The mathematical principle of Phi is: The whole is to the larger in exactly the same proportion as the larger is to the smaller. Phi, also known as the Divine Proportion, can be identified in a pattern of numbers that increases by adding the two previous numbers.
In writing, this all seems so esoteric, so difficult for math-challenged people (such as myself) to understand. However, if you look at a spiral-shaped Chambered Nautilus shell, the principle becomes visible. This miracle is comprised of gently curving, pearly spaces, each created by the homely organism that once inhabited the shell. Beginning with the miniscule chamber in the center of the spiral, you can trace each consecutive chamber, each created as the organism outgrew the last, each slightly larger than the one before. Each one precisely follows the rule of Phi.
As a mother, I have watched my 19-month-old daughter, Claire grow and change with each passing day. When Claire was 10 days old (and I was crazed by rapidly shifting, postpartum hormonal levels), I remember wailing, "She's 10 days old already, and I've missed it!" My mother, bewildered, reminded me, "But Annah, you've been here!" I had been trying to express my longing for Claire to remain a newborn forever. At the same time, I looked forward to knowing her as a child, teenager and adult. I suppose every mother wants to have her cake and eat it too.
I mourn each time I fold and box clothes Claire has outgrown, placing them in the attic, much as the Nautilus sheds its shell. New chambers are created as my husband and I buy 12-month clothing, 18-month clothing, 24-month clothing. Likewise, as Claire's mind develops, I miss the days in which she would stare, fascinated, at ceiling fans and lamplight. Now, I rejoice to hear her learning to say "sock" and "ball". I loved her when she was the passive recipient of affection, but love even more her toddler kisses and spontaneous "hit-and-run" hugs. Her wise-beyond-her-years newborn gazes have given way to myriad expressions from joy and delight to "uh-oh-tantrum-coming". Her bobble-headed attempts to sit up have been replaced by running, dancing and twirling. Each day I lose her. Each day I gain her.
But how can one measure the development of a tiny, precious soul? Add the last two numbers? Measure it with a tape measure? This mystery is beyond all science, all mathematics. It is certainly beyond me. Perhaps this is what Oliver Wendell Holmes recognized when he wrote the last stanza of his poem, The Chambered Nautilus:
"Build the more stately mansions, O my Soul,
As the swift seasons roll!
Leave thy low-vaulted past!
Let each new temple, nobler than the last,
Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast,
Till thou at length art free,
Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea!"
What a privilege to watch this spark of divinity unfold.
Sunday, December 19, 2010
Saturday, November 13, 2010
Mother's Day Out
"Honor thy father and mother, that thy days may be long upon the earth." This Bible verse is widely known as the only one of the Ten Commandments with a promise attached. Many people think it means if you treat your parents well, you'll have a long life. My mother, however, when driven to the brink, would paraphrase it as, "Do what I say, so I won't be tempted to kill you!"
A couple I know have three children. The father said they only have one rule: "Do whatever we say, immediately." It seems that would keep things simple, but I imagine its enforcement is more complicated. Now that my daughter, Claire is 18 months old, I discipline her when she knowingly misbehaves. She cries, pouts, stamps her tiny feet, and gives me looks that could kill. However, if she attempts to crawl into our gas-lit fireplace, she will receive a consequence.
It is difficult to be firm with someone so small and endearing. I feel a sense of guilt when I enforce my rules, which are in place only to keep her safe. When she attempts to cajole by handing me her favorite toy, when she says, "mama" and pats my knee, it is so hard to buckle down and teach her not to attempt to open the cupboard full of poisonous cleaners. But I know I must if she is ever to reach her second birthday.
By Monday night, I am usually worn out from constantly supervising a creature entirely bent on her own destruction. The next morning, I receive a respite. Claire goes to Mother's Day Out every Tuesday. I drop her off at 8:30 and drive off, chanting "Free at last, free at last!"
Within half an hour, I miss her. As I run errands, I see snacks and toys she would love, and I want to buy them all. I return home to "have an hour of peace". Instead, the house seems eerily empty and quiet. Don't get me wrong; I get a lot done. But it all seems so meaningless without her. At 1:30, feeling as though we have been cruelly separated by a Communist regime, knowing she will leap into my arms once reunited, I rush to pick her up. When I arrive and behold her angelic face once more ... she doesn't want to go. She is very attached to Miss Shirley (who really is wonderful) and likes all the novel toys. When I lift her up, she struggles and hits me on the nose. (sigh) Time for more discipline...
