reality? check!

Has this happened to anyone else? Lately I will be in the midst of a conversation, and suddenly, I hear myself talking -- about the most domestic, mundane things. The other day I found myself in a conversation with two other new-ish moms about laundry strategies. (You remember, Joy.)These are things I never imagined myself talking about with people. Because all of that seemed so traditional and stereotypical and everything I was not going to be as a wife and mother. I was not going to look like, talk like, act like a mom. I was just going to be me, same as usual, except with a kid.
Ghoulie was two weeks old when I cut my hair short -- because my whole pregnancy, I had wanted short hair, but was too concerned about the swollen-faced, bubble-head look to go for it. Once I had deflated and taken the haircut plunge, I spent the next week asking Jake, "Do I look like a mom?" (Of course, he had no idea what the right answer was to that one.) Last week, just to make sure I wasn't confining myself to any mold, I went and had it cut even shorter, so that it looked more edgy and less mom-my. (I called Jake at work to warn him: "No, honey, I mean, it's short." "Okay, I'm not worried about it. You always look beautiful." -- Sweet guy, I know. Then he came home, took one look at me, and said, "Holy shit!" He had to spend the next five hours assurring me that he liked it.)
I digress.
Lately I spend a lot of time cleaning my house, washing the clothes, doing the dishes. Grocery shopping, generally managing the household. You know, wife things. Mother things.
And yet, I'm me! And happy! Still teaching, still writing, still thinking -- everything I was afraid of losing. Apparently, my personal identity is not buried under that giant pile of spit-up-soaked clothes after all. (Thank God, because I might never find it again.)
Still jonesing for my new tattoo, though.

because "transition" was so much fun the first time

Now that the necessary parties have been informed -- at least, any necessary parties who might happen to read my blog -- I can announce to the web community at large that we will soon be leaving the great city of Pittsburgh and returning to New England. How soon, I do not know. At this point everything hinges on the Daddy finding the right job, and right now there are two promising possibilities. I won't begin the job search until we get there, since yoga studios don't typically post their vacancies online.
So yeah, went back to teaching two weeks ago, only to leave again. I'm not telling my students until we know something definite.
Oh, and get this: We'll be living with my in-laws short term, to save up some money and to avoid the long-distance house hunt. I am sure some of you think I'm crazy for agreeing to this. But my in-laws really are awesome, non-interfering types who worship me for "putting up with" their son (as they see it), so I think with some effort, we can make it work. It will probably be harder on Jake than on me (even though it was his idea!). But I will still use this blog for all my venting, first over the stress of moving and then over the stress of being there!
So begins the process of sorting, throwing away the junk, packing what's left, and so on. All while parenting a 3-month-old and adjusting to my new part-time work schedule. Yeah. I must be crazy.

random parenting thoughts, part 1

Back in the day, when I did the same general sort of work for eight or ten hours at a time, I thought I was the type of person who needed a lot of sleep. Eight-and-a-half hours a night was my ideal for functioning at full capacity. Lately I have discovered I can function quite well on six hours' sleep, managing to be sociable, productive, and at least somewhat intelligent. Now I think the old tiredness was due largely to boredom, not the fact that I had slept for only (*gasp*) seven hours the night before. Because now there just isn't time to get bored.

Another mom in my postpartum yoga class shared this decidedly parent-unfriendly bit of trivia: A hearing study determined that it takes exactly 1.5 seconds for a baby's cry to cause some level of auditory damage. It's a miracle I'm not deaf by the time I'm done showering in the morning. (Ghoulie hates shower time. Six inches from the tub, strapped into a bouncy seat, is a long, long way away from Mommy.)

I wish that it was socially acceptable to say to people, "Please do not give us any more baby gifts. The changing table and the toy box are already overflowing, and it just means that I have to write another thank-you note." Of course that statement does not apply to anyone who reads this blog. Unless you're waiting for a thank-you note.

I'm considering learning needle-point so that I can stitch on Ghoulie's sling, YES THERE REALLY IS A BABY IN HERE. But that would mean learning needle-point.

