Half a year
My little man,You are SO BIG, suddenly. You are six months old today and you do things like sit up and rock back and forth like a drunk little Buddha. You eat mashed bananas and peaches and watermelon now, and reach out for more saying "mmm, mmmm, mmm." You also tried rice cereal, but it seems to have spent more time on your little moon cheeks than in your mouth. You loved it though. And every time you try a new taste (like garlic mashed potatoes or lemonade—which I put on the tip of my finger for you to try) you make the funniest faces in the whole world.
When you're 16 you'll accuse me of doing this for my own entertainment, and it's ENTIRELY TRUE. You're hysterically funny to watch: the way you pucker up your lips and furrow your eyebrows. But man, do we love you! And really, since your diapers are clearly NOT for my entertainment, something has to be. And by the time you're 16 I'm sure I'l have a whole list of things that you do that are for YOUR entertainment at my expense, so I'm living it up while I can.
I didn't write you monthly letters when you were very little because I was still so stunned that you were here, and I was just getting the hang of the whole co-sleeping, boob-feeding way of life.
When you were teeny tiny, just two and three months old, you impressed us because you could hold your head up just a little bit, and occasionally you'd roll over, tummy to back, though always looked confused when it happened. Then, you were fascinated with your mobile, and we lived for your smiles which made your crying jags and your night time wake-ups worth it.
When you were small and fragile like that it was rainy and springtime, and we had to bundle you up to take you outdoors, and we were anxious about selling our house, and antsy because the dog next door would yip for hours in the middle of the night so we couldn't sleep deeply---even when you let us sleep.
But now it is summer and we are in our new apartment, and every day we go walking along the big lake, where we can see mountains that look like old dinosaurs napping, slung low along the lake's edge. They are soft shades of blue, like an impressionist painting, and gently rolling, and we never get tired of the view. We're happy to be here, where people are kind, and where we can play at the beach and it’s only a walk away from our house. And we're happy that we at this point in our lives: where we can't imagine life without your grins, your delighted giggles, your smell, your softness.
Yesterday, your grandparents drove all the way up from New Jersey to visit. They miss you so much, and you thrill when you're Poppy makes piggy noises, or chicken noises, or cat noises. You giggle until we're all giggling.
You're long now: longer than most babies, I think. And you've outgrown all your 3-6 month pants even though your jusssst 6 months old. You've discovered that you like eating your hat, or throwing it out of your stroller, and we've lost many hats this way. You little bugger. They're for your own good.
You are trying to crawl. You do push ups and scoot your knees underneath you but then crumple up and face plant when you try to move forward. You're still not coordinated enough, though each day you practice, and we're sure you'll be an early crawler because you seem so determined.
You have also discovered our cats. You can't get enough of them. You smile at them from across the room, and roar loudly with glee whenever they approach. Of course, they have also discovered you, and are none-too-pleased, knowing their days of lounging on the floor are numbered. When Momo, our boy cat, comes to purr next to you on the bed, you grab his WHOLE FACE in your hand, fiercely, and don't let go. He meows pitifully but doesn't claw you, as he waits for me to unclamp your little fists.
This month I feel like you're on the verge of so much. You've started looking like a little boy to me--rather than a baby. You look so mature with your little baseball hat on. And you're so dexterous and purposeful with how you handle objects now. You switch them easily from hand to hand, and have just discovered the joys of POUNDING THINGS ON THE FLOOR.
One thing though, that makes me completely crazy, is that you're DRIVEN TO ROLL OVER onto your tummy. You do this all the time now, with perfect ease. And although you've rolled from tummy to back dozens of times before, you seem to have FORGOTTEN HOW, and it's driving me nuts because you get stuck on your tummy. A lot. And when you're napping, you wake yourself up by rolling onto your tummy and you muffle into your sheepskin and huff and wail until I turn you over again. And then you roll over AGAIN. And again. And again. Stop please. Or at least, remember how to roll back over onto your back.
