Happy Halloween (grumblegrumblecusscuss)

I am fortunate enough to be able to go to my little girl's preschool for her Halloween parade, so I can celebrate with her.  While I'm there, I'm thinking about the many parents who aren't able to do this.  Who are working tirelessly to pay for food, clothes, their house, and aren't able to take the time to go to school with their children.

I loved watching children in their cute costumes, excited about pretending to be their favorite characters, or role models.  I saw some beautiful choices.  One little girl was dressed as Tarzan, wearing a muscly abdomen top.  She showed us her Tarzan call, pounding her chest.  Another little girl was Princess Vanillope, from Wreck-It Ralph, wearing candy in her hair and dress.  There were a LOT of Batmans, Supermans, Ironmans.  And of course, as you can imagine some Star Wars thingies.  There were a few doctors, an amazing home-made birthday cake, precious animals.  I sat in her class with her, as the kids came into the room parading their costumes proudly. 

Then walked in a little boy.  He wasn't old enough to understand his costume, I'm guessing he was 2 or 3, maybe.  He was pushing a shopping cart with a plastic bag with cans, had a drawn on raggedy beard, clothes made to look dirty and torn, and a sign misspelled, written poorly, as if he were illiterate, that said 'Will work for candy'.  (I mean he IS illiterate, he's 3, but I think the costume was implying that he SHOULD be literate, but is not.)

My face probably went from shock, to terror, to anger.  I probably looked like I was dressed as the Hulk.  But it was my natural face.  Danny turned and looked at me, his face going through the same metamorphosis.

1.) I don't think poverty, or homelessness is funny.  About 1.3 million children are homeless in a given year.  (Yeah, I'm smart, I looked that up on the old internet).  I'm concerned that some children at the school may be homeless, or have or will experience homelessness, or poverty at some point.  I'm praying they don't understand the costume.  In fact, I'm praying that no child pays attention to the costume. Hopefully they just think he's a customer at Meijers.  (I know I look raggedy most shopping trips to Meijer).  Hopefully the reaction is so sparse that the parents give up and go with a different costume next year.
2.) Can you let your innocent child dress up as something fun that he understands?  I truly believe he has no idea what he's wearing or why, or why he's pushing a shopping cart containing garbage around while his friends dress up as super heroes, or furry animals.  Instead, he is a part of your joke.  Not that I think it's funny, but why don't the parents just dress as their ignorant, self-absorbed, privileged ideas, and leave their toddler out of it?

Sadly, I heard other parents laughing, and taking it lightly, as intentioned.  "Oh, isn't that cute!" they exclaimed.  "Hey, we could do that with Carton, or Prickler!" (or whatever names they were using.  I don't usually make fun of people's names choices but Hulk mad, ok?)

Which brings me to
3.) Can I just go to a friggin preschool Halloween party without getting pissed off?  I'm deleting wildly, trying to frantically censor my anger, outrage, disgust.  (I mean I just said 'friggin', and deleted a noun after that last sentence.)  Everywhere I go I see so much ugliness in the world.  So much Racism, So much Violence.  Children suffering from the hatred that the adults are throwing at each other.  Do I have to see it in the form of an unknowing child?

I can hear the parents of little Money-Bags scoffing at me.  "Give me a break." they would probably say, "It's just a joke.  It's funny, why do we have to be politically correct all the time?"  And trust me, I'm a real jerk most days, (all days) and am known for my off-color humor.  But certain things break my heart.  And as a mom I feel it more acutely.  And children who suffer because of circumstances out of their control is one of my main bugaboos.

Maybe the parents of $Bags would even do more than scoff or roll their eyes at my reaction.  Maybe they would be angry.  "People make the choice to be poor or homeless" they might respond.  I can'tevengetintomyresponsetothatone, I'll break this keyboard. 

When my children are hungry, (can I even rightfully use the word hungry?)  I'm able to quickly give them something to eat, the only hesitation due to the choice of what kind of healthy abundant snack they would prefer. (Except about once a week when we have to go to the store, and they have to eat a processed carb, because I haven't gotten to Meijer yet wearing my torn ugly clothes, with my unbrushed hair and bags under my eyes, much like the kids Halloween costume.  "Mommy, can I have an apple?"  "No, eat these buttery crackers and some fatty meat!"). My heart aches knowing that there are other children in our very zip code who may be asking, or wanting something to eat, and are not able to receive it.  And when I tuck my little girl into her bed at night, I bury the thoughts of other kids in cars or shelters who hear or feel the howling wind a lot differently than we do.  (And we really need new windows, these things are ancient.) 

I feel so hopeless, helpless, sad, angry.  What can I do?  I type my message out into a white square.  I send it out into space.  Can anyone hear me?  If so, how can we make this stop?  Let's start with not making fun of poverty, please?  Then maybe we can start to get rid of the poverty itself. 

The Wind in our Hair

When we were in college, one of my favorite friends and I went to an out-of-state theater conference.  The real fun wasn't at the conference itself, but during the journey to get there.  We blasted so-bad-it's-good 80s music, talked about our current boyfriends and whether or not they were keepers, we got pulled over by the police in Ohio for speeding (and even separated so the cop could interview us), and only stopped for bathroom or french fry breaks.

Last week this same favorite friend and I went on another road trip to Chicago.  This time it was for business, and this time we brought along our four children.  I probably don't have to point out that the trips were totally different.  But I'm going to.

Instead of driving a red convertible, like we did when we were younger, this time we drove a minivan with a DVD player.  Ten years ago, we probably swerved the car a bit to try to reach for the Twizzlers, that we may have left on the backseat next to the diet cokes.  But this time we swerved trying to get a good look at one of the toddlers, or trying to throw single chicken nuggets toward the back row, to reach one of the "older kids" (and by "old" I mean 3 or 4).  We didn't get pulled over by police this trip, but we did have to pull over once to climb over the mountains of bags and make the trek to the last row of seats, where one of the older kids had Houdini-ed his way out of his car seat harness.  There was no 80s music, but a lot of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, and Frozen and a few Fresh Beat Band episodes.  There were a few fights that needed breaking up- about who should sing the 'Let it go' solo, or who was taking whose pillow.  And there was still heartache and tears- although this time, the pain seemed less trivial than fights with our boyfriends.

And at the end of the 4th day of our trip, as we were halfway home, I think my friend and I probably were at the farthest point of difference from our trip in college.  We felt old and were very very very tired.  Tired in every possible way, more than just physically.  We had stopped in a pizza place.  The kids had just played in a splash fountain, one had been in time out for swatting another kid with glow sticks.  One hadn't had a nap.  And all kids were covered in pizza sauce and trying to stand up in their booster seats.  Mine was facing the window, jumping up and down, trying to play with the restaurant blinds and singing a song in a falsetto.  And hers were surrounded by coasters that they had colored, and bits of pizza and less favored toppings.  The floor under the table was like Land of the Lost, littered with kicked-off shoes and other items.  One of us had made a final warning to one of the kids, you know- a real teaching moment -something like 'Will you PLEASE SIT DOWN??!'  When my friend and I made eye contact and without saying a word, just knew that we were feeling the same exact way.  And we just started to laugh. The kind of laughing where you don't know how to stop.  It just keeps spilling out, and hurting your stomach.  And tears are coming out of your eyes and you know you should stop because the suburban family at the table next to you whose children are older and can sit in one spot for more than five minutes is looking at you side-eyed.  But you keep laughing.

"I can't believe it's taken you this long to feel how I've felt since the beginning of the trip!" I said in between sobbing laughter.  Because I had started off the trip at half the energy of my amazing friend.
"Mommy?  Why are you laughing?" her three year old asked innocently, no doubt a little frightened.  The children were all staring at us quizzically.
"Because being a mommy is hard sometimes" she answered, still laughing and wiping tears from the corners of her eyes.