Later, as I tenderly watch her sleeping in her crib, looking for all the world like a plump, pink baby hedgehog, with her feet tucked under her and her bottom comically sticking up, it is hard for me to imagine this same child wreaking her customary havoc. I am struck by the myriad contradictions parents encounter when raising a child. Any child, within a 24-hour period, can be in turns ebullient, irascible, innocent, cranky, compliant, frustrating, and virtuous. Parents must counter these characteristics with patience, fortitude, and acceptance, all the while battling exasperation and constant interruptions. Perhaps this balance of justice and grace is the definition of loving a child. Excuse me, I have to go now. Claire just handed me a booger.
A couple I know have three children. The father said they only have one rule: "Do whatever we say, immediately." It seems that would keep things simple, but I imagine its enforcement is more complicated. Now that my daughter, Claire is 18 months old, I discipline her when she knowingly misbehaves. She cries, pouts, stamps her tiny feet, and gives me looks that could kill. However, if she attempts to crawl into our gas-lit fireplace, she will receive a consequence.
It is difficult to be firm with someone so small and endearing. I feel a sense of guilt when I enforce my rules, which are in place only to keep her safe. When she attempts to cajole by handing me her favorite toy, when she says, "mama" and pats my knee, it is so hard to buckle down and teach her not to attempt to open the cupboard full of poisonous cleaners. But I know I must if she is ever to reach her second birthday.
By Monday night, I am usually worn out from constantly supervising a creature entirely bent on her own destruction. The next morning, I receive a respite. Claire goes to Mother's Day Out every Tuesday. I drop her off at 8:30 and drive off, chanting "Free at last, free at last!"
Within half an hour, I miss her. As I run errands, I see snacks and toys she would love, and I want to buy them all. I return home to "have an hour of peace". Instead, the house seems eerily empty and quiet. Don't get me wrong; I get a lot done. But it all seems so meaningless without her. At 1:30, feeling as though we have been cruelly separated by a Communist regime, knowing she will leap into my arms once reunited, I rush to pick her up. When I arrive and behold her angelic face once more ... she doesn't want to go. She is very attached to Miss Shirley (who really is wonderful) and likes all the novel toys. When I lift her up, she struggles and hits me on the nose. (sigh) Time for more discipline...
Later, as I tenderly watch her sleeping in her crib, looking for all the world like a plump, pink baby hedgehog, with her feet tucked under her and her bottom comically sticking up, it is hard for me to imagine this same child wreaking her customary havoc. I am struck by the myriad contradictions parents encounter when raising a child. Any child, within a 24-hour period, can be in turns ebullient, irascible, innocent, cranky, compliant, frustrating, and virtuous. Parents must counter these characteristics with patience, fortitude, and acceptance, all the while battling exasperation and constant interruptions. Perhaps this balance of justice and grace is the definition of loving a child. Excuse me, I have to go now. Claire just handed me a booger.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Ma Petite Princesse
Claire is a princess. Either that or the second coming of Queen Elizabeth I. I have often heard children are born with their own distinct personalities, which can only partially be influenced by their parents. My 17-month-old daughter has a buoyant cheerfulness mingled with an imperiousness I don't believe is entirely due to her age.
When Claire was first born, I couldn't resist singing, "Here she comes, Miss America ..." as the nurse would wheel her into my room to be nursed. She did not suffer to remain with the other babies in the hospital nursery, considering them mere peasants, but instead, resided at the front desk in her little transparent bed, the darling of the staff.
Over the past few months, with her singular sweetness, Claire has charmed the dedicated employees at our local Target. Riding backwards in the child seat of the shopping cart, like the figure head of a 17th century battleship, she gazes benevolently out upon her devoted populace. When Claire makes a new acquaintance, she invariably holds out her tiny hand to be kissed, as if she expects the adult to say, "Your servant, mum." She then regards her new subject with a slight frown, deciding whether to grace them with her royal favor. Upon her departure, she blows rapturous kisses to yet another adoring fan.