Oh, and you're still not pooping regularly--which is something that I'm sure you'll be delighted to know about when you're 17 and I'm sharing this information with your prom date. (Which I will! I promise! Along with the photos we took of you with infant acne.) But really, bud, what's with that? It would be nice if things were a little more consistent, because that's how the rest of the world operates, and we just can't quite get used to your poop sabbaticals.
But mostly, we love you so much! My heart has never felt so big, so gleeful, so proud, as when I am looking at you're face. I love watching you learn. Love being home with you to watch these small miraculous discoveries occur. And I'm so happy you're here.
Love, Mama
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White Oleander, Janet Fitch
I' not quite sure how to describe this book. Fierce, maybe, or passionate, or frightening. I read it first before the movie came out, and have never watched the movie--so the images in my mind, indelible and searing, are the product of my imagination and Fitch's sharp, beautiful writing. The story follows the daughter of brilliant poet, imprisoned for murdering her lover, through the foster care system in L.A. Fitch portrays the complicated relationship between a mother and daughter that tangles with the universal question women invariably struggle with when confronted with making choices between their life and work, and their children. Icy, independent, obsessed with the aesthetic, and with outcomes of her poetry, the mother compromises nothing in her life for those she loves, and consequently her daughter is left to navigate through the bizarre world of foster homes, discovering herself gradually through her own art. Bittersweet, and haunting, images from this story have lingered with me for years.
New directions
Re-reading previous posts I caught a glimpse of my own inner static. I've been restless the past two nights, feeling on the brink of things. Wishing I could feel like I've already rrived, but instead feeling very much like I'm still in the process.
I feel like I'm spiraling towards creative potential that I've only just recently encountered and this process sometimes leaves me zinging and uncertain.
When I first had my baby boy, I was still in work mode, anxious, over-zealous, stressed beyond belief. I worked up until two days before he was born, full time, as a second grade teacher to a class of urban, highly needy and very diverse kids. They sucked me dry. Each day, taking the train home, with my hands cupping the dome of my stomach, I would wonder how I could continue to spread myself so thin, and continue to be happy.
I felt deeply exhausted throughout the winter. My last trimester was spent inadvertently skating across parking lot ice, wiping runny noses, trying to be present in my daily life. I felt scattered, taking the concept of multitasking to a new level: I never had a moment throughout my day when someone didn't need me, or rather, when six people didn't need me.
To some extent, I have always been like this: throwing myself full-force into life. I give, and give, and give to people---and especially to the kids I teach. It has often been hard for me to gauge how much energy I was giving out, and harder to keep enough in reserve for myself.
And had I not gotten pregnant, and instead continued teaching, I am fairly certain that I would have gradually drained myself on some deep, irretrievable level. I would have become someone different as a result. Someone slightly jaded, with a layer of gray sorrow washed over the fiery gusto I have for life.
Yet, I did get pregnant, and because of it, a new sequence of events unfolded, bringing me here. Because of my son, we moved to this city that I love, on the lake with the rolling blue mountains bordering another country. Because of him, I have learned how to be patient again, in a new way.
I have started to learn how to simply BE. Because this is how he is: totally present, in the moment, needing my attention. My body is still his geography. His tiny hands snatch at my hair as he nurses, grunting with satisfaction and I cannot rush him. I cannot be in two places at once in my mind. When he is awake and in my arms, he demands me to be wholly there with him.
And though I'm sometimes totally overwhelmed by the end of the day. (Sometimes I can't take any more hair pulling, or shrieking, or spit up, or flailing, and pass Bean off to DH unceremoniously in the midst of putting him to bed, and rush to hide in the bathroom or at Starbucks for a few moments: just to have some space to myself.) I have also benefited from the SLOWING DOWN OF THINGS in my life.
I have begun to allow myself to be creative in new ways, and am opening myself quietly, daily, and with intent to the possibility of new directions. In a way it seems I am learning to navigate with a new inner compass.
i love rhinos
This was bolted to a parking sign on the way to the waterfront in the city where I live. I don't know who painted it, but I was delighted and inspired. There were several other installments on other signs--done aparently on wood with permanent marker and paint.