God favored us that day, because we found all the shoes under the table, because our credit cards were accepted for the pizza, and because no child was injured in the eating of the meal.
We rolled all of our strollers and diaper bags up what seemed like a 3 mile steep cliff back to the parking lot and began changing diapers, and passing out sippy cups before starting the last leg of the ride home.  Dirty diapers and wet clothes were leaking out of the car as we tried to wrestle kids in.  Mine escaped and got stuck between two seats trying to reach a toy.  I stood helplessly and frustrated and tried to give her verbal direction.  "Move your left foot a little to the right." I offered.  But she's two and is still learning right and left, and also in a dire situation like getting a toy, she can't really pay attention to directions.  "James, can you help her?" I asked the three-year-old desperately.  He reached out a hand, but my daughter probably thought he was trying to take the toy, and pushed him away.  I tried to maneuver into the van from the back, while random objects like dirty diapers, a stroller part and a half eaten sucker fell out into the parking lot.
"This is like Absolutely Fabulous but without the drugs." I told my friend who was probably maneuvering another kid in another row in the van.  We would have gone into hysterical laughter again but didn't have the energy.

On the way home we got to talk a bit- about how we think we've changed since we first started raising our babies. We couldn't tell if it was our very beings that changed so much, or even maybe more than changed- maybe even lost ourselves altogether, or if it was just our lives that have changed so much and we're just keeping up.  But in between the interruptions: ("Mommy, my body hurts from being in this car seat!" the three year old said sadly.  Or our two-year-olds, both crying and reaching out to us to hold them), we found ourselves again, for a couple hours, just by connecting and understanding each other.  And that alone was worth the trip.

The circle of life and stuff

Obviously Mother's Day has changed for me since I started growing a wombmate...A few years ago the Hallmark Holiday would have typically started with me waking up to check my phone and find thoughtful and sympathetic encouraging texts from the people closest to me.  The texts would say that they were thinking of me or my mom, or how much she loved me, or how she lives on in me.  Then I might take a walk, and feel stabs of heart ache seeing others with their moms, or I would hear a love song and think about her and how she was gone forever.

Of course the past couple years on Mother's Day I still think of her and still feel a sting when the thoughts start coming into my mind:  She would have loved Penelope.  How would she have held her? Played with her?  What would Penelope call her? 

Today while Danny was upstairs giving Penelope her bath I stared at a picture of me and my mum.  In the picture I'm about Penelope's age and my mom looks so young and healthy.  And really looking at her face and remembering her, and how she really was before her illness swept her away, it started happening again.  Grief, like a sinkhole starting pulling me.  The icky sad thoughts started swimming around.  I wasn't moved to tears but it might have started had I not heard something suddenly breaking through the darkness.

From around the corner and up the stairs I heard a tiny sweet voice call meekly:

"Mommy?"

She was done with her bath, and ready for her mommy (the lucky me) to put her to bed.  Her voice instantly shot the grief and darkness back to its dusty corner.  I put the picture back on the shelf, and with a giant grin, bound toward her, up the stairs, to fold her up, cover her face with kisses, and begin our ritual of stories, songs and rocking.  No wallowing this year.  No time and no room for it.

Having my baby didn't make the pain stop.  But just kind of made it less important.  And today, I realized again how my Mother's Day is so totally different.  The emptiness it usually holds, was filled with the joy I have of being a mother myself.  (Don't get me wrong, I still almost cried today-- when Penelope was having a meltdown, exhausted and over-due from a nap.)  But otherwise, it was a really beautiful day. 

Turns out the grief of losing someone who means everything to you still can't trump the euphoria of gaining someone who means everything to you.

here she is hugging James Brown, of course....

Star Struck

We had a celebrity sighting today.
Penelope has a ladybug suitcase, that came with a ladybug purse.  She loves her ladybug. She talks to her, carries her around, hugs her and says "Geeeze!" (translation=squeeze, which is what we say when we hug sometimes).  She also has a ladybug plate, bowl and bib.  So when she saw the actual real live ladybug on her bedroom wall today, she was ecstatic.
"OH! HIII, ladybug!" she exclaimed.  "Hi! mmmmMMA!" She made a kissy noise, but luckily did not actually inhale the bug that was frozen on her wall, probably wondering if its death was imminent.  Penelope ran and got her stuffed penguin, to show the ladybug.  "Pengin!" she told the ladybug, holding it up to the wall.  "Dance!" She said and began to make her penguin dance for the ladybug.

This episode, along with hearing her say 'Ohma goodness" for the first time, were the two biggest events of my day.

I am trying to avoid saying it, because it's so cliche and obvious but it's so insane how fast she's growing.  Just a few months ago, she had an identity crisis.

Penelope's grandma has a Betty Boop figurine in a glass cabinet.
"Do you see Betty Boop?" We all asked Penelope, pointing at the little character staring at us sweetly from behind the glass.
"Boop!" Penelope confirmed with pointing. A couple days later when she proclaimed "Boop!" I noticed she was patting on her own chest, motioning to herself.  And then I noticed that she wasn't looking at Betty, in the cabinet but slightly above the statue's head- at her own face reflecting in the glass.  And that was when I realized this whole time she'd been staring at herself, and now thought she was Betty Boop.

Then that night as we were getting ready for bed, Penelope was shivering from her bath.  "Want some lotion?" I offered the bottle up as a distraction.  She held up her little hands toward it.  "BOOP!" was the sound effect I used as I dropped it onto her chest.
"Boop!" she said, seemingly excited that she recognized the language.  "Boop!" she repeated, tapping her chest and nodding as if saying "Yes, I am Boop.  If there was ever a doubt about who I am, and if these big people were trying to teach me something.  It's that I am named Boop."

What have we done?  We taught her that she's a 1930s cartoon character! She's going to start kindergarten in just 4 years! By then it will be so deeply ingrained there will be no stopping it.

Now she knows she is "Pen-a-me".  She knows the entire alphabet, at least 100 words, numbers, songs and even random animals like 'porcupine', 'newt', or 'xoona moth'.
She's obsessed with flossing.  "Fossy??" She begs if she sees floss.  If you give her a string she keeps it in her mouth, the ends dangling from both sides of her lips and walks around, going about her business.  "Mm! good foss!" She nods as if I've cooked it for her, or maybe like a fine cigar.

I think I love Penelope more than ever.  I know I said that before but I think I almost have to. It's as though my love has to keep growing and stretching because that's what she's doing.  It's no longer as simple as loving a little baby who stays wherever you put her, eats whatever you place in her toothless mouth, wears whatever shirt you thread her tiny arms through.  Now my love has to be strong and malleable enough to cover the personality that is growing as fast as her curly hair.  From the parts that are easy to love- like her interest in music that makes her stand up even to the Subway $5 footlong song, as if she's at a Beyoncé concert--shaking her hips and holding her hands in the air-- to the harder parts like how she stubbornly wants things that I don't want for her.  Like eating the outside of a kiwi, or wanting to walk on her own through a public place saying "Hi" to EVERYONE- even the teenagers who are snickering menacingly at the world.  Probably making fun of everyone they see, these older kids see the world populated by idiots. I remember those days.  It's like you're wearing special teenage glasses where everyone else looks and sounds like a fool.  But Penelope doesn't know that.  She just flashes her  smile as she walks by narrowly missing a sharp table corner.  "Hi!" she says for the 4,324,590,293th time.

Not only does my love for her continue growing, but I'm finding another transformation in myself-- that I'm loving and finding empathy for all creatures.  Other babies for sure, but also older people, even the cranky ones, and animals.  It's as if my love for Penelope has helped me to love all of Creation.  I almost felt bad when I peeked at the bottom of the pink crate that holds all her Carebears and saw 7 dead ladybugs at the bottom.  "Ew." I said out loud, without realizing it.  Penelope ran over and peered inside.

"Oh! HII ladybug!" She exclaimed excitedly.

Mallrat

Yesterday I took Penelope to the mall.  I didn't really want to go but the house we just moved into still smells like the dead guy who lived here-  (may he rest in peace) - and the closest fragrance store is at the mall I used to frequent as a teen.

The car ride was typical.  P threw her sippy cup into the car door after whining for it.  There it lay upside down, slowly leaking while i attempted to reach for it while swerving through traffic.  I quickly gave up and handed her an Elmo toy to eat instead.