The only great-grandchild of her great-grandmother, as well as the only grandchild of each set of grandparents, Claire receives more than her share of attention. With the staff and elderly residents at her great-grandmother's assisted living home, she's considered something between a mascot and a celebrity, retaining a popularity rivaling that of Princess Diana. She condescends to toddle through the lobby, visiting with the residents and bestowing upon them spontaneous, babyish affection.
It is difficult to be the mother of a reincarnated monarch. Sometimes I feel more like a lady in waiting. For instance, I don't change Claire's diaper; I make her toilette. Claire doesn't sleep in her nursery. She reclines in her boudoir. She doesn't eat; she dines. She turns up her royal nose at crackers but deigns to accept crumpets. Due to her separation anxiety, I don't leave the room before receiving her permission to withdraw.
Now that Claire is old enough to understand the word "no" and be disciplined when she disobeys, I am girding my loins for World War III. Despite the unutterable tenderness I feel for her, I know the next few months (years?) won't always be easy. I only hope I don't quail under her gimlet eye the first time she's forced into "time-out". I'm already gleaning advice from other parents on how to retain the upper hand (okay, get it in the first place), and, of course, any prayers would be appreciated. In the meantime, Claire will continue to occupy her throne in my heart ... at least until she has to share it with a younger sibling.
When Claire was first born, I couldn't resist singing, "Here she comes, Miss America ..." as the nurse would wheel her into my room to be nursed. She did not suffer to remain with the other babies in the hospital nursery, considering them mere peasants, but instead, resided at the front desk in her little transparent bed, the darling of the staff.
Over the past few months, with her singular sweetness, Claire has charmed the dedicated employees at our local Target. Riding backwards in the child seat of the shopping cart, like the figure head of a 17th century battleship, she gazes benevolently out upon her devoted populace. When Claire makes a new acquaintance, she invariably holds out her tiny hand to be kissed, as if she expects the adult to say, "Your servant, mum." She then regards her new subject with a slight frown, deciding whether to grace them with her royal favor. Upon her departure, she blows rapturous kisses to yet another adoring fan.
The only great-grandchild of her great-grandmother, as well as the only grandchild of each set of grandparents, Claire receives more than her share of attention. With the staff and elderly residents at her great-grandmother's assisted living home, she's considered something between a mascot and a celebrity, retaining a popularity rivaling that of Princess Diana. She condescends to toddle through the lobby, visiting with the residents and bestowing upon them spontaneous, babyish affection.
It is difficult to be the mother of a reincarnated monarch. Sometimes I feel more like a lady in waiting. For instance, I don't change Claire's diaper; I make her toilette. Claire doesn't sleep in her nursery. She reclines in her boudoir. She doesn't eat; she dines. She turns up her royal nose at crackers but deigns to accept crumpets. Due to her separation anxiety, I don't leave the room before receiving her permission to withdraw.
Now that Claire is old enough to understand the word "no" and be disciplined when she disobeys, I am girding my loins for World War III. Despite the unutterable tenderness I feel for her, I know the next few months (years?) won't always be easy. I only hope I don't quail under her gimlet eye the first time she's forced into "time-out". I'm already gleaning advice from other parents on how to retain the upper hand (okay, get it in the first place), and, of course, any prayers would be appreciated. In the meantime, Claire will continue to occupy her throne in my heart ... at least until she has to share it with a younger sibling.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
My Little
My grandmother gave me a poem by Ethel Barnett de Vito, entitled "Calamity": "The terrible news goes round and round:/Veronica Lou has lost a pound,/And the family's plotting what to do/To get it back on Veronica Lou./On anyone else you'd never know it,/But Veronica Lou's the type to show it./She's lost her curves and she's lost her bloom,/She frets all day in her pretty room,/And nothing appeases, nothing charms,/Not even a cry in mother's arms,/Not even the gift of mother's chain/That once she ogled in vain, in vain./And the family fusses, quick to pounce/On anything said to build an ounce,/For a pound to one so very new/Is one whole tenth of Veronica Lou!"
When my sister weighed five pounds at full-term, my mother called her a "little sack o' sugar." When my now 16-month-old daughter, Claire was only a gleam in my eye, I used to pick up a sack of sugar when at the store, just to feel what it was like for my mother to hold my minikin sister.
