His first taste

How things have changed

Yesterday afternoon it poured. Thunder rumbled for a over an hour, and later, everything was beautifully drenched and glistening. I took Bean out after his nap. We walked around our small Connecticut yard, taking one last look before our move tomorrow, at the garden beds DH and I dug last spring, now filled with snap peas, beans and lettuce, the lilies and roses, and the heart-shaped lilac leaves. Bean drinks the outdoors in with his eyes. He turned 19 weeks yesterday, and it seems like so long ago that he was that itty-bitty bean in my arms, newborn, and unable to focus. It's incredible how much he's changed, and I've changed since he was born. Each day brings exponential growth it seems. His brain is at such an incredible, plastic point in its development, absorbing everything and synthesizing: making meaning. He associates certain sounds with things now. He has grown to recognize the sound of DH making espresso in the morning. Drawing shots, emptying the grounds, etc. He recognizes our voices too, even when we're out of the room, and quiets when he's crying if he hears one of us calling to him.

Just in the past couple of weeks the kid's hair has been growing like crazy, and he's really discovered his hands. Suddenly also, he has developed this whole range of brilliant expressions, and he's rapidly discovering their impact on us. Yesterday, sitting in my lap he started to explore cause and effect by intentionally dropping his pacifier on the floor just so that I would pick it up for him and say "oops!" He grinned and then squealed with delight every time.

It's funny now for me to try and remember life without Bean in it. Like so many babies in the world, he came as a unplanned surprise. It was this time last June that I began telling people I was pregnant. It felt SO weird to say those words. I felt embarrassed almost. Totally unfamiliar with the idea, and a bit uncomfortable with it. Not that I didn't want to be pregnant. We'd been talking about the idea of a family seriously for months, but somehow I pictured that having kids was something I'd do when I was thirty. And then suddenly, there were those two crazy blue little lines.

I remember sitting on the couch with DH trying to wrap our minds around this new fact. I had a great deal of fear about having a baby I realize now, mostly because there were/are so many people in my life who flooded me with congratulatory warnings, "You're life will NEVER be the same again, EVER!" friends with kids would say ominously. "Enjoy your sleep now, you'll never sleep again," was another famous admonition. But it was really the less blatant references to the sacrifices I'd have to make as a career woman deciding to have a baby early on, rather than waiting till my thirties that got to me.

Having grown up with a mother who told me frequently that I was an unplanned baby who came at the wrong time in her relationship with my dad, and if I'd been born later, their marriage would have been different, I think I unconsciously accumulated a lot of baggage around having a baby. I somehow believed that unless everything was carefully planned and timed, my life would essentially be over. I'm still getting over the surprise of discovering that this isn't at all how I've felt, actually having Bean.

I suppose I was reluctant to be pregnant. I am so passionate about the outdoors--about biking and running and hiking and I felt really hampered by my huge belly. But I think I was also internally hampered by what I was imagining motherhood would be like. So many people, strangers and friends alike, feel an ABSOLUTE COMPULSION to tell you all about their horrific labor stories, and how totally difficult their lives have become: overrun with plastic toys, no sleep and argumentative inlaws. I expected that my life, post-Bean would be one of huge sacrifices. That DH and I wouldn't have fun anymore. That suddenly, hugely, momentously, our lives would be totally different.

And our lives are different, but not at all in the ways I imagined really The first six weeks with Bean were complete total hell. I'll grant anyone that. I had an episiotomy, and could barely walk, not to mention I'd had the most horrible stomach flu of my life for the twenty-four hours preceding labor. (That stomach flu, by the way proceeded to wipe out everyone who'd come into contact with me: my midwife, DH, his parents, my mom. In the first week after Bean was born, when everything seemed to be spinning, it felt like our house was a part of the Hot Zone.) I felt derailed. Tired on a cellular level. Completely unhinged by Bean's crying, my constant hot flashes, and the surreal experience of crashing into a hormonal brick wall.

But that time of total derangement dwindled. Around eight weeks, Bean started to have a regular sleeping routine--all on his own accord--and though he still wakes up once a night to nurse, it's something we both do while we're half asleep, my nights seem whole upon waking. And now, 19 weeks after he was born, he's this incredible little squirming bundle of giggles and squeals, and instead of making our life harder, he's made it fuller.

