due when they see me waddle by at a store or standing in line. Many of them get this same, dreamy, far-off face that lets me know that they, too, have children and miss "those days." The ones that are still in the trenches, well, their faces pinch up more and basically wish me good luck.
We are almost done with our birth classes—just one to go. We were talking about getting the rest of your nursery together. Tonight over dinner, your daddy said to me "What if it's a BOY? I mean, should we have some kind of backup names at the ready or something?" It happens! Don't worry, we'll man up your pink bedroom if that's the case. (I suddenly had the chills, like, "Oh man, WHAT IF?" Hormones are a crazy, crazy thing.)
Overall, baby, I have to say: I've been feeling pretty good. The day before and day of Thanksgiving you were awful quiet. Of course, I ran several terrible scenarios through my head. I mean, hello, I basically ate THREE Thanksgiving dinners and you gave me almost nada for movement. But I just kept breathing and trusting that all was right with the world and you were just taking a nap. Turns out, tryptophan works on babies. Or maybe you were gearing up, because then the next two days were an extravaganza. It was a straight-up rave in there, I thought. I told my midwife this on Monday and she got really excited. She said, "Ooh, that can mean that she was getting in the right position." Sure enough when she felt around, and listened to where your heart sounds were coming from, you had shifted from a sort of cradle-like position to back on the left, head down. ThudTHUDthudTHUD went your heart. Speeded up, she said, from us poking around in there. But overall, symptom-wise I'm not too terribly sore. I'm sleeping pretty well. I'm a little short of breath, though. And the heartburn is a little more insistent and often. And The Tireds are returning. Just in time for the zillion things I need to do before you get here! But that's just training wheels for what's to come, I am sure.
So the physical reality, and the hormones, they are a-changin'. And life's about to, in a big way. I'm still in that halfway zone...so thrilled to meet you, to hold you, to kiss you...and still hanging on by a thread to the life I know. The quiet one, the one with adequate sleep, and time for a long, hot shower. The one where you just go with me, unobtrusively (but more obtrusively by the day.) Where I still, for all intents and purposes, do what I want.
But already I know I wouldn't give you back for the ($500 million) Powerball jackpot. I swear to you. Not for nothin'.
Love,
Mama
I mean to write to you more often. Isn't that terrible? It's not that I'm not thinking of you—much of my brain is now devoted to your well being on the inside, your journey out, and what happens on the outside. But we are in the throes of the final-finals, here. I mean, just yesterday the midwife confirmed that you are head down. Head down! You are getting ready, too, I see.
So far I have felt pretty calm about your arrival. I have made jokes about being freaked out, but I never really mean it. Except for maybe, uh, now. Reality is setting in. My belly is getting rounder by the day. I feel you move on the regular—an elbow here, a knee there (I am not sure which is which, but it's no longer the popping-popcorn muscle-twitch feeling). Two mornings ago, I woke up to a chin full of pimples. And my dentist confirmed I have three cavities. Do you see what I am doing for you? Probably not. And probably won't...until you have your own someday (if you decide to do that). It is getting a lot harder to put my socks and shoes on, but at this point, I can still do it.
People regularly ask when I am due when they see me waddle by at a store or standing in line. Many of them get this same, dreamy, far-off face that lets me know that they, too, have children and miss "those days." The ones that are still in the trenches, well, their faces pinch up more and basically wish me good luck.
We are almost done with our birth classes—just one to go. We were talking about getting the rest of your nursery together. Tonight over dinner, your daddy said to me "What if it's a BOY? I mean, should we have some kind of backup names at the ready or something?" It happens! Don't worry, we'll man up your pink bedroom if that's the case. (I suddenly had the chills, like, "Oh man, WHAT IF?" Hormones are a crazy, crazy thing.)
Overall, baby, I have to say: I've been feeling pretty good. The day before and day of Thanksgiving you were awful quiet. Of course, I ran several terrible scenarios through my head. I mean, hello, I basically ate THREE Thanksgiving dinners and you gave me almost nada for movement. But I just kept breathing and trusting that all was right with the world and you were just taking a nap. Turns out, tryptophan works on babies. Or maybe you were gearing up, because then the next two days were an extravaganza. It was a straight-up rave in there, I thought. I told my midwife this on Monday and she got really excited. She said, "Ooh, that can mean that she was getting in the right position." Sure enough when she felt around, and listened to where your heart sounds were coming from, you had shifted from a sort of cradle-like position to back on the left, head down. ThudTHUDthudTHUD went your heart. Speeded up, she said, from us poking around in there. But overall, symptom-wise I'm not too terribly sore. I'm sleeping pretty well. I'm a little short of breath, though. And the heartburn is a little more insistent and often. And The Tireds are returning. Just in time for the zillion things I need to do before you get here! But that's just training wheels for what's to come, I am sure.
So the physical reality, and the hormones, they are a-changin'. And life's about to, in a big way. I'm still in that halfway zone...so thrilled to meet you, to hold you, to kiss you...and still hanging on by a thread to the life I know. The quiet one, the one with adequate sleep, and time for a long, hot shower. The one where you just go with me, unobtrusively (but more obtrusively by the day.) Where I still, for all intents and purposes, do what I want.
But already I know I wouldn't give you back for the ($500 million) Powerball jackpot. I swear to you. Not for nothin'.
Love,
Mama
Thursday, November 8, 2012
Creative Hearing
It's been a long, taxing week for both William and I. He's ramping up for holiday shows, we're attacking our to-do list with a ferocity, I have a million details swirling and keeping up is getting harder—definitely third trimester is kicking in now. But here's a funny excerpt from this evening's conversation.
Scene: Driving home after a three-hour birth class. William is driving. I'm starting to get that lead-in-the-limbs sort of tired feeling washing over me, after staying up late for the election, an evening work event, another evening obligation, and now this class (all after long days at work).
William: You mad at me or something?
Me: No, why?
William: You seem mad. You look mad.
Me: No, I'm just really tired.
William: Me too.
Me: Yeah.
A few minutes pass.
William: Are you SURE something's not wrong?
Me: Yeah, it's just that I'm starting to lose that second-trimester energy already. This week was really hard on me, and I've got a lot left to do [I'm going out of town for a weekend-long work event]. I'm fading fast.
William: Did you just say "i'm fat and sensitive?"
Me: NO! I said "I'm fading fast." But now that I think of it, I mean, that's not far off.
Hysterical laughter ensues.
Scene: Driving home after a three-hour birth class. William is driving. I'm starting to get that lead-in-the-limbs sort of tired feeling washing over me, after staying up late for the election, an evening work event, another evening obligation, and now this class (all after long days at work).
William: You mad at me or something?
Me: No, why?
William: You seem mad. You look mad.
Me: No, I'm just really tired.
William: Me too.
Me: Yeah.
A few minutes pass.
William: Are you SURE something's not wrong?
Me: Yeah, it's just that I'm starting to lose that second-trimester energy already. This week was really hard on me, and I've got a lot left to do [I'm going out of town for a weekend-long work event]. I'm fading fast.
William: Did you just say "i'm fat and sensitive?"
Me: NO! I said "I'm fading fast." But now that I think of it, I mean, that's not far off.
Hysterical laughter ensues.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)