My husband and I realized soon after Claire's birth our "Little" was an unusually petite baby. Although beginning at the 50th percentile in weight, she had descended to the 10th by her four-month checkup. As I explained to Thumbelina: "Dis mean 90 puwcent of uddeh babies youw age aw bigguw dan you!" She didn't actually lose weight like Veronica Lou, but gained very slowly.
I frequently meet other parents who ask wee Claire's age. When I tell them, they invariably look accusingly at either their perfectly average-sized offspring, as though Junior has eaten more than his share these many months, or at me, as though I have been willfully starving my child. Claire herself never seems to notice her tiny stature, calling much older and larger children "babies."
Being pint-sized does have its advantages. Claire is quite portable, for one thing. She never bumps her head while mincingly toddling around. I can hold her for long periods of time without tiring. Best of all, she outgrows her miniature clothes slowly, which saves money. I have even wondered whether our diminutive might do something extraordinary, such as become an Olympic gymnast, or better yet, an Alabama cheerleader. (Claire is unafraid of heights, after all. Just last week, she threw herself off our bed with complete abandon.) At the very least (no pun intended), perhaps the respected nonprofit, Little People of America, would allow her to become an honorary member. Although Claire can't help being impossibly small, I can still tease her. I routinely sing Randy Newman's "Short People Got No Reason To Live" in her presence. "They got little baby legs/That stand so low/You got to pick 'em up/Just to say hello/They got little cars/That go beep, beep, beep/They got little voices/Goin' peep, peep, peep..."
I worried excessively during Claire's first year of life, much as my mother fretted over my sister. Even though the pediatrician kept insisting Claire was healthy (and Claire herself kept eating like a voracious shoat), I continued to stress, reading childcare books, torturing myself with descriptions of "failure to thrive" babies, and tempting Claire with sweetmeats (which she obligingly devoured). Over time, however, my dainty ankle-biter's constant activity, bright alertness, and continuous weight gain have allayed my fears. I have come to accept Claire as she is: my "Little."
When my sister weighed five pounds at full-term, my mother called her a "little sack o' sugar." When my now 16-month-old daughter, Claire was only a gleam in my eye, I used to pick up a sack of sugar when at the store, just to feel what it was like for my mother to hold my minikin sister.
My husband and I realized soon after Claire's birth our "Little" was an unusually petite baby. Although beginning at the 50th percentile in weight, she had descended to the 10th by her four-month checkup. As I explained to Thumbelina: "Dis mean 90 puwcent of uddeh babies youw age aw bigguw dan you!" She didn't actually lose weight like Veronica Lou, but gained very slowly.
I frequently meet other parents who ask wee Claire's age. When I tell them, they invariably look accusingly at either their perfectly average-sized offspring, as though Junior has eaten more than his share these many months, or at me, as though I have been willfully starving my child. Claire herself never seems to notice her tiny stature, calling much older and larger children "babies."
Being pint-sized does have its advantages. Claire is quite portable, for one thing. She never bumps her head while mincingly toddling around. I can hold her for long periods of time without tiring. Best of all, she outgrows her miniature clothes slowly, which saves money. I have even wondered whether our diminutive might do something extraordinary, such as become an Olympic gymnast, or better yet, an Alabama cheerleader. (Claire is unafraid of heights, after all. Just last week, she threw herself off our bed with complete abandon.) At the very least (no pun intended), perhaps the respected nonprofit, Little People of America, would allow her to become an honorary member. Although Claire can't help being impossibly small, I can still tease her. I routinely sing Randy Newman's "Short People Got No Reason To Live" in her presence. "They got little baby legs/That stand so low/You got to pick 'em up/Just to say hello/They got little cars/That go beep, beep, beep/They got little voices/Goin' peep, peep, peep..."
I worried excessively during Claire's first year of life, much as my mother fretted over my sister. Even though the pediatrician kept insisting Claire was healthy (and Claire herself kept eating like a voracious shoat), I continued to stress, reading childcare books, torturing myself with descriptions of "failure to thrive" babies, and tempting Claire with sweetmeats (which she obligingly devoured). Over time, however, my dainty ankle-biter's constant activity, bright alertness, and continuous weight gain have allayed my fears. I have come to accept Claire as she is: my "Little."