I don't really know how to explain this feeling of fullness better. DH and I are very laid back parents. Instead of expecting the worst, we both expect that things will be okay. Having both grown up with homeopathy, we seem to trust that our bodies are designed to heal and to stay well. So most of the worry that rips through some parents after the arrival of their child hasn't seemed to take over our lives, and I think this in some way affects Bean's disposition. Incidentally, he is an incredibly happy baby, who cries only when he needs something, and is content to ride around with us in the Baby Bjorn or hang out on a quilt on the floor, watching us as we go about our lives.

And though we have made changes, huge changes, since his arrival and because of it. Our lives are also very much the same. We still have fun together. We still have sex. We goof around. We still hike and people watch and go to Starbucks like total geeks to play chess at 9pm, or out to breakfast, and Bean is just a part of it all. A great, silly, incredible part that leaves us gasping with wonderment and gratitude. This little boy, with eyelashes as long as a camels, and a smile that makes our knees wobbly, is not the sacrifice or the trouble everyone warned us about. He’s just a joy, plain and simple.

Of course there are the times where I still feel nuts after having talked to no one but a four month old all day. And there are other times that I wonder what it will be like this year, to stay home instead of work (more on this later). But I don't feel like these things are sacrifices--just changes. And lying in bed at night sometimes, listening to Bean's breathing in the co-sleeper next to me, and DH's breathing coming steady and rhythmically from my other side, I feel my heart thumping around in my chest like a rabbit, and I can't name the feeling I feel. It's just too huge.

My Merry Month of May In Bullet Points

* Put our house on the market two weeks ago & get 6 offers. Navigate the process of a bidding war & accept an offer; then realize we'll very shortly have no place to live. * Pack 3.5 month old Bean into car and make our way to our new city (totally last minute--after discovering all the rentals in Our New City are only available in June or August because of the way students gobble up all rentals).

* Make last minute reservations at DAYS INN (a.k.a. hell hole) because EVERYTHING else (even the "HO-HUM MOTEL") is booked due to the fact that it is Memorial Day weekend AND the nationally renowned Marathon that draws Olympic qualifier hopefuls.

* Arrive at DAYS INN amidst an abysmal rain storm. Our room is in the basement and smells like mold. The tub and toilet are chartreuse green ceramic. The carpet clearly hasn't been vacuumed. We are totally depressed.

* Venture out to look at the first of many rentals we've contacted after spending hours at home surfing the online version of the Our New City newspaper. The first one we see is a complete pile of shit--the only thing it's missing is the actual pile of shit. DH goes to look at it while I try to calm a very sweet but totally frantically starving baby by shoving a boob in his face while hunched in the back seat of our car.

* Meet Tim. Tim's rental is in a huge yellow Victorian. The first apt. we see is on the third floor and you can't see the floor because of all the crap the current occupant's have on it (students). The bathroom has clear patches of mold on the shower ceiling and walls. There is sludge in the bottom of the bathtub. The kitchen is dark and tiny. We want to run away. The second apt. he shows us in the same building is on the 5th floor. Exterior stairs only!!! I try to navigate the stairs in flip flops while holding Bean. DH listens politely as Tim tells us about the previous occupant. "He never wore shoes, man, which was cool and everything. I think he was a farmer, you know? When I'd come by to check on things he'd be washing vegetables in the shower, and I'd be like, 'cool man' and he'd offer me fresh apple juice." We run away.

* Eat dinner outside and are overrun by muscled marathoners eating pasta. A band plays in the restaurant next to us so loudly the entire street seems to reverberate. Neither of us can think straight. Bean's eyes are the size of eggs.

* Sleep, all three of us in the king sized bed, and DH & I can't get the story his dad just told us out of our heads--about him getting crabs once while at a hotel just by sitting on the bed naked while watching TV. (First of all, who wants to imagine this about their father in law??? Secondly, we are now imagining this about ourselves! We sleep in our clothes.)

* Leave the hotel at 7 a.m. and drive around town looking for a parking space--but of course, they're all taken. There's a marathon happening here, today, remember? Several times we come to an intersection only to have a cop come and plant a cone in front of our car before we can turn. We get front row seats to watch the disabled "runners" (in reclining cycles) start off. Finally we find a spot in a parking garage. It's so narrow we have to unload first. It takes DH five minutes to angle in between the two poorly parked minivans. We get breakfast.