But when we got there all the normal boring mall stuff was transformed into wondrous whimsical beauty.  When we walked by the gross fountain with dirty pennies on the bottom of it Penelope almost leaped from my arms, pointing her tiny finger.  "Ooooooooh!!!" She exclaimed, eyes wide, pupils dilated with ecstasy.  I walked trying to carry her while also pushing a stroller full of hand soap and air fresheners as she pointed excitedly to all the stuff that I wouldn't have noticed such as: any person younger than 12, anything colorful or glittery- ranging from a display of jewelry to cell phone covers, escalators going up and down from the food court, the giant skylights..  And right when i was considering buying her a Mrs. Field's cookie on a nostalgic impulse- remembering all the times my grandma used to buy me a cookie when she took me shopping- Penelope pointed at something else and started bouncing. "BaOOOs!" she glanced at me between hops and gestured toward some old 4th of July balloons.  Her tone was what a grown up might sound like if they found a $100 bill instead of $3 worth of red, white and blue balloons.  It was the first time I'd ever heard her say 'baloon' and I figured she was so happy she didn't even need a cookie.

As we walked out, pointing at all the treasures together I noticed a pet shop and remembered her reactions to the few dogs she's encountered.  "Wanna see some doggies?" I asked her, pushing my kid-less stroller, and trying to shift her to my other arm.  (She's getting SO HEAVY!).    Her reaction to the dogs was better than I could have ever expected.  It was like those sweepstakes winner videos, or like she was welcoming a child back from war.  She started squealing, kicking her chubby legs, trying to crawl over me to get inside the areas where people were playing with potential pets.  "Puppies? You see the puppies?" I said laughing and wrestling to keep her from falling on her head.  "PUPPIES! PUPPIES!" She screamed her new word, pointing with both hands.  I tried to turn her to show her the other ones but she grabbed the side of the cubby wall where people were test driving potential pets.  One test driver was an 8 year old boy who looked on with an expression of confusion and fear.  "Look, there's more over here! Let go!" I tried to convince her, peeling her away.  But she wouldn't listen to reason and started to melt down.  The 8 year old playing with the Schnoodle (Snouser mixed with Poodle) continued to stare.

I managed to get her to other cases of dogs before she was inconsolable.  One little puppy jumped onto his hind legs and clawed at us through the case hopefully.  Penelope burst into giggles and bounced up and down in rhythm with the dog.

There have been so many milestones since my last post.  Her Hungry Caterpillar themed first birthday party: How I cried when everyone sang her Happy Birthday while she just stared at everyone blankly, her first taste of chocolate, how she's almost walking, how she hugs toys and says 'Aww baby!', patting them on the shoulder.  But the biggest joys in my days are these kinds of moments-- where she brings a new freshness to something as annoying as going to a mall.  The best illustrations of how beautiful she is are these moments.  And just as beautiful are the promises that tomorrow will be filled with even more.

9 months

My baby is 9 months old today.  She's now spent just as much time breathing with her lungs as she spent  getting her oxygen through that alien placenta thing.  She's no longer dependent on my forcefeeding myself green beans (for the folic acid), and bribing myself to eat salads using avocado, bingeing on cadbury eggs and then fasting from cadbury eggs.  And in spite of her mom taking a little trip down some stairs, getting all panicked about some gestational diabetes, or walking through Chicago traffic, Penelope toughed it out.  And continues to prove herself to be a tough girl through the weekly falls and crashes she takes as she gets more and more mobile.

Now she dances to just about any rhythmic noise.  But especially the theme music to Angry Birds:

She head bangs while panting like a dog

and smiles a gummy drooly smile whenever she sees me.

She gets around the room by doing the break dancing move 'the worm'.  She's learning to wave, and clap.  (Although currently when she claps she is only opening one hand, the other is still a fist, so it looks like she's gleefully threatening to give you a pounding.)
We're working on self feeding.  Whenever I give her a piece of banana or a soft green bean she shakes it like a maraca and then flings it on the floor, staring down at it in silent astonishment, like she's in the blue man group.  Of course today she suddenly felt motivated to begin self feeding without my prompting.  I saw her chewing and jumped to the floor where she was sitting, making my finger a hook like I read in Parents magazine to fish out the chunk of paper that was stuck to her gums.

Even on one of the more challenging days as Penelope's mom, my life is so rich and abundant.  I'm not bragging as if it's due to anything of my own power, but bragging on behalf of The Source of Life itself- which cannot be bound by prediction and is best appreciated when you let go of trying to control anything outside of your own attitude.  What I mean to say is a challenging day with Penelope is still full of laughter, kisses, and goes by way too quickly.  It probably starts with waking up before my dreams come to a conclusion, the feeling of rest and relaxation long forgotten for the next 7-10 years or so.   Every day is sandwiched with moments of frustration when she won't let me put her down ("Can't mommy just go to the bathroom??!!"), and  moments of utter overwhelming love-- the cliche kind that everyone tells you about that you think you understand already, but really don't. 

Every day that goes by she looks less and less like a confused cannellini bean and more like a little girl with her mom's hair and her dad's eyes.

Coloring in the lines

There have been a lot of milestones since my last ramble.  Penelope celebrated her first Christmas- which was a 3-day-long extravaganza of grandparents, cousins, aunts, uncles and wrapping paper.  If she was able to put a sentence together she may tell you that wrapping paper is her favorite food- or would be if the cruel taller people weren't constantly stealing it away from her tiny fists.

Then we rang in her first New Year's Eve with tears and consolation.  She'd been asleep until the moment the ball dropped and she awoke from her nap in a strange dark place- her grandparents bedroom.  So I celebrated 2013 with the world by rocking my bigger-than-ever- 6 month old.  A year prior I'd celebrated by drinking club soda and artificially flavored mixers, holding my belly and not knowing what a Penelope was.

Right now a Penelope is someone who lifts their left leg straight up into the air every time she drinks a bottle.  A Penelope sweetly reaches up her hand to my face as she drifts off to sleep, slowly caressing before suddenly grabbing whatever she can fit in her fingers and palm and squeezes with every bit of strength.  The pain makes my eyes water.  If I offer my hair instead, she innocently twists it around her fingers and releases a few times, or waves her hand in it like she's testing out a cool stream, then quickly grabs, her eyes still half closed and tries to bring me down to her face by the hair.  Or she flat out just suddenly, with ninja speed, slaps your face, without any malice or ill-will, just maybe to hear what kind of sound it would make.  When she's not physically abusing me, she's grinning at me so huge, with drool seeping out of her mouth.  She laughs at my every attempt at humor.

Every night when she goes to sleep, I miss her.  She's like that present you got for Christmas that you couldn't wait to play with when you woke up in the morning. Luckily I don't have to miss her for long because lately she's forgotten how to sleep.  When I was pregnant the most common comment I got was 'Hope you don't like sleep." And then when she was born the first question I got, and continue to get--usually with a smirk is "Getting any sleep?".  And I used to be able to say, "Yes. She's a terrible napper but she sleeps great at night."  Well, my darling princess must have gotten sick of my complaints about her lack of napping because for the past 4 nights or so, she's been waking up on average- once an hour.  And she doesn't just want her pacifier, which was what had satisfied her for the last 3 months.  Now she won't be pacified unless we rock her.  Sometimes she won't even tolerate us sitting down to rock her-- which is the meaning of true suffering at 3 am.  Isn't this how war criminals are questioned?  By waking them up every hour and forcing them to stand up, holding a screaming twenty pound weight?  Danny reassures me by saying, "It's only temporary." Which then fills me with sadness, knowing that time is still fleeting, and that in a few years I'll look back on this time and wish she was still a sweet baby.  So I try to enjoy even the sleepless, back-aching moments by staring at her face that's cute even when she's Miss Sleepy Grouchster Groucherson.

A less festive milestone was when Penelope visited her great grandma in the hospital.  She stared in disbelief and wordless fascination at my weak grandmother and then drooled on the poor woman's bed.  Then she was distracted by the beeping machine keeping grandma alive and wanted to push some of the flashing buttons.