Stuck spinning
In college I took several classes with an English professor who is a fairly well published writer. She was off-beat and funny and sincere. A lesbian and a recovering alcoholic who'd grown up in the red-neck south, she could make swearing sound like praying, with her soft drawl. She could make any story sound good just by reading it aloud. And she had a way of saying things that were totally apt. One day she came to class a little late, a stack of papers sort of falling out of her bag, a giant to-go mug in hand. As she sat down she said, with a slow grin,
"Y'all know what a tractor looks like when it's been tipped over and it's wheels are just spinning and spinning around and the mud is kind of getting everywhere? Well, that's how I feel right about now."
That's EXACTLY how I feel tonight.
What will it be?
I spent my day writing lists that didn't get accomplished. I napped early with my baby, because of a restless night (I think he's teething) but it was a fitful nap, due to caffeine and the fact that my brain wouldn't turn off. I felt anxious and fruitless today, filled with worry that in becoming a stay-at-home mom, for now, I am giving up some part of myself irrevocably. And then I remembered that I wanted to take this year to write, and to make something of my writing. Which resulted in a new wave of terror and guilt.
I'm not sure if I'm scared of writing something that is actually successful, or never doing so. And I wonder if I'll never find the time. (It took me the span of four hours to read that article in Vanity Fair about Aniston that the media is quote happy about, because of all the damn interruptions that inevitably occurred). But I know one thing. My mother is almost 60 and because she raised three kids, she now has no career, no professional skills, no "calling" and she wishes she did, and I couldn't bear that.
But today I wonder if I will I somehow slip down a rabbit hole and become that nobody, if I stay at home? Or can I, like I dream on better days, do both?
Bean's version of my 'read every day' category
No book review today. Though this IS my copy of Pam Houston's A LITTLE MORE ABOUT ME, which I've been intending to finish reading for over a month now. It doesn't hold me like her other book, which was fast paced, silly and apt. But then agian, haven't had much time to really sink my teeth into it, although Bean clearly has. That is, if he had teeth.
Connections
When I started blogging, I wanted the discipline of trying to write daily. I wanted to make myself sift through my experiences: putting words to them, to sustain the deep undertow of creativity that has always been a cross current in my life. Being a very visually oriented person I wanted to create some kind of record that allowed me to capture shreds of my life, and come back to them again, re-realizing their significance. Like no other medium, blogging is strangely non-dimensional. Yet because of this it can also be multi-dimensional, and this excited me.
But perhaps the more urgent reason behind my drive to figure out css files and web rings, was that I found myself suddenly submerged the remarkably alien world of first-time parenting.
Nothing prepared me for this.
Nothing, until I was in the middle of it. Until I'd hoisted my big pregnant belly around for ten months (yes it's really ten, not nine. Where do people even come up with the nine bit?), and then went into labor after two nights of the worst stomach flu I have ever had.
All of a sudden my little Bean was here, on this planet, in my arms. A small squirming bundle that came out and cried once, and then stared right at our faces, looking terribly confused with big huge eyes and the longest eyelashes I've ever seen.
It's probably a safe bet to assume that both of us were experiencing a decent amount of disbelief when we first locked eyes with one another. Though I fell quick and hard for the smell of his downy head, and his teeny tiny wrinkled hands, I remember thinking that despite my love for children, despite the fact that my career was teaching children, I knew next to nothing about raising one.
And then, during the first weeks after Bean arrived I remember changing diapers in the middle of the night, unbelievably hot and pestered and delirious from lack of sleep and hormones, and thinking to myself, how in the hell are there so many damn babies in the world?? How did we all possibly get here? It seemed ridiculous and incredulous that every person I've ever encountered was once a baby, AND THEIR PARENTS TOOK CARE OF THEM, at least to some degree, and they survived.