* Meet our next apt. rental buddy, Dave. He says he's a rental agent, and speaks with a heavy Boston accent. He has long hair, a baseball hat and very dirty jeans. He says he'd like to shake our hands but, "I've just been checking my cat's ears for mites, so I don't want to get anything on your baby." We nod, dumbfounded. He shows us two places--one, a 2nd story apt. that is thankfully vacant and therefore cleaner than anything else we've seen, but is located across from a condemned building. The other is the house of an old lady who is being moved to a nursing home. Both depress us.

* Meet Bill. We actually like his apartment. The apartment is above a Japanese restaurant however, and has no parking or a washing machine/dryer. These are the things that are actually issues to people who are now parents who have acquired not one, but two cars and a the need to wash pooped on apparel at least once a day, at our convenience. We consider the apt. anyway. We are desperate. We call several other places, but it is Sunday and no one is around.

* Go to North Hero House--on North Hero Island (where we were married) to spend the night in more plush accommodations. During our stay I get stuck with Bean in the hammock while DH is on the phone. It isn't pretty. We also get in a fight (executed all in whispers) on the veranda the next morning over breakfast. Neither of us is really sure what we're fighting about. Both of us are fairly certain we won't ever find a place to stay.

* On Monday we find a gorgeous rental in the bottom story of a restored Victorian. We can't believe our luck. The owner is there, putting down hardwood floors. Everything is newly painted. It has a back yard, garage, laundry. The owner is our age and has an 8 month old named Wyatt. We swap stories about living with these incredible little people. We put in an application & he tells us he'll choose someone that evening.

* Just in case he doesn't pick us look at rentals in adjacent cities. We meet a lady who has renovated an old historic house. She says that technically we are THREE people and she would prefer just two, and eyes our baby leerily. She has also painted the walls of the rental in specific shades of ecru and beige that are supposedly accurate from a historical standpoint. Her office is in the barn behind the rental, and though we love the claw foot tub and the fact that it's nicer and cheaper than anything we've seen we can't imagine her as our landlord. We call Wyatt's dad to grovel--saying we really loved the place. His wife calls us back and tells us they are going to check our references--but that they liked us and really, the apt. is ours.

* We breath a sigh of relief. We are totally overwhelmed. I want to wrap my body around Bean to protect him from all the noise and tumult and I want to stop putting him in his car seat! He has started to arch his back and wail in protest now, when we put him in it--he's been in his car seat probably 18 our of the last 24 hours. We are going to hell for being irresponsible parents.

* We drive back to CT. It is still raining. I nearly dislocate my shoulder trying to reach around behind me so that Bean can suck on my finger. We arrive home dazed.

* Tuesday DH works and I try to find out about private health insurance. I'll be officially quitting my job this summer and doing a stint as a SAHM while taking graduate classes for the next year +. The only agency that actually contacts me is one that FOX News has just done an expose on--apparently they're a total scam. I am off to a good start.

* Wednesday we go to Manhattan, to see my sister and her husband. This makes us certifiably insane on many counts (more on my sister later). It's fun to see her however, and we go to the Natural History museum where we see a prehistoric mosquito the size of a small dog, and of course, the dinosaurs. By the time we are ready for dinner, Bean once again has huge eyes, and looks completely worn out. We leave before dinner. Getting our car out of the parking garage proves to be quite the ordeal. We wait in line for the parking attendant to bring it to us--although we can see it from where we are standing. It takes us 15 minutes.

* We haven't heard from the Wyatt's dad and we are sure they hate us and don't want us to get the apartment. We're dreading going back up to Our New City to look for more rentals. Finally we call them. They apologize profusely for acting like air heads & promise to fax us the lease in the morning. They say they have been very busy. We try to believe them--and do, when the fax shows up on time in the morning & we sign the lease. We are sooo happy to know we actually have a place to move to that isn't seventeen stories up rickety stairs or roach infested.

* Thursday we get back in the car and drive up to Lake George. We are staying at the Sagamore with DH's parents--DH's mom is a meetings planner and her company is doing a convention there and have comped her the rooms.