A relative I hadn't seen in a while saw me and Penelope at the hospital and told me the way that I mothered Penelope made her flashback to how my mother was with me when I was a baby.   "You don't look like your mom, but just the way you are with her is so much like your mom was with you.  It's uncanny." I was moved and grateful for the statement.  It was a good reminder that in an unexpected way my mom lives on.  Also, loving my daughter as much as I do is a reminder of how much my own mom loved her daughters.  And maybe only just a fraction of how much our Mother God loves us.

I think Penelope is starting to recognize me as a mom more, and less like a giant buffet.  She stares into my eyes as if hypnotized, (and then, reminiscent of Elle from Kill Bill, snatches at my eye ball as if to keep it as a trophy).  She's started to reach her arms toward me, and more and more when I leave the room she cries.  I peek my head back in and she grins again, I leave and she cries.

The first few weeks, or maybe even months, after I delivered Penelope, I didn't feel like a mom.  I didn't feel like much of anything- I felt diminished, invisible, confused, non existent.  All that existed was this beautiful tiny baby and the baby's food source, which was me.  But lately, I've noticed I feel like a picture in a coloring book, that's started to get filled in.  Tonight at her grandparent's house, Penelope was getting sleepy and I said we should go home and get to bed.  Danny asked if she would play for a little while before bed and I said, "We'll see."  P's grandma Sharon laughed and mimicked my tone. "'We'll see'?  That's such a mom thing to say!" she teased me.  "Did you ever think you'd say that someday?"  I blushed but felt a sense of pride at the new colors filling in my temporarily grey scale self.  I like these new colors- they feel good on me.

Goodbye Chicago

About six and a half years ago I sat in the living room of my dad's townhouse with a few boxes and suitcases and waited for my future brother and sister in-law to pick me up and move me and the last of my things to Chicago.  Danny had already moved out there a couple weeks prior while I finished up my job at the United Way.

Even though I'd told my dad I'd be moving it hadn't seemed to sink in for him until that moment. He stood in the doorway of the living room looking at my packed belongings quietly.  "So, you're really moving?" He finally said.  My sister, who was keeping me company while I waited, rolled her eyes impatiently, "Yes, dad! Are you just now figuring it out?"
"Well.." he paused, thinking of what to say or do in response.  And he offered his best show of affection.
"Do you need any spices?"
And so, five minutes before my ride to Chicago arrived, my father quickly and thoughtfully packed an assortment of spices from his collection for me.

In Chicago I lived in 3 apartments, had 1 job, visited hundreds of bars and restaurants, a hand-full of churches before becoming a member of one for the first time.  (One I grieve leaving, avoided my last Sunday because I was too scared to say goodbye).  I got one broken ankle in Chicago, spent many days and nights learning and rehearsing at Second city, was proposed to in front of a statue of Shakespeare by my soul mate and a few years later, just around the corner I gave birth to my other soul mate.

Last week, as I hurriedly packed the last of the kitchen items I found some of the spices my dad had given me that I hadn't used and paused before throwing them out.  Six-year-old Tarragon would not help anyone out.   I knew my dad would look down on stale spices- even if they were from his own cupboard and held for sentimental reasons.  Also, I was excited to know that I would see my dad more often now that I was moving back to Michigan- and even better- that Penelope would know her chef grandpa the same way I'd always known my grandparents.  And maybe he could tell me what to do with Tarragon.

I know in about 10 years, maybe sooner, I'm going to have a lot of 'splainin to do when Penelope realizes she was born in an exciting, fun city like Chicago, and her father and I had made the choice of moving her back to boring old Michigan.  Even if she read my blogs about how hard it was to have a family in the city, so far away from our families, she still might not understand.  I'm hoping I can point out to her all the memories and fun she would have had had over the years with her family- "remember that time we went to the waterpark with all your cousins?"  "You know your grandmas? Or your crazy aunt Julie Jo?" I would point out, "You would only have seen them once or twice a year if we'd stayed." Maybe that will appease her.  Or maybe she'll roll her eyes and stomp off.  But either way, she'll probably have more room to stomp off in, since we will hopefully be living in a house with a yard, instead of a small city apartment.

It's hard to believe it's already been a week since we moved back.  Penelope seems to have adjusted well so far.  She's happy and obsessed with the Christmas tree.  She grabs the branches and pulls with all her might, truly believing she can fit the whole thing in her mouth.  She gets frustrated that she's not allowed to pull all the ornaments off.  I have to admit it is a weird thing- that we hang up all these fun looking toys on a tree and dont allow her to play with each one.  "No, honey, all those toys are just for you to stare at." I tell her.  But it brings her no consolation.  She loves all her grandparents, and is already getting to know her cousins.  She's babbling more and more.  She says 'bahbahdablahbahada' while she jumps in her jumper.  She'll stop whatever she's doing- even if she's crying- if you sing her a song- any song, but especially the ABC song.  She laughes when you blow raspberries on her belly, and she hates peas.  I mean she REALLY HATES PEAS.  But she's happy and content.  And as much as Danny and I have to accomplish to still get settled back in our home state-- so far we are too.

Obsessed (like the Beyonce movie)

Penelope is like a new baby every week.  Her progress and growth is really astounding.  She is more aware and alert every day.  Sometimes when I get home from work and am going on a rant about my day, I'll look down to see her big eyes  staring at me, her forward wrinkled with curiosity, as if she's really trying to follow what I'm saying.  It makes me nervous to hear that humans learn the most the first five years.  Here I am complaining and rolling my eyes, doing less than flattering impressions of my fellow man, and here is Pea absorbing every tone and inflection I put out there, to put into practice her first day of kindergarten.

She's obsessed with screens.  The computer, the television, but especially our cell phones.  And she's really trying to perfect her grab.  She extends her hand in a claw shape toward all objects-- my lips, empty Dr. Pepper cans, glasses of water, her own feet.  Once she grasps the object, the next step is to attempt to put it in her mouth.  What follows is confusing.  Danny and I aren't sure what she expects, but when she finally gets the object to her mouth, she always seems disappointed.  Not just slightly, either.  But despairingly so.  As if she's lost the lotto.  She cries with her eyes shut as if she expected chocolate mousse and got steamed broccoli.  After a few minutes of her going back to putting it in her mouth and taking it out with frustrated cries, we usually take the object away, and she gets even more upset.  Maybe she's teething.

Last week we attempted 'sleep training'.  Our doctor recommended that it was time.  Sleep training, also known as 'neglect' to some parents, is where you let your child 'cry it out'.  The purpose is for her to learn to sooth herself, and not depend on helpless schmucks (her parents) to rock her, walk her, sing her songs, stroke her face, etc, at her every beck and call.  I've heard once you get past the initial crying, your baby is independent and everyone wins.  We had heard you should try at 6 months, but the doctor said the earlier the better.  So last weekend, we gave it a shot.  After 45 minutes of straight up screaming, with her head turning purple, Danny threw in the towel and went and got her.  Even after we picked her up she didn't instantly stop crying, but continued for a while.  After she fell asleep she was still gasping and swallowing every now and then to catch her breath.  I think we'll try again in a couple months.  For now, we have weaned her off sleeping in her swaddle and nighttime feedings.  Sometimes she sleeps through the night, and other times she cries until you pop her pacifier back in, and she goes right back to sleep.  So, I consider that progress.

She's making some amazing sounds these days.  She does some raspberry type affects, but lately she's also been screaming and shrieking like how I imagine a pterodactyl would.  My favorite is when you're in dialogue with her, either mimicking the noises she's making or answering as if she's speaking in actual words ('Yeah? Is that right? You never told me THAT before'), and she pauses as if she's choosing her words carefully before saying 'ssJJJAAAAAAAbllllf!', coupled with a facial expression as if she's giving you the gossip on the neighbor.

This video is for sound only.  (If I let her see the camera, it interrupts the natural environment and she tries to grab it and put it in her mouth.)

Baby girl is now starting to hold her own bottle! Sometimes she holds with both hands in the shape of a gun, which is not always very effective, but we're working on that.

