Mommy Ever After » Crazy Parenthood

A second.

mommyeverafter — Wed, 01 Feb 2012 05:04:32 +0000

The time has arrived. The questions have commenced.
I’ve seen the looks.
I’ve caught the half-second-too-long-glances lingering over my mid-section (nope, sorry, it’s just the chicken burritos, thank you very much.)
People want to know when we’re going to have a second child.
They wonder. They whisper. They ask.
And the answer is…

Not yet.

Fooled ya, didn’t I?!
But, it’s a valid questions. My baby is almost 2, which, apparently, is when people start to grow siblings. In fact, most of the women who were pregnant with me are now pregnant again. Some of them have even given birth again. For a second time! Two kids!
I can’t fathom it.
Which is why, my answer remains
Not yet. Not just yet, I say.
I’m just not ready.
I love babies and I especially love my baby
(really? you say. I’d never have guessed.)
And being pregnant with and giving birth to my daughter was the single most magical, defining moment of my life.
And I’m not ready to do it again.
And, if we’re really being honest
as I have been known to be,
it’s because I am scared.
I’m scared of all of the things that terrified me the first time around; I’m scared for all I’ve learned. And I’m simply not ready for the first trimester worries, the nausea, the green complexion, the exhaustion and the aversions. Nor am I prepared for the last trimester back pain, bed rest, bladder dysfunction. How do you cope when you have another child to care for? When I was pregnant, I could not enter my kitchen, let alone cook a meal, for 2 months. How will I feed my daughter?
And those are just the practical fears.
What about the emotions?
In my mind, every moment of my first pregnancy, the birth, my hospital stay…they were pure magic.
Pure. And magic.
So what would I be ready for ? I’d totally be ready to go through all that all over again. Literally. I’d love to be pregnant with my daughter again. To go through it all again. To relive those moments, those best moments; sitting in the hospital birthing course, sucking on the crumbly, delicious ice chips; driving to Labor and Delivery, contracting, for the very first time, with my heart in my throat; seeing my daughter, swaddled in her tiny hospital bassinet, her almond eyes looking at me, opening her lips like a little bird; holding her for the first time, the only ones awake in the dark room at dawn, as I held her, our skin touching, knowing that she was showing me who I was meant to be, and that she was making me hers, just as much as I was making her mine. Those things? I would do those things again.
I’d do them again a second.
I don’t know how anything else will ever compare.
A second child?
How will another baby change us? We are so in love with the little tripod we’ve created. We’re in a groove. It tooks us so long to get here.
I just don’t know.
I just don’t feel ready.
I don’t know how to perform the juggling act. I don’t know how to continue to give my daughter my all, while also taking care of a newborn baby. How does one do it? I just can’t imagine.
Now, don’t get me wrong. There are some things I am excited for.
I am ready to start brainstorming baby names with my sister again….even though she rejects approximately 98 percent the names I propose (including, might I add, the name I ultimately chose for my daughter. It’s grown on her, thank goodness.)
I am ready to be second-trimester-pregnant. You know, filled with energy and insatiable hunger, sporting long nails, thick hair and a little, round baby bump (one that does not resemble a burrito-filled pooch). Second trimester pregnancy is fun. I think I could warm to that idea.
I am ready to design and craft another nursery. That I could do. That I could love.
And I am most definitely ready for another Anatomy Scan. The very best.
But everything else? Not so much.
So, in case I have been unclear, this is not a post announcing an impending pregnancy.
Nor am I denouncing siblings, or denying that I will ever wish to have one for my daughter.
However, at the moment, I am saying that no, I am not ready.
So go ahead. Ask me. Stare at my belly. Watch me drink my wine.
I am not pregnant now and I don’t plan to be soon,
because as of now, I am counting my blessings and loving every moment I have with my daughter
and I don’t know when I will be ready to turn our party of 3 into a party of more.
But, there is one thing I can promise.
When I figure this all out,
when I decide I’m ready,
I promise to let you know
the very
second
I do.

