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.
Tuesday, July 9, 2013
Wednesday, March 27, 2013
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.
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.
Sunday, January 13, 2013
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.
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.
Thursday, December 6, 2012
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.
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.
Wednesday, November 14, 2012
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'.
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'.
Thursday, October 25, 2012
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....
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....
Thursday, September 27, 2012
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.
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.
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