So, because I was too decrepit and distracted and disheveled to do anything else, I found myself up late at night, between crying jags and diapers, addictively reading posts from other moms (and a few dads) who'd actually gone through this ahead of me.
Before I had Bean I didn't get what people meant when they said, "Everything changes when you have a baby," and frankly, it annoyed the shit out of me. But EVERYTHING DOES FREAKIN CHANGE. And I'm so grateful for the survival guide that exists out there, in Internetland, in the form of really great blogs.
And I got to thinking today---about how I'm connected through this blog to all sorts of other people all over the world who share something in common with me. Sometimes it's art, or a love for words or books. And many times it's other moms with deep and meaningful things to say about the relentless, heart-wrenching, incredible process of parenting.
Even as people the world over are becoming individuated and insular; even as local community centers and neighborhoods are fragmenting as the result of outsourcing, suburbia, and malls, a new form of community is linking together across the globe, creating a new context for raising the next generation of children. And this is good. This is very, very good.
Taken 5 short minutes after the poop gods took revenge
They must have heard me COMPLAINING about Bean's lack of poopy diapers, and acted swiftly with the most sticky, abundant pile possible. Hence the impromptu bath.
Letters To A Young Poet, Rainer Maria Rilke
I can't give you any advice but this; to go into yourself and see how deep the place is from which your life flows; at its source you will find the answer to the question of whether you must create.
In college, my girlfriends and I would sit around late at night drinking Merlot or green tea and reading excerpts aloud. It spoke to us then about our situation in the world--attempting to love men who were never quite good enough for us, while striving to remain wholly creative and independent. I just re-read it again recently, cover to cover in an afternoon. Now it speaks to the writer in me. Gives me hope that because I can't live without writing, I will write. That comitting myself to this process is a means to an end, and the end both, at once. Rilke's words in this short collection of letters are profound, searing, and yet simple. This is an advice book, before advice books existed. Nearer to the heart, without any of the pretence and promise of success that newer books in this genre bear, nearly every page has markings--underlined scribbles, dog-eared edges. Too good to write about without letting the writing speak for itself.
I give in
I used to laugh, reading other mama blogger’s posts because at a certain point they all seemed to dwell on the topic of either boobs or poop, both of which were things I was sure I would NEVER HAVE THE NEED OR DESIRE TO WRITE ABOUT. Oooh, how wrong I was. And I can tell this is only the beginning, isn't it? The beginning of all things baby that I am going to say, "I am sure I'll NEVER do that," about, and then do just the opposite when confronted with the actual situation. But seriously people, the stuff of new-mamaness is apparently all about boobs and poop. Ooh ye non-mamas out there beware, lest ye be fooled into believing that parenthood involves things like woodland hikes, profound thoughts, family naps and the joys of tasting watermelon for the first time--because really, in the end of it all, EVERYTHING WILL COME BACK TO BOOBS OR POOP.
Now that I've succumbed to this rather depressing fact, I am thrilled to report my boob is back to it's previous non-painful state. Something has regrettably been re-wired in me however, and now I am compelled to tell you about the fact that Bean has been doing this whole "I'm going to save my poop up--and not poop for two weeks, and then christen you with my miraculous pooping volcano" routine lately, and it's getting really old.
Round about the time he turned 4.5 months he basically quit pooping on a regular basis, without any prior notice and no apparent discomfort. Of course, everything we read everywhere said that IT'S PERFECTLY OKAY NOT TO POOP FOR FOURTEEN DAYS--if you're a breastfeeding baby that is. But seriously, how can that really be okay? But our DR. (who is the greatest lady to ever wear a white coat, and whose thinking falls in line with ours when it comes to the whole wait to immunize bit, and the try natural remedies before going for the drugs routine) seemed less than concerned. And it's not all bad. Going without poopy diapers is never really bad, is it?