And another huge milestone is her first solid food! We have given her baby oatmeal for the past few days.  Her first bites are always tentative and followed by a shudder, as if the taste is jarring, but she always leans forward for more.  Because she wants to put everything in her mouth, this is an activity that finally liberates her. After a few times of rolling her tongue around, and pushing the oatmeal out she starts to swallow.  She usually only ends up with half on her face, which we consider a victory.

Overall, I'm madly, deeply, insanely, what seems unhealthily, in love with her.  Even when she's scream-crying, I think she's so adorable.  I follow coworkers around the office showing them pictures of her on my phone.  I stare at her while she's sleeping, I look at her pictures every second I'm away from her.  I love the smell of her breath, I've memorized the rolls on all her extremities.  I even like changing her diapers.  Danny and I figure she must get a minimum of a million kisses a day between the two of us.  I can't imagine this kind of obsessive love can last, but people have warned me that it will.  When she's a teen, will I still want to kiss her belly?  Will I follow her around and congratulate her on successful bowel movements? Will I disapprove of her friends, once she branches out of her current circle? (Gerry the giraffe and Gordon the bear).  This might become problematic.

In closing,  here she is with her posse (Gordon bear) flashing a 'peace out'.

Bring on the Awesome

Here is my life as a working city mom: waking up in the morning, getting myself and beautiful Penelope ready, loading us onto a bus at 7:30 (or closer to 8, as it usually ends up), during the height of morning rush hour, walking to daycare, dropping off my child with people who may or may not be somewhat incompetent, walking back to work, where I try to care about budgets and middle donor segments and office politics, all while pumping milk 3 times.  Then getting on a bus without the beautiful Penelope, but in the height of afternoon rush hour traffic, and getting home after 6 pm, which is usually when beautiful Penelope is ready for a nap.

Yesterday my cute pink stylish hair dryer busted and I left the house with wet hair.  Everyone else was wearing jackets, but I was wearing a baby with a very slight fever, so I guess it evened out.  I thought I smelled throw up on the street again and wondered what drunk zombies had been wandering around in my neighborhood on a Wednesday night.  When the bus arrived at the stop, 3 or 4 people quickly boarded ahead of me, obviously not phased by the infant strapped to my chest, and they grabbed the last of the handicapped seats.  I slowly walked toward the back of the bus, silently pleading for someone to offer me a seat but no one did.  Luckily I was able to grab the last seat toward the middle, where the bus looks like an accordion, crammed between two people, one of whom would receive a constant baby kick all the way to work.  The commute was typical--I sat perched uncomfortably, with my knees squeezed together, holding one bag between my legs. My left hand juggled another bag and Penelope's head as she drifted off to sleep.  I used my right hand to feed her a bottle, and cling to a burp rag.  I used my soul to pray that today wouldn't be the day that my fears would become reality and she will projectile spit up on everyone around her.  A man standing in front of me smiled as if to say Penelope was cute.  This is not cute, I wanted to correct him.  This is harder than Pilate's.

Today, (with dry hair this time) Penelope and I headed out to the bus stop and there was that puke smell again.  We got on a bus and even managed to get a seat.  A nice lady smiled at us and asked how old Penelope was.  "Do you smell throw up?" I asked, sniffing.  Maybe I'd stepped in it.  "I keep smelling it, and now I'm paranoid that it's me".  She smiled sweetly, "Maybe a little." she confessed, "maybe she spit up?" she offered as an explanation "..but she's really cute." I could tell she was a nice person trying to soften the blow.  Sigh.  So the whole time I was the throw up smell.  I tried to think back to how long I'd been smelling it in the mornings-- a week? two?  maybe that's why no one offers me a seat.  I started sniffing myself, my baby, and decided it must be the baby carrier, but I still haven't found the source. 

Today while I juggled bags, baby and bottle the nice lady wanted to talk. She has a son named Conner and is expecting her second in March.  After she got off a guy with very broad shoulders took her spot, so I scootched over to a now open seat and found myself next to my neighbor who also has a young baby.  (She doesn't bring hers on public transit like a lunatic).  We talked about our babies (hers is also named Conner, it turns out), then she got off the bus and we continued on.  Finally at our stop, I carried sleepy baby under an El train track, liquid dripping on us, Penelope cringing as the train drummed over our heads.  Then we walked past a trumpet street musician who seemed to play his song directly into our faces.  We passed Mr. Street Guy who composes his own songs as he sings them, then through a very long construction period.  A large truck was pouring rocks onto a conveyor belt, while another section contained a jackhammer.  I tried to cover her ears.  We passed the fire department, where today, luckily there was no fire alarm.  And we continued on.  The daycare loomed ahead, looking like the tower of Mordor.

I dropped her off, which, needless to say, is never my favorite part of the day, and walked all the way back to work- another 20 minute walk through the same obstacles mentioned.  As I got back into the building the daycare called to tell me they didn't have any bottles for her.  "Yes there are," I insisted "They're in the freezer there filled with milk."  The lady said she'd check and call me back.

When I got to my desk, they were calling again.  This time it was my least favorite worker-- the one Danny had witnessed accidentally giving another baby my breast milk a couple weeks ago-- she was telling me there weren't any bottles.  When I told her they were in the freezer she insisted there weren't any, just milk. 
"What is holding the milk?" 
"Skinny tubes."
"Those tubes are bottles."
"Oh.  Well there still aren't nipples"  Ah.  I lose.

So I turned around and made the trek again, this time with a nipple I happened to have in my purse. 
I got to give Penelope extra kisses when I dropped it off.  She was sucking on four of her fingers and didn't seem to notice me or my kisses. 

I rushed back to work to start my day, about one hour later than intended.  When I went to open my bag to pump, I found yesterday's milk.  Apparently I hadn't left it in the fridge, instead it had sat out all night in my bag.  That's 15 ounces of milk I had to throw away.  To put this in perspective, that is a day of food for Penelope.

I took a coffee break and came back to my desk.  This day is now going to be awesome.  Up to now it has been somewhat not awesome.  But that is going to change, I can just feel it.  Starting right now.  11:51.  I take a sip of my coffee and realize it's not what I ordered.  Okay, starting NOW.  11:52....

Separation Anxiety

I've been putting off writing this post until I could type it out without crying. 

I started back at work last week.  I knew it was going to be hard, but had no idea I would be this broken hearted.

I can't remember the last time I felt this way but its a familiar feeling, only this time it's stronger than I've ever had it. Its similar to the feeling that comes from a severed relationship, or grief. Pain in my chest, something big and heavy sitting in my stomach. I can't eat, I can't sleep, I have a lump in my throat and I'm constantly on the verge of tears. Even as it gets easier and I cry less, I miss her so bad it feels like I'm without a vital organ like a lung or a kidney. Last week I lost 4 pounds.  I'm calling it the Daycare Diet.

The hardest part of the first day was in the morning when I had to wake her up at 5 am. It was still dark out but instead of crying in protest she kept grinning at me. I thought I would die of guilt. You have no idea what's going on, I thought, trying to hold back the crying until after she left with her daddy. And when I closed the door I let it rip, sobbing while holding a breast pump to my chest, expressing milk before going to work. The rest of the day wasn't as bad.  I was distracted by the adrenaline of being back to work after 3 months- the longest I'd gone without working since college- and the renewed joys of getting ready in an empty apartment, putting in hair product and using lipstick. But at the end of the day, seeing my baby's red eyes, knowing she'd spent the majority of her day confused and crying, I felt like everything was broken. When I'd called to check on her earlier the staff said she'd been pretty upset and was just starting to calm down and take a bottle.  Apparently she refused food at first, which--if you've seen her chubby cheeks you know-- is so unlike my daughter.  I felt trapped. I couldn't quit my job even if I wanted to- but felt so guilty knowing she was so unhappy.

I barely ate dinner and couldn't sleep. My friends at work tried to distract me.  Danny did an impression of one of the other kids in the center to make me laugh.  Apparently the little boy was lying on his stomach with his arms and legs out straight and up in the air as if he were sky diving.  To add to the image, the boy apparently was screaming at the top of his lungs but trying to make eye contact with Danny as he walked around the room carrying Penelope.