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A case of the crazy.

mommyeverafter — Fri, 23 Dec 2011 02:24:52 +0000

Today, I took my daughter to the to the post office. As we stood in line waiting to buy our stamps, I noticed the guy behind me. He was fidgeting. He kept putting his hands in his pockets. What is he doing? Does this man have a gun? Is he going to hold up the place? Isn’t there something about post offices and hostage situations? What’s my exit route? Will I be able to get out in time? I grabbed my phone and held it between my thumb and forefinger, keeping it close, in case I needed to secretly dial 911. I held my breath until we had finished our transaction and I was out the door and at a safe distance from the shop. The man behind me bought his stamps and went on his way.
***
Having a baby changes every single morsel of life; every single centimeter of who you once were and who you will become. It’s as if you become a parent and someone takes a hammer and shatters your self-portrait, and then you put it back together so that it kind of looks like you, but everything is slightly different than it once was, as things fit differently, shapes are shifted and cracks and fissures form where it was once smooth and pristine. But, I say this in the best possible way. Becoming a mother was the absolute, no question about it, best thing I have ever done. Being a mother is the peace in my heart and the joy in my life.
I cherish every single second with my daughter. I love her so much it knocks the wind out of me. She surprises me with new, amazing things nearly every hour. I am completely enveloped by my love and affection for her.
But, what happens when that all consuming love becomes a smothering, shattering, choking kind of feeling? What happens when you love your kid so much that it literally hurts?
***
When I began this journal, I did it to chronicle my memories, to share my funny anecdotes and, most of all, to speak honestly about the things that the other new mothers around me couldn’t bear to admit. I promised myself, and my readers, that I would share it all; I’ve shared my bliss, my excitement, my joy; I’ve shared my disappointments and my losses; I’ve shared so much. It wouldn’t be fair to stop now; I won’t hold back.
***
I’ve shared before the feelings I’ve had about motherhood making me feel a bit crazy at times. After all, the combination of sleep deprivation, surging hormones and a new, warm body to clothe/feed/change/love can be overwhelming. So overwhelming.
So new parents are stressed. And tired. And sometimes feel a bit loopy. Or loony. Or lost.
I sure did.
And then la la la, time goes on, things change, your baby develops her blood-brain-barrier and you no longer have to fear fevers and you’re ok again. You almost feel human again.
Almost.
Except, what happens when a little piece of that fear
of the cray cray crazy
lurks within you
and then returns, over a year after the postpartum hormones have waned, and many months after the breastfeeding hormones have dissipated….
For me, my fears have ebbed and flowed. They’ve grown with the questions I’ve feared asking my pediatrician, and faded with my daughter’s newest developments and the trust I’ve been able to place in her strength and solidity.
But lately, if I’m being honest,
I am feeling scared.
I love my daughter so much that I am scared that something bad will happen to us. To her.
I live in fear.
***
Last week, on vacation to my happy place, I was able to live freely. It was wonderful.
The schedules that I so strictly adhere to seemed to wash away in the waves.
My daughter napped on the beach, and ate out for almost every meal and did not (GASP!) use a high chair cover or place mat.
And, miraculously, she was well rested and happy, flexible and wonderful, and she did not contract Ebola from a dirty high chair.
At least, I don’t think she did. I haven’t noticed any symptoms. Yet.
For the first time in a long time I was able to go with the flow. I was able to breathe.
But, although so many of my scary voices were quieted by the sounds of the sea,
they still haunted me. They crept up on me, sometimes so loudly that it was hard to hear anything else.
Like on our flight home, when the plane rocked back and forth in a bout of turbulence, and I felt so scared that I was literally shaking, teeth chattering and unable to move.
I was so scared of something bad happening. I felt so out of control. My instinct to protect my daughter was swallowing me whole, and I could barely breathe. I felt so guilty for putting her in harm’s way, so powerless and so afraid. In hindsight, I can see that by taking her on this vacation I gave her so, so much. I gave her sunshine and freedom and the ocean. But, in that moment on the airplane, I felt nothing but terror.
***
Today, I took my daughter to the post office. Today, I felt scared. Yesterday, I took her to have photos printed. I felt scared there, too. Why is that man looking at us? Does it want to kidnap her? Where is the exit door? Will I make it in time? What if he has a weapon?
And no, I am not exaggerating.
And no, it does not make me proud to share this with you. In fact, this is probably the most vulnerable I’ve felt in all of the hundreds and hundreds of posts I’ve shared. It’s one thing to joke about being crazy, but it’s another to feel, truly, as if my anxiety is taking control.
I know I am a great mother to my daughter. I just don’t want that to mean I have to be a scared mother.
So, my question is, how can I love her this much,
with the kind of love that gives me goosebumps, and overtakes me, so viscerally, that it’s as if I am experiencing life and adoration on a whole new plane of existence? Seriously, though. That is how I feel. Every single day.
I feel this incredible love for her when I hear her talking to her doll babies,
when she sings,
when she gives me eskimo kisses,
when she counts to ten and leaves out the number nine,
when she says “please” and “thank you” and “you’re welcome” to strangers,
when she gives bear hugs,
when she plays her cute jokes that only I know about,
when she moves,
when she smiles,
when she breathes air.
Even now, I want to cry just writing about my love for her.
I want my love for her to consume me. I just don’t want it to choke me.
Most of all, I don’t want to teach her to be scared. I want her to continue to be the fearless spirit that she is,
chasing iguanas, dancing in public, defying me when even I can admit that she is right.
It is going to take all of my strength to overcome this.
Thank goodness I have a pretty darn good motivation.
***
Tomorrow, I will take my daughter out. I will try not to be scared. I will try to look at the smiles of strangers and know that they are admiring my sweet girl. I will try not to look for the scary. Or for the exit door.
I will try to overcome this one part of my parenting that does not make me proud. I’m hoping that writing about this problem so candidly will help me to be accountable, so that I can really work on changing. I know I can change for the better. I already have.
***
So my self-portrait does look a bit different than it once did. Perhaps my pieces are not put back together in the right order, but I am more right than I have ever been before in my life. In my crevasses are my stories, the things that I have overcome, the changes I have made and how much I have grown.
And as my portrait continues to morph and evolve, I hope that I can take a way a few worry lines,
add a few more sizes to my heart
and continue to wear the overwhelming love for my daughter right on my sleeve.
Wish me luck.