But a new side affect of the whole poop boycott seems to be THE STINKIEST GAS IN THE WORLD. Bean's bottom SMELLS LIKE POOP, even when there is no poop, so I'm not sure how much of an improvement the whole no-poop thing is really is. And oooh, when he actually gets around to pooping, it's no longer just a pretty diaper full (did I really just say pretty and diaper in the same sentence??) It is an eruption. It is POOP GATE. It is the scandalous, never ending, "oh my god he just pooped for five minutes straight" kind of poop that seems to occur uncannily when I'm the only one around and DH is off running errands, naive and clean and unmarred by our baby's incredible pooping hiney.
If there is a patron saint for new mamas somewhere out there, please tell her to address the whole poop thing for me, would you? Let her know that I'm groveling in shame for ever assuming I'd be able to avoid writing obsessively about poop--but that I'd really like to get on with things now.
Finding my place
It was Bean's first time in the Sherpani backpack we got for him. And his eyes were wide as DH moved along the trail under low hanging branches, past bright berried bushes, and overgrown thickets of ferns. We want him to grow up with the deep love for the outdoors that we share. We want him to grow up feeling like he belongs to the earth: that he is a part of it, not separate from the wildness of the beaver or the dragonfly.
Like snuggling a whirling dervish
Note the foot in the background :) Clearly adds to the photo, now doesn't it? I must learn more photoshop.
I guess I had it coming: the inevitable boob post
I woke up yesterday morning with a searing headache and the worst pain I've ever felt in my left breast. Like hot coals. Turns out I have mastitis--a milk duct infection, caused I'm sure by my improper bra wearing techniques. I'm one of those moms who took a violent dislike to nursing bras right from the start. Consequently, I wear regular ones, (sizes larger than any of my pre-pregnant pretty bras which now sit forlornly in my bottom drawer) and hoist the bra cup up over my boob when Bean nurses, rather than serenely unsnapping the cup like any good LLL mother wearing an appropriately boat like nursing bra would do. Clearly, this has been my downfall. That and fervent outdoor activity. But, following the blithe advice from the book of all books on this subject I took a hot shower and tried to relax. But seriously, do these ladies live in the same world I do??? "If at all possible," the book states, "you should climb into bed with the baby tucked beside you for the rest of the day. At the very least you should eliminate all extra activities and spend an hour or two relaxing with your baby at your breast and feet off the floor."
CLIMB INTO BED WITH THE BABY TUCKED BESIDE YOU? Do they know what this looks like with an eager and inquisitive almost six month old? Do they know the endless squirming that ensues? The wriggling, the kicking, the hair pulling and boob grabbing? Are they aware that no six month old is willing to cuddle in bed for an entire day when there is so much to learn about and explore and grab hold of. Perhaps I am the only mother in the world who doesn't love the exquisitely painful feeling of little sharp fingernails digging into my cheek while I have a migraine. That and being kicked in my infected breast, repeatedly, feels delightful, let me assure you.
After an hour or two of attempted "wlimination of all extra activities" I called my doctor whimpering, and she phoned in a prescription of antibiotics to the local pharmacy. I'm not a big antibiotic fan. I've read too much about growing immunity from over use of antibiotics for common ailments, including viral infections such as ear aches, where antibiotics are incapable of doing anything at all. But sometimes, on occasion, I am incredibly grateful to live in a country with advanced medicine and easy access to such things as amoxicillin. Within hours, the headache that felt like a little gnome was smashing pottery in my head had dissipated, and by evening, I started to feel like a normal human being again.
I'm all for cuddling with my little guy. But I prefer to do it when I can take his abundant energy and verve for life. This morning it was wonderful to wake up feeling like myself again, and spend time reading him books in bed, using my husband as our head rest. I am all about the "extra activities." The late evening bike rides along the lake, the morning walks to the farmers market, the hikes, the adventures around town. These things make me feel much more whole than lying in bed ever does. It's been enough of a transition to realize I'm virtually NEVER ALONE anymore. I've got Bean with me nearly all day. Getting outdoors is my sanity. Where is the book that's written for mamas like me? Mamas who breastfeed and stay at home, but who still are still active and adventurous and not willing at all to put our feet up all day.