The second day the plan was for me to take her in later and Danny to pick her up early so she wouldn't be at the center as long.   I knew I had to be brave enough to drop her off.  We got on a crowded bus in morning city traffic, and rode for an hour, the majority of the time with me kissing her sleepy face.  I got off the bus with three bags- one filled with bottles and bottle parts, another with a breast pump I was taking to work with me and a third my purse, and carried my sleepy girl another 10 minutes to the daycare.  As we walked in I felt only slightly reassured seeing other mommies and daddies bringing their babies into the center.  Some of the moms had the exact same breast pump as I did.  I tried to tell myself other families were doing the same thing as me and it didn't make me a bad mommy.  I tried to recount some good things I'd done that morning or night before.  I clipped her fingernails, I fed her, I gave her a bath, I told myself.  When I got to her daycare I set her in her crib and I kissed her.  I tried to tell her I loved her but my voice cracked. I rushed out, putting on dark sunglasses and waving to the daycare staff as if I was fine, trying to save my cry until my 20 minute walk to work. I tried to remember the sky diving kid to make myself laugh.

The staff at the center said she cried even more the second day and they had a hard time getting her to take a nap.  But when she got home she didn't seem too traumatized.  In fact, she was so happy to be home and be with her parents, she kept smiling and laughing.  I was physically and emotionally exhausted. 

By day three Penelope seemed to have adjusted. When I took her in I decided I didn't care about being late to work and would spend some time with her.  I put her on the floor to swaddle her, so she might be able to nap.  She turned her head and faced a little girl crawling and to my surprise, broke out into a huge smile.  She had a friend! For some reason, seeing her smile, was a huge relief to me.  She hadn't started to scream seeing the room, it wasn't as though this were torture for her.  Instead, she just looked around curiously, her eyes landing on a little boy with his arms, legs and chin up in the air, lying on his stomach screaming as if sky diving.  One day I'll explain to her about adrenaline junkies.  When I left she was still looking around, curious and alert, no longer tired.  And when Danny picked her up she was smiling and being held in a circle with all the other babies happily.

Today is day 6.  Every day the staff say she's getting much better. She talks with them, as she does at home, she smiles, she actually takes naps.  But even though I'm spending less time crying, and able to fall asleep a little faster at night, a big part of me still feels missing every time I'm at work.  I'm not sure if I'll ever adjust to something that feels this wrong and unnatural.

Penelope lives in the here and now.  She doesn't see the daycare and remember yesterday when she cried and couldn't sleep.  When she gets home, she's not still remembering the daycare, or fearing that tomorrow she'll have to return.  She's just enjoying our company right then and nothing else matters.  I'm trying to be more like Penelope.  While I'm at work, I miss her, but I try to bury myself in my projects and know that she's fine where she is.  And then when I'm with her, I try to ignore the nagging feeling that I'll have to be without her again the next morning.  I try to ignore how trivial my job feels now, compared to taking care of my child.  I just keep telling myself it's temporary.  One day my dreams will come true and I'll only work part time. 

To end on a positive note, and to record Penelope's latest progress and achievements, she's progressed so much with tummy time! She can now lift up her head and her chest, and she's rolled over three times!  She continues to become more and more vocal, and loves when you imitate the noises she makes back to her.  She smiles more and more frequently, and is obsessed with television already.  She goes into a TV trance, as if she really understands what's happening in the baseball or football game, or as if she's seriously considering purchasing that Audi.  Her cheeks continue to be chubby and she's still extremely irresistibly kissable.

Nighttime Feedings

For three straight nights Penelope slept for 7 hours, uninterrupted.  We'd carefully put her in her crib, swaddled up tightly and tip-toe to bed, unsure of when she'd open her eyes and make her demands.  Every night as I'm drifting off I go through the plan for when I hear her cries, as if I'm in a race, preparing for the gunshot to signal the start.  First, I'll grab my glasses, I remind myself.  Then I'll grab her, take her upstairs, change her, feed her, maybe pump, walk her around until she's tired enough and try to get her back down.  I rehearse in my mind.  There's always an internal debate as to whether I should change her first and risk her getting more and more upset, and crying and waking up Danny-- or the entire apartment building-- or feed her first and risk her falling asleep and having to wake her back up to change her.  Other than the past three glorious nights in a row, typically she wakes up just once- sometime between 2 and 4 am.

Once I've gotten her upstairs and changed, we land on the couch, mostly in the dark, to send her the message that we're all still in sleep mode. And as she's feeding peacefully, my imagination starts to run wild.

I've always had an overly-active imagination.  And scary movies or ideas plague me in the middle of the night.  Once, I overheard someone discussing the plot of a supernatural movie, and without ever having seen it, I would lie awake thinking about it.  After I actually saw the movie, it wasn't nearly as scary as my own imagination.

Sometimes when I'm rocking her to sleep, the shadows of the trees outside moving on the ceiling of her bedroom remind me of the movie Drag Me to Hell, and my eyes dart nervously, ready for an old decrepit gypsy to burst out of her closet and gum me with a toothless mouth.  Other times I stare at the blackness of the bathroom doorway, waiting for the girl from The Ring to crawl out of the toilet.  (Does she ever actually crawl out of a toilet in the film?  I doubt it).  Our wooden stairs creak on their own as they settle and I wonder if it's the creepy girl from The Grudge crawling up toward me and Penelope.  Before bad last night I made Danny remove a white baseball pillow from under the baby's crib.  "Why?" he asked puzzled.  "Because in the dark it looks like a person's face under their hiding." I confessed, embarrassed.  "You're so crazy!" he laughed, but removed it to appease me.  And then there's the 'M'am?' story.  But I won't go into that just now.

How can I be a parent while still afraid of monsters??

Last night, staring into the darkness of the bathroom, as Penelope suckled sleepily, I thought of Harry Potter, and how they used the Riddikulus charm on boggarts.  What this means--in non-dork language-- is when you see something scary you transform it into someone ridiculous, or funny, so that you're no longer scared.  Ron Weasley is scared of spiders, for example, so he gives the spider roller skates, leaving the spider harmless as it can't even stand upright.

I tried to think of the least scariest thing that could come out of the dark bathroom.  My first thought was Woody Allen.  What if Woody Allen just walked out of the bathroom suddenly at 2:30 am on a Wednesday night while I was breastfeeding my infant? What would he say? "Why are you so scared?" He might ask in his New York accent, throwing his skinny arms up in nerdy frustration.  "Is it because you're wrestling with your own fear of mortality?"

For some reason, the second least scary person to come into my mind was Kurt Russell.  I pictured him coming out with a smirk, scoffing at my fear and calling me something sexist like 'babe'.

Or what if Denzel Washington just walked out of the darkness?  I imagined he'd be really intense and dramatically accuse me of being a racist.  "No, Denzel! I'm SO not a racist!" I would insist.  "I LOVED Remember the Titans!  Danny hated it, but not because we're racist, just because it was cheesy."  "Oh, yeah?" He would counter, so angry that spit was accumulating at the corners of his mouth. "Danny loves football and it's a football movie!"  "Yes, but there's a scene where everyone sings and dances to a Motown song, can you blame him?" I reasoned with imaginary Denzel.  "And besides, he hated Rudy too-- and that was technically a football movie."

As I put Penelope into her crib, I felt a little less scared.  There was no scary person under the crib waiting to grab my ankles (and do what with me? bite my Achilles heel??)..  There was no creepy ghost kid from Sixth Sense wanting to show me his father's guns.

But it will be a lot easier if tonight, my baby just sleeps straight through until morning and we dont have to fall back on the Riddikulus charm to get rid of one of these:

How my Roommate pulls her weight

Penelope turns two months today.  She continues to grow and change crazy fast! Today I weighed her and she's already 14 pounds!! That's size 2 in the diaper world.  I've already filled a storage container with clothes that no longer fit her extending belly and chubby thighs. Some she never even got to wear, and some she only wore once.  I felt sentimental packing away some of the tiny outfits- like the flamingo one her daddy insisted we buy that she wore home from the hospital.