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Mommyhood, in a nutshell.

mommyeverafter — Wed, 02 Nov 2011 01:33:11 +0000

My daughter hasn’t had a proper nap in 2 days.
This afternoon, after two hours of trying to get her down, I gritted my teeth and hissed that she was driving me crazy.
She popped the pacifier out of her mouth, smiled broadly and said “Hewo, mommy!”
***
She went to bed early tonight.
She rested her head on my shoulder and told me, “night night.”
She’s been asleep for over two hours.
I wish I could wake her up to play.
I wish I could see a flash of that gap-toothed grin.
And I miss her so much right now that it aches.

Go figure.

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In other milestone news…

mommyeverafter — Fri, 26 Aug 2011 00:31:25 +0000

So, today, my kid, who now walks and talks and builds blocks and rolls over (and sits and heels….come on, keeping track of these things was much easier when she was, say, 4 weeks, and her skills were limited to things like holding her head and focusing her eyes. Anyhoo,)
had a day filled with milestones.
She learned how to say “Foofa”, the name of her favorite character from Yo Gabba Gabba. (It should be noted that before today, all characters from YGG were called “Muno”).
She split her first double stuffed oreo with her Zeyda.
She handed my debit card to the Home Goods cashier and said “please” and “thank you” to her.
She sang along with me, as I belted “Take Me or Leave Me” at the top of my lungs, as we blasted Rent during an unexpected thunderstorm.
And, she took a cylindrical Lego over to the dogs’ water bowl, filled it up and drank from it. Dirty, nasty dog water. Out of a Lego.
So yeah, you What to Expect folks out there, how you like me now?

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crazy love.