Thursday, August 12, 2010
Raised by Wolves
Although I have only one human child, Claire, age 15 months, I actually have three "babies." Our cat, Gracie, lives outside, coming home only for meals, much like a teenager. Our dog was a "Boston Terrorist" during his puppy months but is now a sweet Boston Terrier. He lives inside and shares a close relationship with Claire. Claire's first word, spoken even before "Da-da" or "Ya-ya" (as she calls me), was "Ah-dah!" I'm not sure whether this means "a dog!" or "Double!", his name (short for "007"). Double is the first creature Claire wishes to see when she wakes and the last before she "goes nite-nite."
I first realized Double was having a profound influence on Claire when she was six months old. The well-known pediatrician, Dr. William Sears, notes each child has a distinct crawling style. Claire's technique involves wagging her little bottom or "tail" as she crawls. Along with her new ability to crawl, she displayed a predilection to pant, which she would display when excited, a little warm, or slightly thirsty. My aunt pointed out that she probably learned these things from Double, to my initial dismay.
That dismay has quickly changed to amusement as Claire has added additional doggy skills to her repertoire. When Double plays in the living room, he rolls on the carpet to scratch his back, much like a bear rubs its back against a tree. Claire laughs at and imitates this behavior, rolling on the carpet with him. I trust this trick is performed in imitation, rather than in response to any actual itchiness.
Claire and Double have a symbiotic relationship, much like egrets and water buffalo, characterized by complimentary interdependence. At mealtimes, Double is always found expectantly at his post at the base of Claire's high chair. (While Claire would like nothing better than to take her meals at the doggy bowls, I do insist on a minimum of human behavior.) Double entertains Claire while she's in her high chair. Claire feeds Double a percentage of her food, whether this be buttery scrambled eggs, blueberry scone, or tender asparagus tips, thereby increasing both Double's nutritional variety and the gleam of his handsome tuxedo coat. Claire also tries to make Double drink from her sippy cup. As Double lacks a baby's sucking reflex, she has been unsuccessful. She has, however, increased my dishwashing workload.
Claire has learned to kiss, hug, and "pat" to show affection. ("Patting" consists of two pats accompanied by the sound "a-a" to mean "pat-pat.") This week, she patted Double, gave him "Big Hugs" by throwing herself on his neck, and kissed him by placing her mouth on his back, tongue sticking out ... dog-like.
As Claire is on time for motor skill development and language acquisition, I will allow her to be "raised by wolves," or one "wolf" in this case, at least in part ... and at least until she displays definite signs of feral child syndrome. Along with rather endearing canine skills, she is learning the invaluable arts of sharing, playing, and, most important, loving. I think both Dr. Sears and Cesar Milan would approve.
I first realized Double was having a profound influence on Claire when she was six months old. The well-known pediatrician, Dr. William Sears, notes each child has a distinct crawling style. Claire's technique involves wagging her little bottom or "tail" as she crawls. Along with her new ability to crawl, she displayed a predilection to pant, which she would display when excited, a little warm, or slightly thirsty. My aunt pointed out that she probably learned these things from Double, to my initial dismay.
That dismay has quickly changed to amusement as Claire has added additional doggy skills to her repertoire. When Double plays in the living room, he rolls on the carpet to scratch his back, much like a bear rubs its back against a tree. Claire laughs at and imitates this behavior, rolling on the carpet with him. I trust this trick is performed in imitation, rather than in response to any actual itchiness.
Claire and Double have a symbiotic relationship, much like egrets and water buffalo, characterized by complimentary interdependence. At mealtimes, Double is always found expectantly at his post at the base of Claire's high chair. (While Claire would like nothing better than to take her meals at the doggy bowls, I do insist on a minimum of human behavior.) Double entertains Claire while she's in her high chair. Claire feeds Double a percentage of her food, whether this be buttery scrambled eggs, blueberry scone, or tender asparagus tips, thereby increasing both Double's nutritional variety and the gleam of his handsome tuxedo coat. Claire also tries to make Double drink from her sippy cup. As Double lacks a baby's sucking reflex, she has been unsuccessful. She has, however, increased my dishwashing workload.