Taking care of her by myself during the days and middle of the nights is still the hardest job I've ever had.  But I've finally started to get somewhat of a grip on it.  And now I'm trying to savor as many of the moments as possible before I go back to work and she has to spend a few hours a day in a daycare center.  I'm praying she wont be scared or cry all day, and I'm also praying that I wont be scared and cry all day.  Although I know I will be scared and will cry at least part of the day.  Hopefully my unique coworkers will distract and amuse me.

My roommate doesn't pay rent, help with the dishes or even wash her own laundry.  But I think she pulls her weight with her cuteness.  Here are some of her current rent-paying behaviors:

Sometimes when she eats, she holds her arm behind her back as if she's under arrest.

She continues to make awesome fun hand gestures

She's learning how to hold objects now

She's talking and smiling more and more

And from 6 am to 8 am we have a morning ritual of taking a nap together.

In a few days she'll go on her first of many road trips to Michigan to see the rest of her family.  I'm sure she'll find some creative adorable way to chip in for gas.

It was the best of times, it was the messiest of times

I stopped myself from posting this blog Tuesday because it would have just been an inventory of all the times Penelope pooped on me.  (One of which was after I'd managed to fit a shower in during her power nap, which made it especially insulting).

I was solely responsible for a newborn from 3 am to 4 pm and I thought I might go crazy.  Twice I cried, one time I let out a sustained moan as if I was giving birth.  It was during one of the baby's cries.  She must have had a tummy ache but there was nothing I could do to help her.  She was also so tired but wouldn't go to sleep. She probably wanted to be walked around but I was tired and a little sore still and all I could do was stare at her and say "Why? Why won't you sleep? You're so tired." 

The times during the day when she would sleep, she was very particular about location.  If I set her down, she would soon wake up, demanding to be held.  Now, don't get me wrong, I LOVE holding her.  She's my perfect angel sweetie cupcake honey bunny baby.  But I'd also like to get something done.  Like clean the oven that I'd recently burned a cake in, for example.  (The remains of this burnt cake incident had led to a fire in the oven when we'd tried to use it so it was imperative that it be cleaned that day in order to make dinner.)  I'd finally managed to set her down long enough to take a shower which was especially critical since she kept having mustard-seed-poop blow outs, getting some on my shirt and pants.  And in addition to the slight fussiness, and frequent bowel movements she WOULD NOT STOP EATING.  And the times I offered her the breast she went at it like a Yorkshire Terrier gnawing a recently caught animal of prey.

Now, all of this sounds like classic baby behavior.  Stuff I knew I'd be dealing with when we decided to enter parenthood.  But by 1 pm I had shed a few tears myself, closed my eyes and asked Jesus if he could please babysit while I took a nap or screamed.  When I opened my eyes she had spit up on my shoulder.  I was eventually granted a slight repose, but before long she was at her tricks again.  Making this weird gremlin growling noise to communicate her unhappiness with me, even while she was sucking down some fresh breastmilk.

Danny came to my rescue at 4, rushing in from work, anxious to hold his baby.  Of course by then she was sleeping in an angelic pose, with no evidence of her prior misdemeanors.
And as soon as he took her out of my arms I was flooded with guilt.  How could the best treasure God had given me gotten on my nerves so bad?

Wednesday was a new day.  As psychotic as it sounds I was euphorically in love with her again.  Everything she did was adorable and I was happy to change her diapers and smile while she cried.  She continued to have poop blowouts, and was constantly starving, but I felt refreshed, which is probably thanks to the shift change with Danny coming home to relieve me.   How do single people raise babies?? I'm baffled, astounded, in awe by their strength.  Single moms and dads, my heart goes out to you.

She is one month old today.  I can't believe how cute she is.  And I can't believe how fast she's growing! Everyone says that all the time about kids, but I think she's already 10 pounds! She's outgrown some newborn outfits already, and I feel sad about it.  Sometimes I get scared of how fast she grows, I already miss how small she was the first week.  But I'm trying to stay calm, thinking about all the things she has yet to do.  And how exciting it will be when I get to make her laugh, brush her long hair or show her a movie.  These future plans keep me from cutting off her food supply so she'll stop growing.  Happy one month, baby! You and your daddy are my favorite parts of life.

Birth of a Mommy

Although I read about the recovery of child birth in all my parenting books and websites, it's still been extremely challenging.  In fact, I would say the recovery has been harder than the labor itself. 
Immediately after Penelope was born Danny and I were starving and exhausted.  We hadn't slept or eaten in 24 hours and had just gone through the biggest, most important, beautiful and hardest ordeal of our lives.  Two nurses came in with a wheelchair to take me to use the bathroom.  Weak and tired,  and seeing all the blood  I started to warn them I was feeling dizzy.  I must have passed out because when I came to there were 10 nurses bustling around calling out to each other, poking me, asking me questions.  They wheeled me back into the room and Danny was pale with worry, standing close to the baby.  My glasses were askew and the ponytail I'd had since before birth was half undone. He told me later I was smiling like a mental patient.  In my mind I was trying to smile to reassure him that I was fine.  But apparently it wasn't a very reassuring picture.
That night we didn't get to catch up on any of our rest.  Penelope did cry a bit, she was confused and cold and I imagine really hated gravity.  But the real issue was the hospital staff coming in once or more an hour to check on us, take blood sugars, blood pressure, give shots and ask us the same questions over and over again. 
When day broke we were finally drifting off to sleep, and I was trying to breastfeed when that same awkward medical student guy came in to ask more questions.  "heh.  hi.  How.  heh.. um, how are you feeling?" he started.  I tried to smile and whisper so as not to wake up Danny who had finally passed out on his cot.  "I see.. you are ..heh.  you're breastfeeding." he commented awkwardly amid the questions.
For two days we got terrible hospital food, and the same repeated questions with each nurse starting her next shift.  When we were finally released from hospital jail, I was wheeled out of the hospital to the van where Jack and Angela were giving us a ride.  To  their horror, and my amusement, after we piled in, the van wouldn't start.  Jack and Angela were so apologetic and embarrassed, but it really was very funny.  A storm was brewing outside and I knew I didn't want to take this new baby in a taxi cab.  Fortunately, someone at the hospital gave us a jump start and we made it home laughing at our luck and taking pictures of our new baby in her first car ride. 
When I walked into our apartment, the place had been cleaned and a sign welcoming the baby hung off the chair that her grandma had made for her.  There was a tall chocolate cake frosted, a bag of Godiva chocolates and some champagne in the fridge- all due to my amazing mommy in law.  I felt elated, shocked, happy and also sore, confused, overwhelmed and scared.  Who was I now?  I knew I was being reborn as a new person, but it was still unclear who that new person was and how she was going to manage to care for such a tiny, perfect, frail little girl.
Over the past two weeks I've had many meltdowns.  Maybe on average- one a day.  I start to cry, either for no reason or because I'm so sore on so many parts of me.  For days I felt like I'd gotten into a bad hockey fight.  The only part of me that wasn't sore was my face, though, so maybe hockey is a bad analogy.
While I knew breastfeeding would be challenging, I never realized how much time it takes.  I mean it's pretty much all I do.  At first, I was so sore, every time she'd cry with hunger, I'd deny it.  "No!" I'd tell my family when they'd hold her out toward me, "She's not hungry! She's not! I just fed her! She just wants to sleep.  Make her sleep!" "No", they'd shake their heads, gently "She's sucking on her hand."
But while it still takes up the majority of my time, leaves me and the baby covered in milk, requires both of us a lot of costume changes, and demands careful planning even to limp down the street to get an iced decaf, it really has gotten easier. 
At baby P's first Dr. appointment they weighed her and told us her weight was already picking up.  "The breastfeeding must be going great!" The pediatrician said.  "Wheatever you guys are doing, keep it up!"  This assurance strengthened me and has helped me keep going, making it through the roughest patch.
A few days after birth I got some sort of pregnancy/new mom rash that hits 1 out of every 200 women.  Tiny itchy hives covered my stomach, arms and legs.  They prescribed two tiny tubes of steroid cream which I used that same day.  My refill isn't good for another 5 days!  But these hives are starting to go down.
I won't go into the details of the main source of soreness, but all I want to do is go see the light of day and walk outside, and I really can only make it for a few minutes before I have to hobble home and lay on the couch.  They really need to make a stroller for new moms.  Then Danny could push us both around.
Through all of these pains, getting to know my daughter and myself as a mom has fueled me forward and given me so much joy.  So far Penelope rarely cries, sleeps a lot (sometimes five hours at night!) and on the rare occasions when she's awake and not eating, looks around with curiosity and hangs on our every word.  When she sleeps she goes through a range of entertaining facial expressions, sometimes even a smile, which she has yet to do awake.  She makes these really cute noises- sometimes like a gremlin, sometimes like a cat or a bird calling.  She moves her arms and hands like she's trying to stir a batter or put a spell on us.  Yesterday at 5 in the morning I was explaining to her my limited knowledge of the sun and moon.  These moments are so precious and perfect it hurts to know that they're also fleeting and that we'll look back on these times and wish we could relive them.
Adding to the list of my sore parts you can add my heart, it feels like it might burst sometimes.