mommyeverafter — Mon, 21 Mar 2011 22:02:01 +0000

Earlier today, as I drove home, listening to Elvis Costello’s “Brutal Youth,
I got nauseas.
You see, this tape (and yes, I listen to an audio cassette tape version of this album.) was my drive-time staple during the summer that I was pregnant.
I’d shout “Sulky Girl” at the top of my lungs, as my body succumbed to the terrible waves of morning sickness induced nausea.
And so, as I drove today, not at all pregnant, thank you very much,
I realized why these tunes were making my stomach flip and flop. It’s because I’m crazy.
Remember?
I’m a nut.
Like the time I thought I’d poisoned my nearly-fully-cooked fetus with some expired iced tea?
How about the myriad of other times that I’ve written about, my “crazy flag” waving high?
It’s OK. You can admit it. I won’t be offended.
I, generally, embrace my cray-cray.
It’s just who I am.
And today, as I heaved through “Thirteen Steps Lead Down”, I decided that it was about time for my crazy to be absolved of it’s bum rap.
Because guess what?
Even though some crazy is
well,
cray-zee,
other crazy can make life a little fun.
And, I hope that I’m always the kind of gal,
and the kind of mom who,
when my daughter asks me to eat ice cream for dinner, as a special treat,
or to dress up as a Princess, just to walk around the neighborhood,
or to dance around outside during a sudden rainstorm,
or to paint our nails all different colors,
or to stay up late, whispering secrets under the covers, even on the night before a big test,
that my answer is, forever, a resounding yes.
I know a mom kind of like that.
A mom who, when her 6 year old daughter got TWIN GIRL Magic Nursery Babies, was more excited than the little girl herself,
who let her children “earn back their privileges” with good behavior,
who thought that “Girled Cheese” was an appropriate meal 3 times a day,
who wants to be re-proposed to in the Zooballoon,
who is the kindest, most loving, giving, beautiful mother there is.
Yeah, I know her kind of well.
And her kind of crazy is fine by me.
And really, my friends.
What in the world is better than love love love love crazy love ?
I’ll tell you.
Nothing is better.
Nothing at all.

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Materniversary

mommyeverafter — Sun, 13 Mar 2011 01:48:55 +0000

This week marked the one year anniversary of my Maternity Leave.
Or, as I should more appropriately call it, “The day I went to work, had to leave, and never came back.”
You see, like everything else in the Land of Mom, my maternity leave did not go as planned.
I had intended to teach right up until D-Day.
I had grand visions of my water breaking in the middle of circle time,
and my adopted-Jewish-mother of a partner hightailing me to the hospital.
I believed that I’d be spry until the end and go when I was ready.
I was wrong. Oh how wrong I was.
And so, on a normal Wednesday morning when I was 34 and a half weeks pregnant, I got dressed, went to school, sat in my high-backed classroom chair and was drawing crayon pictures with my students who had arrived early when I was hit with a dizzy spell to end all dizzy spells. I literally couldn’t move. I was scared. I was the only adult in the room, so faced with the choice between seeking help in whatever way possible or passing out in front of my four year olds, I chose to ask one of my little girls to go grab the teacher from the room next door. I remained calm on the outside, as my brained raced towards fear.
When I was finally able to stand up, my mom picked me up and we went to the hospital, where I was checked into Labor and Delivery.
Visiting L&D before DDay is a very strange thing.
On one hand, you’re in the place where you know you will be when it is time to meet your baby.
You see the incubator in the corner of the room.
You feel the rough hospital gown with the crazy, confusing buttons against your belly.
It all feels real.
Except, it isn’t. It’s a dress rehearsal.
Which is disconcerting.
I was treated as if I was in labor; hooked up to the fetal heart monitor, an IV and an anaconda of a BP cuff, and was introduced to a woman who would later become instrumental in the birth of my daughter: The infamous MJ. MJ is the nurse to end all nurses. She is tough as nails. She is strong as an ox. And, if I had delivered my daughter the good old fashioned way, there is no one who would have made a better cheerleader and hand holder than my MJ. But, as you know, I did not have a normal birth, nor was MJ in the room with me during my C-Section as she was not on duty during those wee mornings hours, but you better believe that she came to visit me the very next day in my post partum room. That’s just the kind of woman she is. But, she’s just one of the many warrior women I had as nurses when I was at the luxury hotel that some may refer to as the hospital.
Seriously.
I know I’ve said this before, but when I look back on my hospital stay, it is like reminiscing about my honeymoon. Maybe even better. It was one of the best times of my life; blood, guts, gore and all. And those nurses, those devoted, amazing nurses, whom I will never forget: MJ, my captain and champion; Gina, who taught me to breastfeed; Tana, who scratched my back for me, at 5am, when I was able to stand for the very first time since my surgery; Joy, who smacked some sense into me when I refused to let her take out my IV and stop my pain medicine drip; Lisa, my Labor nurse, who, when I told the doctor I needed a C-Section in the 11th hour, told me how smart I was for a first time mom, and that she would hold my hand the entire time. And she did. I will never forget looking into her big brown eyes as the doctors worked on my body in the OR; Ginny who made me smile and pretended to not see my sister as she snuggled up next to me in my hospital bed, long after visiting hours had ended. I’m telling you, I had the dream team.

