a bit of irony

There is nothing like starting your rainy, busy morning, after a sleep-deprived night, by squatting in your living room to scoop up dog poop with a smiley faced grocery bag that reads, "Have a nice day!"

well, that explains it

Our amazing Ghoulie actually had the courtesy -- despite her mother's pushiness -- to wait until the very day our new video camera is delivered, to smile for the first time. Perhaps she's more advanced than I gave her credit for.
And yes, seeing your baby smile for the first time really does melt your heart.

some sick and twisted (but honest) thinking

I have long been aware of my overachiever tendencies. What I did not recognize until now was that I would also apply those awful achievement standards to my offspring. But here we are, six weeks and three days old, and Ghoulie has not smiled yet. I have therefore diagnosed her as autistic.
Why, you ask? Because babies smile on average at six weeks. And this appears to be one of the few milestones on which all the experts agree. So where is my awe-inspiring, heart-melting grin from my little girl?
Someone mentally healthier than I am, free of the annoying overachiever mindset, will (rightly) read this and say, "She's three days off, you nutjob." But such a person cannot comprehend my position. My child is not supposed to be average (or -- *gasp* -- slightly below?!). No, she should be advanced. She should have smiled at four or five weeks. Obviously, since it didn't happen early, it won't be happening at all. Ever. That gassy grimace is the closest we're going to get.

Here's the reason my thought process makes me a little too Mommy Dearest for my taste: It's her smile. It's up to the Little Ghoulie herself when she wants to smile and at whom she wants to direct that first beam. My role as her mother is to not care -- to let go and stop looking for it. I need to recognize her as an individual, not the subject of a growth chart.
The really sick thing is, I still feel the need to mention that her gross motor skills are already above average. Her head control is impressive, and she already takes weight onto her legs. But that shouldn't matter to me. To her pediatrician, maybe. But not to her mother.
When I graduated college magna cum laude, I was disappointed that it wasn't summa. When I won second place for my writing in a high school talent competition, I was pissed -- because it wasn't first. Somewhere deep in my psyche, second best literally equals failure. Doing something well counts only if I'm ahead of everyone else. But that's my neurosis to deal with. It shouldn't be my baby's. Let's pray to God that she is a type-B personality like her father.

ah, that first sweet taste of mommy guilt

At the concession stand outside X-Men III, with the Ghoulie in her sling, we ordered a nursing size (LARGE) lemonade for me and a small popcorn for the Daddy. And here is the conversation at the counter:
Daddy: . . . and a small popcorn, please.
Clerk: Butter?
Daddy: No thanks.
Clerk (looking at me): Did you bring cotton balls?
Sleep-deprived me, staring blankly, gears turning at warp speed: No. (To absorb the extra butter? But he said no butter. Is there a joke I'm not getting here? What do cotton balls have to do with popcorn?)
Clerk: Then put your fingers in the baby's ears. Movie theaters are much too loud for children under two.
I'm about to shrug it off as some bizarre personal opinion, when she explains that pediatricians advise against bringing babies to the movies, that her son just turned three and his pediatrician still doesn't want him to attend. And, I might add, she was very nice about it.
So Ghoulie spent X-Men III sleeping on a parent's chest, ears firmly covered, especially for scenes in which the mutants demonstrate just how powerful they really are. She didn't seem to be bothered (neither by the loud noises, nor by the hand cupped over half her head). And since she slept through the whole thing, I really didn't need that quatriillion-gallon lemonade, either.

* * *

On a final note, should you decide to see X-Men III in the theater (after finding a babysitter or stocking up on cotton), make sure you stay until the credits are over. It's important. Even if you are the only people left in the theater, patiently staring at the screen in anticipation (and responsibly covering your child's head), while the theater manager and the custodian text their friends from their cell phones and politely wait . . . and wait . . . and wait for you to leave.

on body image

There are days when I am infinitely impressed that my body has the ability to create life, to nourish and sustain it on a daily basis. I am so appreciative of my physical self for giving me the gift of my daughter. I am in awe of nature and of my own biology. Then there are days like today when I just think, I WANT MY ABS BACK!

my plans, your plans

So the Big Plan for today was to attend a 7 am yoga class -- alone. The alarm was ambitiously set for 5:30, clothes selected and set atop my bureau. The Daddy didn't have to work until 11:00; I figured I could pump this morning before I left, and have nothing to worry about. (Well, other than somebody spontaneously ceasing to breathe in the two hours my cell phone was off, or crying incessantly because she was still hungry and there was no more milk, or . . .)
As it turned out, my pre-worrying was unneccesary. Growth-spurting Little Ghoulie had other plans, awakening in search of food every hour and a half. The whole night felt like our first few bleary-eyed days home together. At 4:45 I was falling asleep while nursing -- sitting up, mind you -- and decided there wouldn't be much left to pump anyway. Turned off the alarm, gave Ghoulie to her Daddy the next time she woke, and slept until 10:00. Maybe next week.

aww, how cute!

Most of my life I have been called "cute." Apparently this is just a part of being 5'1". And honestly, hearing myself described that way has never felt much like a compliment, no matter how many people -- my husband and my father included -- try to convince me otherwise. Cute, to me, suggests that I will not be taken seriously. Cute is for five-year-olds who say something childish and naive. I don't want to be "cute," I want to be amazing, stunning, dangerous, compelling.
That is, until 1:00 this morning. The Ghoulie was halfway through eating, having just taken a short break for a diaper change. She was swaddled tightly in her blanket, wearing a little pink gown and hat (because our bedroom has gone from "cooled off" to downright chilly -- but it's June and I am not turning on the heat again). As we sat down on the bed and I fumbled with my bra, she opened her eyes wide and rounded her tiny mouth in anticipation. In that instant, something simply "cute" became the most beautiful, the most sacred thing in the world. She was amazing, stunning, compelling (although dangerous might still be a stretch).
"Cute" seems to have a lot more power behind it than I ever realized. The next time someone tells me I'm cute, I might say "thank you" a bit more sincerely.

everything is relative -- sleep especially

Glory hallelujah. Last night the air condition-less bedroom cooled off enough that we could swaddle the Little Ghoulie, for the first time this week. As a result, she slept for three and a half hours in a row, from 3 am to 6:30 am. I awoke feeling like a new person -- albeit a person with very, very low standards.

. . . maybe

My mother, in contrast, responded to my whining with, "That's why you're supposed to live near family when you have babies. So you can go to your mother's house, and she can watch the baby while you take a nap."
In her defense, she's going through grandchild withdrawal.

thank God for family

This is HARD. I can't use the line "Nobody warned me!" because everybody warned me. But until you're sleeping less than two hours at a time, until your breasts exist primarily for someone else's benefit (no, husbands don't count), you can't really comprehend how difficult life with a newborn will be.
My sister-in-law, sensing the impending effects of sleep deprivation and dropping hormones, strongly suggested I come up for a visit today. So after a much-needed shower (honestly, does postpartum sweat stink more than the regular stuff?), Little Ghoulie and I will leave the dishes in the sink and go for a drive. Leaving the dishes is just as well, since Ghoulie is only happy in her sling today, which makes dish-washing slightly more challenging than pregnancy did.