Sharks and Giving Birth

Before I gave birth my two biggest fears were sharks and giving birth.  I am proud to say that I've faced the second fear and can honestly say sharks are probably worse.
June 26th I started to get a new kind of contraction-- they didnt feel like the Braxton Hicks/false contractions (or "Carlton Banks" contractions, as Danny named them) I'd been feeling for the past few weeks-- these ones were different-- not painful but "uncomfortable"-- I was calling them, because I knew only once I was in the throes of labor would I understand true pain.  These new contractions would last a second, or 15 seconds and then would vanish.  But by that night they started to come every 12 minutes and always lasted 1 minute.  I started writing down the times for each one, pacing for the minute long contraction and then lying down in bed again.  I tried not to disturb Danny who slept peacefully.  But when I was getting out of bed at around 5, he woke up.  "You've been up all night??"  He was alarmed, jumping out of bed.  But we knew we weren't supposed to go to the hospital until the contractions were 4 minutes apart for an hour.  So we got out of bed, continued to time the contractions, and Danny started nesting-- racing around the apartment cleaning toilets, wiping counters, mopping floors.
After a few hours they were about 8 or 9 minutes apart and now were stronger.  I started to get a little fearful, realizing that the slow yoga breathing I'd been practicing wasn't.. well it wasn't going to do shit to help me once these started coming quicker and harder.  I'd always planned on going for a walk during this early labor stage, like the couples in the birth videos we watched in our class.  We walked to the Jewel Osco, but it was a painful journey and just went immediately home. Danny called to alert Angela-- my other labor coach, so she could make the five hour journey from Michigan. 
By this time the contractions felt strong, and instead of deep breathing I was breathing in through  my nose and out with a sustained vocal moan. "Ahhhhh.."  Yes, it sounded a bit insane, but it was the only thing I could do.  On the return home from the store I had to lean against a brick apartment building breathing out the slow 'Ahhh'.  Danny later told me the window to that apartment was open.  I picture now the residents of this building at 7 or 8 am going about their business when a large pregnant woman leans against their home moaning and then walking along.
By 9:30 they were 4 minutes apart and very intense.  The pain was strong in my back and Danny would massage for the minute of the contraction and I would let out my sustained vocal 'ahh'.  When we called the doctor- (Dr. Favorite was on call!!!)- she seemed skeptical.  "This is your first, right?" She asked, unsure if I was ready to go to the hospital.  Her doubt made us think we should wait.  So at about 11:30, they had been going strong four minutes apart for 2 hours, we decided to go to the hospital.
Our plan had been to take a taxi, since we dont have a car.  We knew Danny's parents would be driving us back from the hospital with the carseat, so we just had to take our suitcase and hop in a cab.  Although at this point I realized I didnt feel like doing my sustained "ahhs" in a wild cab ride.  And what if my water broke in the backseat? I know Chicago cabs charge $50 for vomit, what was the amniotic fluid charge?
So we booked a zip car and Danny ran to pick it up.  I walked down the hall of my apartment, with my sustained moaning, and we drove to the hospital, with more sustained moaning.  Danny dropped me at the door and sped off to park the car, and I made it through the elevator ride to the maternity waiting room, sustained moaning every four minutes despite the looks of the surrounding strangers.  After a check, they found I was dilated to five, so I didnt have to go home, as we'd heard so many others have done when they found out they weren't ready for hospital care. 
Before they wheeled me into the room where I would labor, deliver and then stay in for the duration of the care, an awkward gangly young man came in.  Looking highly uncomfortable, as if he'd been given lines to memorize and recite in front of an audience of hungry bears he stood at the end of my bed and tried to ask me questions.  'uhm.. hi, heh..I am a medical student and i'm here to ask a few heh.. questions' his stunted questions were punctuated with uncomfortable giggles.  'have you had any complications. uhm.  during this pregnancy?' he would ask, trying to smile.  Even though the contractions were very strong now, as I was dilated to 7, I tried to be kind and respectful and answer his questions without irritation.  In the middle of one a contraction came on and i started my sustained moaning- which by this time was a little louder and more desperate.  Danny went into what was by now our established routine-- he would massage my lower back and count down the contraction, cheering me on with encouragement, "you can do it, honey, you're doing great! 40 more seconds! 30 more seconds, you're halfway there!"  (Later he confessed he was just making up the times, but it was what got me through all the contractions).  Through my half shut eyes I saw the young medical student standing in the same spot, frozen, looking even more frightened and uncomfortable.  Why was he still there?  The contraction ended and I took a deep breath.  He stood, trying to keep the weird smile on his face, staring at me.  'Ok. What else?' I asked him.
By 5 pm I was hooked up to an epidural catheter, had two IVs in each hand- one with insulin-- my blood sugar got out of control when I didn't eat all day.  Jack and Angela had arrived and we were all waiting for the baby to drop as I was dilated to 10.  We watched my contractions on the computer monitor next to me, noticing when they were strong and smiling because I couldn't feel them.
At 7 they came in and said it was time to push.  By this time I was feeling very exhausted.  I hadn't eaten or slept in 24 hours.  Dr. Favorite came in to tell me how it would go.   They told me we'd push three times for every contraction.  "You're my favorite." I told her.
Danny and Angela each held one of my legs and like cheerleaders on the sidelines, delivered encouragement.  Between each push I tried to take a 30 second nap.  Then their cheers started to get more excited as they saw her coming.  I was so tired and my eyes were closed through most of the pushing and the resting between.  But 45 minutes later our baby was born. 
I'd always imagined they'd throw her on my chest, covered in goo, but in my hazy memory Danny kissed me, his eyes with tears, they offered him the chord to cut and then they rushed the baby to a warmer next to my bed and started conducting tests, suctioning out fluid from her lungs, trying to get her to cry and then giving her a bath. 
Meanwhile, three doctors-- two of whom were more medical students-- hung out around me for the last stage of labor.  Dr. Favorite was teaching them how to deliver the placenta and then stitch up the tears.  At this point I was so ready for it to be over I think I was getting a little snotty.  "does this hurt?" they were asking me.  "No, it doesn't hurt, but I got three people peering into my crotch, so it's not exactly comfortable." I was saying between demands to hold my baby.
I always imagined when she finally came out, and I heard her cry I would break down into an emotional mess, I would feel the significance of the whole world-- I'd feel one with all women who'd given birth.  Instead, though, I felt very sleepy and irritated that three doctors were still hovering around my private parts, forcing me keep my legs open for too long. 
But in the days following, and now, over a week later, I feel total awe and shock when I stare at my baby.  I can't believe how perfect and beautiful she is.  And how lucky I am to have had such an uncomplicated delivery. For the past 9 months I've been gifted by/subjected to the birth stories of almost every mother whose noticed my bulging belly-- stranger or not.  And now I finally have my own.