Claire has learned to kiss, hug, and "pat" to show affection. ("Patting" consists of two pats accompanied by the sound "a-a" to mean "pat-pat.") This week, she patted Double, gave him "Big Hugs" by throwing herself on his neck, and kissed him by placing her mouth on his back, tongue sticking out ... dog-like.
As Claire is on time for motor skill development and language acquisition, I will allow her to be "raised by wolves," or one "wolf" in this case, at least in part ... and at least until she displays definite signs of feral child syndrome. Along with rather endearing canine skills, she is learning the invaluable arts of sharing, playing, and, most important, loving. I think both Dr. Sears and Cesar Milan would approve.
Friday, July 16, 2010
Degree Guilt
Definition: The feeling you get when someone asks you what you do and you say, "I'm a Stay-at-Home-Mom" and yet you know you have a college degree and maybe a masters degree that you used to do something with, but not anymore, and maybe you should be doing something with it, because, after all, that degree was really expensive and time-consuming and difficult to earn, and maybe you have an obligation to use it for the betterment of society, especially if your degree was in social work, like mine, I mean, what about all the poor and mentally ill and orphaned people that you thought you'd be helping, but instead it's just this one little baby, and will I ever be able to go back to my career or will I lose my edge, and am I doing the right thing, and what will other people think about the fact that I was blessed with all this education that many people don't get to have, and here I'm using it to change diapers and feed this child mashed peas, and I really didn't need to get a degree for that, and I'm not making any money, so does that mean I'm not contributing to society in a way other people will think is meaningful, I mean, I'm not really contributing to this recessional economy, but I do clip coupons, so maybe I'm a recessionista after all, because even if I'm not making money, at least I'm saving money, and I'm leaving a job open for some other person to get, and I'm sure their kids will appreciate that, and does this little baby really know what I've sacrificed to stay home with her, a job with a salary and benefits, no she doesn't, she just cries anyway, so maybe I'll go back to work, because, after all, there's nothing wrong with daycare, because kids learn to socialize with other children, and even though they are more likely to get ear aches, at least they learn their colors and learn how to share, something my baby definitely doesn't know how to do, no, I'd miss her too much, and I might miss her first word and her first crawl and her first step and her first temper tantrum over that sippy cup she hates and I might not know she hates that sippy cup, because I wouldn't be here, I'd be helping vulnerable populations instead of one little baby, and I might be too tired to rock her to sleep like I really mean it and teach her that sheep really say baaah, and dogs say "buff buff" in that Swedish children's book, and that would be really sad, because then she'd never know, she'd never really know, she'd never really know that I was the one who taught her that, and I don't want to miss her babyhood, because it will go so fast.
You Know You're a Parent If ... (Besides the Obvious)
1) You could repeat the entire script of the movie, Milo and Otis ... in Dudley Moore's charming London accent. Bonus points if you have ever changed the language setting of Milo and Otis to Spanish, even though you are an English-speaker, to prevent a suicide attempt. ("... ¡Eso fue divertido!"/"¡Meelo! ¡Ven aquí!")
2) You can distinguish between 12 subtly different newborn baby cries, and know what each one means. Bonus points if you have ever heard someone else's newborn baby crying at the grocery store and looked down only to realize you were lactating in public.
2) You can distinguish between 12 subtly different newborn baby cries, and know what each one means. Bonus points if you have ever heard someone else's newborn baby crying at the grocery store and looked down only to realize you were lactating in public.
3) You get as excited about the words "childcare provided" as you used to get about the words "no cover charge". Bonus points if you think "no cover charge" means "free diapers".
4) When with other adults, instead of discreetly excusing yourself to go to the restroom, you loudly announce "I have to go potty!" and exit the room.
5) When watching Dora the Explorer reruns, you can distinguish between the voices of Kathleen Herles and Caitlin Sanchez, have nightmares about both, and secretly hope Sanchez loses her lawsuit against Nickelodeon. Incidentally, why is she always YELLING?!
6) Throughout the day, you find yourself singing the song "If Elmo Had Teeth" (which can be found at www.sesamestreet.org). Bonus points if you know the words to "Elmo Si Tenia Dientes" or Sesamstraat's "Had Elmo Een Gebit".