And lastly, a baby sleeping across your lap as you amuse yourself with your blog is an adorable sight:

saturday night special

Once upon a time, Saturday night consisted of two young, carefree people working until 10:00 or later, then changing clothes and meeting up with each other, going out with a group of friends, getting a decent buzz, and then going home to have really great -- you know, my parents have been known to read this on occasion. Suffice to say, Saturday nights were late late late and lots of fun. Said couple usually managed to pull it together for church the next morning, too.
Fast forward a few years. Saturday night now means dragging our feet as we pack up Ghoulie for a super-hot grocery shopping date. Between our house and store lies the very hip South Side, a long street lined with clubs, bars, and trendy little shops, where the city's young, childless people spend their Saturday nights. Just in case we forget how we used to spend our weekends. We cruise by with our screaming, carseat-hating baby, too tired from the past week to even know whether we look good. (Answer: We don't.) After walking around the grocery store in a daze for an hour or more, we make our way home, put the groceries in all the wrong cabinets, and watch TV for 1/2 an hour before going to bed.
And sometimes, on very special Saturdays nights like last night, we even lock the keys in the car.
Haven't quite determined whose fault that was yet, despite a long discussion about it as we waited for AAA. I had set my purse, keys and all, on the backseat so that I could transfer Ghoulie from her car seat to her sling. As I got her situated, I asked my hot date, "Could you just grab the burp cloth?" So he did. Thoughtful guy that he is, he even got the binky, too. Then he shut the door.
When the AAA guy arrived, he echoed our sentiments: "At least ya didn't shut the baby in the car."

a moment of clarity

Sometimes your life flashes before your eyes in a good way.
This evening we scrounged around the house for change -- man I can't wait to start getting a paycheck again! -- and went to Taco Bell just for the air conditioning. (And because the Daddy is totally into the new "Good to Go" things.) We're enjoying our gourmet dinner when another family walks in: mom, dad, little girl, maybe four years old. She sees Ghoulie and says, "Oh, a baby!" to which her father replies, "You were that small once. Long, long ago." A few minutes later, a young, pregnant couple walks through the door. And two minutes behind them, four teenage girls, fresh from the pool, bathing suit outlines soaking through their clothes.
Suddenly, my past (times two) and my future were standing together at the counter of a fast food restaurant. To add to the moment, Martina McBride's "This One's for the Girls" started playing on the Muzak. All as I was staring at my own beautiful baby girl. And to see where I've been, and where I'm going, laid out in front of me like that, made where I am seem pretty damn good. Even if we did pay for our dinner with spare change. (For the record, I am getting paid tomorrow. But that's tomorrow, not today.)
The point is, I suddenly realized that the daily frustrations and pressures of life as it is now are as temporary as this heat wave. Fleeting, even. Desperately waiting for the time when Little Ghoulie sleeps through the night means waiting for this time, with the still-novel smiles and coos and gurgles, to end. Wishing for a time when the money will be flowing in again means, in a sense, wishing for long(er) days of work, when I will have less time to spend with her. So I've decided I don't want to rush this time. I don't want to be dissatisfied with what I have. Because someday I could be an old woman in a Taco Bell somewhere, seeing my past all around me. And wondering where my future went.
(Of course, here's hoping that by the time I am an old woman, I'm eating somewhere a little classier than Taco Bell. In the meantime, I highly recommend the "Good to Go" things, especially if you're breastfeeding. Great for one-handed eating.)

a vocabulary lesson

Vacation -- (n.), VAY-CAY-SHUN: Long-awaited, desperately-needed week and a half away from the daily grind, during which the new parents will not so much relax as make sure that each and every last living relative has a chance to see, hold, and rock the new baby to sleep. Requires endless hours of running around and overuse of both the pacifier and the carseat. (Note to self: Next time, JUST SAY NO.)

Housesitter -- (n.), HOWS-IT-UR: Designated person(s) who make it possible for new parents to "vacation" anxiety-free, trusting that house and new puppies are in capable hands. Said person(s), however, apparently doesn't understand his/her duties, and believes it is acceptable to leave many piles of puppy poop on the hardwood floor for a week. And let puppies chew whatever they want. And put dirty dishes in the dishwasher with the clean ones. What the hell?!

On the plus side, being back in the real world doesn't seem too bad. That is, once we get that freaking floor clean.

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.

maternity leave is rough

I never realized that for a modern woman, married in this modern age to the modern-est of men, motherhood can still mean “I raise the babies while you make the money.” And while the nature of breastfeeding, coupled with my reluctance to drive to Rite-Aid without the Little Ghoulie in the backseat, suggests to me that this is the normal biological arrangement, it does not make it easier when the Daddy calls to say he’ll be working through dinner. Good thing I didn’t thaw that lasagna.