But. I’ve digressed. Let’s rewind 6 weeks, back to 34, when I was being treated at the hospital for extreme dizziness. Dizziness is not something good for a hugely pregnant woman. Or so they told me. Not only can it be an indicator of some serious health issues, but it is also quite precarious for a small person carrying an unwieldy bowling ball on her midsection.
During my examination, the doctors saw that I was contracting regularly every 5 minutes. However, these contractions were not causing me to dilate, a fact that ultimately came into play, as you may recall, quite seriously during my birth story. So, after hours and tests out the wazoo (pun intended) I was sent home…
on bedrest.
No warning.
No goodbyes.
Just me,
my fetus
and the couch
for six weeks.
And, would you like to know a fact that I now find completely amazing?
I was bored.
Bored.
BORED, I say!
I no longer speak that language.
I actually found it difficult to sit on my be-hind,
watching movies with Zach Effron and eating Drumstick ice cream cones.
What a big, fat difference a year makes.
(Pun far less intended.)
So, yes, last year, this week, I was sitting around all day, in my jammies, watching Daytime TV, eating my body weight in Mommom-delivered-goodies, and anxiously awaiting my little girl. So, yeah. Almost exactly what my life is like today.
Except not.
Not even close.
Hmmmmm….
now that I think about it, I am feeling a tad dizzy. Maybe I need some more of that bedrest…
Maybe I’ll give my old friend MJ a ring.
Because, there’s totally a Chocolate Drumstick calling my name.
Oh well. A girl can dream.
So, Happy Materniversary, all!
Drumsticks for everyone!

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The Top 10 Things You Will Do When Going Out to a Nice Meal with a Baby

mommyeverafter — Mon, 20 Dec 2010 03:38:25 +0000

10. You will call ahead to the restaurant to ensure that they are child friendly. You will make sure that they have high chairs. And avocado mashing abilities. And liquor. Lots of liquor. *see #7
9. You will pack a suitcase filled with baby toys, baby snacks, baby rattles, baby teethers, baby cheesedoodles, People magazines and multiple changes of baby clothes.
8. You will order food that, if need be, can be eaten with one hand. No thick cuts of meat, here. You may not be able to use a fork and knife at the same time, folks.
7. You will drink. You will order lychee mimosa after lychee mimosa, and then top them off with a sake mojito. *see #10
6. You won’t get carded. (May also be filed under “You will pout.” and “You will make mental note to invest in new eye cream.”)
5. You will apologize to the people around you; to the woman sitting two tables away who got rice stuck in her fresh blow-out; to the man seated right behind you, who will have to continually answer the baby’s request for “Hi? Hi! Hi? Hi!”
4. You will take the antsy baby to the bathroom to try to nurse her. This will not be easy because you’ve just enjoyed your lychee mimosas and sake mojitos. And there are stairs involved. And a blouse with buttons. And you will use your one free hand to slap yourself in the face while telling yourself to “get it together” to make sure that when you’re finished, you can walk back into the restaurant without your boob hanging out for all to see. You will check in the mirror 5 times to make sure that you have, in fact, put your boob away, closed your blouse and tucked in your shirt. You will still walk through the restaurant, back to your table, sure that there’s at least one button undone, exposing two extra inches of unnecessary, inappropriate flesh to your fellow diners.
3. You will disinfect everything. You will Purell the baby’s hands. You will Purell the table. Then the hands, again. Then the table, once more. You will keep doing this until your husband tells you that you’re being crazy and to “get it together.” And that you’ve gotten some Purell foam in your hair.
2. You will, at some point in the evening, inevitably have to change the baby’s diaper. You will not, however, be able to use a changing station, as such restaurants never have anything of the sort. Diapers are not chic. Instead, you, your sister and the baby will cram into the tiny bathroom stall, and while your sister holds up the baby, facing you, so that baby’s legs are dangling, you will remove the baby’s diaper, wipe her, apply diaper cream and put on a new diaper, while the baby kicks and squeals, and you and your sister gossip about people, hoping that they can’t hear you from the next stall over.
And the number 1 thing you will do when going out to a nice meal with a baby?
1. You will pray. Because when all as said and done, it does not matter what you pack or whom you call; baby does what baby wants, so all you can do is hope for the best and keep breathing. One lycheemosa at a time.