7) You forked out the cash to buy an iPhone specifically to keep your child entertained while in the shopping cart, in the checkout line, at the movies, in the car seat, at the doctor's office, at restaurants, in the high chair, and on the potty.
7) You forked out the cash to buy an iPhone specifically to keep your child entertained while in the shopping cart, in the checkout line, at the movies, in the car seat, at the doctor's office, at restaurants, in the high chair, and on the potty.
8) The only things that get you through most days are French fries and prayer.
9) You can't remember what you ate for supper, whether you ate lunch, whether you were awake to eat breakfast, where your child put their homework, where your child left their lunch money, where you stuffed that dirty diaper in your car two weeks ago, the last time you pumped, the last time you had a cigarette, the last time you went to the bathroom by yourself, the last time you had "alone time" with your significant other, how to count, how to spell, and where you put your keys (which were probably the only things raptured on May 21st).
11) You're so sleep deprived you can't properly count to 12.13) You wouldn't trade anything for your child(s).
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Meet the Baby
I have been a stay-at-home mother for a year and have been reflecting on the funny experiences of the past months. Along with my relationship with my little girl, Claire, I now have a closer relationship with my mother. My mother always made holidays special for my sister and me. She was a master at hiding candy at Easter. Once, we found a small pile of M&M's years later, behind the back leg of a dresser. Now, my mother lives out of state, but when Claire was born, my mother graciously took off from work for three weeks and stayed with my husband and me as we learned to be new parents.
After recovering from a C-section and nursing a newborn around the clock, I was, needless to say, exhausted. My mother, while helping with the baby, was not able to be Housekeeper of the Year. My husband did not have time to clean, since he was starting a new business. The kitchen looked like it had been through Hurricane Katrina. A thin film covered every surface in the house. Clutter covered the entire living room like kudzu. Small animals were probably living in my pantry.
I peeled myself out of bed one morning, buckled Claire into her car seat, and drove to a pediatrician appointment. My mother, in the meantime, slept in, as she had taken the night shift. She was not pleased when I woke her out of a dead sleep by calling on my way home to notify her we were to have company in 30 minutes. I became irrationally angry (those darn hormones!) when she flatly refused to clean the house for the couple who had asked to descend upon us from out of town (on short notice) to meet the baby. My mother and I had a tiff on the phone, which, in the good ole days, would have ended with me getting a spanking, and I got off the phone feeling as if I had.
I dreaded shuffling into the house (I had the “C-section shuffle”) to see the internal natural disaster my friends were about to witness. However, the scene I beheld upon entering was equally shocking. The kitchen was absolutely pristine. Every surface gleamed and smelled like lemon Lysol. The mammalian rustling previously heard in the pantry had ceased. Cookies were artfully arranged on a platter! Fresh coffee percolated! My mother (a.k.a. Mary Poppins), who had evidently dressed hurriedly, stalked into the room, said, "I am very angry at you," and stalked out. Immediately, the doorbell rang.
My mother reappeared. We put on our happy faces and actually had a delightful visit with the couple who partook of refreshments. Claire slept in their arms cherubically the entire time. My mother's temper and mine cooled as quickly as they had flared. We had the luxury of sitting still for two hours together. I felt completely peaceful for the first time since my epidural.
After the couple left and (my) apologies and (my mother's) forgiveness were dispensed, I asked how she had done it. Without a word, she opened the oven to reveal a pile of dirty pots and pans. Next, she had me peer under the skirt of the sofa where random papers were stacked. Books and plastic bags were stuffed inside the dryer. The pantry was full of laundry. There was not a room in the house where something offensive had not been creatively hidden.
Just last week, I found the time to clean out some closets and drawers. Suddenly, I came upon a pile of one-year-old M&M's in the bottom drawer of an armoire. My mother ... the Easter Bunny.
After recovering from a C-section and nursing a newborn around the clock, I was, needless to say, exhausted. My mother, while helping with the baby, was not able to be Housekeeper of the Year. My husband did not have time to clean, since he was starting a new business. The kitchen looked like it had been through Hurricane Katrina. A thin film covered every surface in the house. Clutter covered the entire living room like kudzu. Small animals were probably living in my pantry.