* The Sagamore is gorgeous, snobby, and has a dress code. We haven't packed a single item of clothing that is appropriate (i.e. we've only packed flip flops and shorts, rather than dresses, blazers and topsiders---seriously, who calls those things topsiders anyway???) DH & I go for drinks on the veranda in the evening anyway, wearing jeans & flip flops. No one gives us dirty looks. The stars and the lake are exquisite. People's voices and live music carry out across the water. The mountains look like the silhouettes of old dinosaurs napping. We sit in Adirondack chairs drinking margaritas and kiss.

The following morning I am treated to a massage by the gay masseuse, Karl. It's lovely. I am totally relaxed as I lie face down looking at his little feet (he really does have tiny feet for a man--they're smaller than mine) work their way around me on the bamboo mat flooring. When I return to my room, DH sees a bright red spot on my neck that looks like a bulls eye. We fear the lyme tick. We call security--who is more than happy to come to our room, prod me, and then call in the on-staff EMT, who takes all my vital signs and is thrilled to tell me about how, down south, "there is a spider called the brown recluse that leaves a bite that looks just like that, but after a day or so the poison eats through your flesh." I am delighted with this piece of information. We decide to go to the Urgent Care clinic to get it looked at. Two hours later, the prognosis is that they're not sure what it is, and that I should get a lyme test in 6 weeks. By then the disease will have reached critical mass in my system. The doctor does tell me that it probably isn't lyme if the bulls eye doesn't get bigger. We watch the bite gradually fade over the rest of the weekend, and are eternally thankful.

* Spend the following two days biking up mountains and kayaking. I get sunburned. We contemplate having sex on a tiny little island where we've stopped for lunch, but the a boat named "The Stripper" (no joke) comes by and tells us to leave, it's private land. We play with our baby, who can now hold his head up and prop himself up on his elbows. He rolls over. We are absolutely amazed. We're totally drunk on love for this tiny little person who flashes us wet drooly grins and sucks on everything he can get his hands on.

* On Sunday we drive home. Bean is REALLY SICK OF HIS CAR SEAT.

Last June

Eating a dry toasted round of pita bread and peppermint tea, I try to quell the queasiness I feel. This is now my life, this pregnancy, and I feel new, and vulnerable and strange. I haven't yet reached a point of feeling wellness. I find myself imagining the first cave people, in a world full of moisture. What was pregnancy like then? Suddenly, I look around and realize that everyone: the man I am in love with, my sisters, the guy who works at Cumberland farms with the bandage around his head, was a baby once: a fetus inside their mother's belly. I begin thinking about what pregnancy must have meant to all those women. Those first moments of realizing, the gradual shift towards becoming something other than yourself. A total body transformation, that creeps up gradually, like the morning sunlight moving across my shaded backyard.

This morning I saw four cardinals. Three were female, and a more delicate rust red than the cocky male. High among the leaves of the red maple outside my kitchen is a robin's nest. The birds change off sitting duties, and even in a storm, with the rain pelting down, a russet breasted bird with hollow bones can be found huddling over the small blue eggs, its feathered wings acting as a watershed.

I wonder what sudden urges will possess me as a mother. The mother bear, the raccoon, even the silly blue jays in my yard are driven into a tizzy when their young are threatened. The jays scream at the neighborhood cats when they walk too near a nest. They fling themselves from the safety of a branch towards the cat's face, and then swoop off at the last minute, scolding.

I wonder about my sudden elevated sense of smell. Last night I bought Special K cereal at the gas station, and at home, pouring it into the bowl, was overwhelmed by the scent of cigarettes, stale and old, still clinging to the box. Certain smells linger; and of course they are the worst: the fragrance of garbage, or of cat feces, or peanut butter. They cloy and clot in my stomach, causing muscles to tense up and heave. I think about my dog, who once, on a hot day at the park, pulled me to a hole in a hollow tree where rainwater had collected so that he could drink. I wonder what water must smell like, and what it must be like to smell water from a great distance off and to travel towards that scent, knowing it means survival. I think too about the great white shark, and its ability to smell a gallon of blood in a billion gallons of water. By comparison my heightened sense of smell, is hardly heightened at all, and seems to serve no purpose. Though recently I read about a study linking strong, smell based aversions to increased chances of survival in prehistoric women. Perhaps long ago this morning nausea served a purpose.

June 30, 2004