I peeled myself out of bed one morning, buckled Claire into her car seat, and drove to a pediatrician appointment. My mother, in the meantime, slept in, as she had taken the night shift. She was not pleased when I woke her out of a dead sleep by calling on my way home to notify her we were to have company in 30 minutes. I became irrationally angry (those darn hormones!) when she flatly refused to clean the house for the couple who had asked to descend upon us from out of town (on short notice) to meet the baby. My mother and I had a tiff on the phone, which, in the good ole days, would have ended with me getting a spanking, and I got off the phone feeling as if I had.
I dreaded shuffling into the house (I had the “C-section shuffle”) to see the internal natural disaster my friends were about to witness. However, the scene I beheld upon entering was equally shocking. The kitchen was absolutely pristine. Every surface gleamed and smelled like lemon Lysol. The mammalian rustling previously heard in the pantry had ceased. Cookies were artfully arranged on a platter! Fresh coffee percolated! My mother (a.k.a. Mary Poppins), who had evidently dressed hurriedly, stalked into the room, said, "I am very angry at you," and stalked out. Immediately, the doorbell rang.
My mother reappeared. We put on our happy faces and actually had a delightful visit with the couple who partook of refreshments. Claire slept in their arms cherubically the entire time. My mother's temper and mine cooled as quickly as they had flared. We had the luxury of sitting still for two hours together. I felt completely peaceful for the first time since my epidural.
After the couple left and (my) apologies and (my mother's) forgiveness were dispensed, I asked how she had done it. Without a word, she opened the oven to reveal a pile of dirty pots and pans. Next, she had me peer under the skirt of the sofa where random papers were stacked. Books and plastic bags were stuffed inside the dryer. The pantry was full of laundry. There was not a room in the house where something offensive had not been creatively hidden.
Just last week, I found the time to clean out some closets and drawers. Suddenly, I came upon a pile of one-year-old M&M's in the bottom drawer of an armoire. My mother ... the Easter Bunny.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Postpartum Elation
I was so happy when my daughter was born. Following the C-section, while I was on the operating table, a nurse announced that I was no longer pregnant. I replied fervently, "Thank the LORD!" I don't know whether I was more happy to meet Claire or more happy to not weigh 41 additional pounds, feel constantly nauseous, and have a small, internal creature pummelling my sciatic nerve on a nightly basis.
Prior to the pregnancy, I was not exactly a misanthrope. However, I did usually assume that people were a) primarily selfish, b) generally untrustworthy, and c) mainly concerned about what they were going to eat for lunch. Although this may be true of some, my general assumptions about humanity changed for the better during the nine months of continual pain and suffering I endured. (Did I mention that pregnancy is not fun?)
For one thing, I have never had so many doors held for me. People always wanted to help me carry my groceries to my car. People let me go in front of them in line. People I barely knew gave me beautiful baby gifts. Strangers (men especially) felt entitled to tenderly, nostalgically, and intrusively lay hands on my belly and inform me that I was not going to sleep for the next 20 years. In addition, coworkers, friends, and family threw five baby showers for me. It was all very humbling.
By the time Claire's due date was fast approaching, I was less concerned about the state of the world she was about to enter. Along with Claire was to be born a renewed sense of optimism and trust in the world around me. I was able to smile unreservedly and say "Placenta!" before each camera flash at each baby shower. And mean it.
Prior to the pregnancy, I was not exactly a misanthrope. However, I did usually assume that people were a) primarily selfish, b) generally untrustworthy, and c) mainly concerned about what they were going to eat for lunch. Although this may be true of some, my general assumptions about humanity changed for the better during the nine months of continual pain and suffering I endured. (Did I mention that pregnancy is not fun?)
For one thing, I have never had so many doors held for me. People always wanted to help me carry my groceries to my car. People let me go in front of them in line. People I barely knew gave me beautiful baby gifts. Strangers (men especially) felt entitled to tenderly, nostalgically, and intrusively lay hands on my belly and inform me that I was not going to sleep for the next 20 years. In addition, coworkers, friends, and family threw five baby showers for me. It was all very humbling.
By the time Claire's due date was fast approaching, I was less concerned about the state of the world she was about to enter. Along with Claire was to be born a renewed sense of optimism and trust in the world around me. I was able to smile unreservedly and say "Placenta!" before each camera flash at each baby shower. And mean it.
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