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Wanna hear something crazy?

mommyeverafter — Tue, 30 Nov 2010 01:12:21 +0000

My baby,
my tiny little girl,
is now mobile.
While she’s not quite crawling, she’s able to really get her move on. She rolls, she drags herself, she pulls herself and can sit up on her own.
She can, quite speedily, maneuver herself from one end of the living room to the other end of the living room, and back again.
But no, that’s not the crazy part.
This evening, my little cruiser decided to roll around on the floor with her doggy brother and sister, as my husband looked after her.
She rolled to the armchair where she sat up and looked around,
and then to the TV stand where she made faces in the reflection of the glass,
and then to the coffee table, where she banged her pretty little head.
She wailed, and wined and fussed.
She fussed for a little too long.
And then she threw up. It may have been a normal spit up, but I couldn’t help but to worry. And then she wobbled a bit, as she pulled herself up to sitting. And then I couldn’t help but to worry a little more. And so, I called the doctor, just to check in.
The nurse on call told me that it was “better to be safe than sorry” and that I should take her to the Emergency Room.
But no, that’s not the crazy part.
When we arrived at the ER and checked in, the woman at the welcome desk told us that my daughter was not in the system.
She had been born at the affiliated hospital.
We knew her Social security number.
Yet, no record of her name.
After a bit of research on the part of the receptionist, she determined that my daughter’s information, including our address, phone number and her DOB, had all been entered into the system under the wrong name. Not a wrong spelling. Not a close match. The wrong name. Yes, it had the same initials, but it was not really even close.
How crazy is that? But no, that’s not the crazy part.
When they brought us back to the exam room,
my daughter was able to demonstrate her newest new trick to the nurse.
You see, on Thanksgiving, the baby learned how to lean in and “give kisses”. Just today, she learned how to imitate the lips-puckered-kissing sound. The fact that she was able to learn and perform a trick on command made me feel a bit better.
But you know. I’m a little crazy sometimes. I needed to hear the doctor say she was OK.
And no, I’m not the crazy part.
As we waiting in the hospital room,
a small piece of fuzz floated into my view as it fell to the ground.
Aww man. I thought to myself. I wish it had been a feather.
I could use a feather right about now.
My thought was interrupted by the sweet, young nurse, who scurried into the room to tell us that the baby was looking great, and that despite her tiny bump she’d be just fine.
As she leaned in and stretched out her hand to squeeze the baby’s arm,
I couldn’t help but to gasp.
There, on her wrist was a big, shiny bracelet,
made out of a feather.
A feather.
What are the odds?
And that, my friends. is the crazy part.

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“Oh, what is the letter we love?”

mommyeverafter — Sun, 14 Nov 2010 19:00:45 +0000

See this guy right up there? That would be my daughter’s main squeeze.
Apparently, he’s also known as Elmo.
Apparently, he’s kind of cute.
Apparently, we have a long history, as I had an original Tickle Me Elmo doll;
you know, the one that people camped out at Toys R Us to buy, in the days before Ebay and Amazon, and caused quite the sensation? Yeah, I needed to have a personal security escort when I brought him to my school’s pajama day. But, that is neither here nor there.
My baby loves her some Elmo.
She loves to play with her Elmo phone.
She loves to hear Elmo sing his song and dance with his quacking ducks.
She loves when I impersonate him and when we make her Elmo toy pop up and shout.
Apparently, babies go crazy for Elmo.

So, I was happy to see my husband put on Sesame Street the other day, as he watched her from afar (he was sick, remember?)
as I made, yet another, huge pot of soup.
I grew up on Sesame Street. In fact, I just called my parents to ask them a Sesame-related-question, and they both broke out into the “National Association of W Lovers” song, still remembering every word by heart. My sister and I spent our early childhoods Following That Bird, singing “Who are the People in your Neighborhood” and having Cookie Monster serenade us from his perch on a crescent moon. My dad and sister spent every single night listening to the Sesame Street lullaby tape, as they sang along, in Yiddish, as she fell asleep.
And so, it really thrills me that my daughter seems to love the Sesame characters as I did. As much as I do.
I felt very content as I chopped up some turnips to the sound of Prairie Dawn’s high voice in the other room, when I heard my husband shout, “Oh my goodness!”
Now, I’m sure you can imagine what my first thought was:
What’s wrong? What happened? Is the baby OK? Did you infect her with your snottyness?
My husband came charging into the kitchen, with a giant smile on his face, as he spoke about 3 times faster than usual.
“We’re watching Sesame Street and the letter of the day is K I was like ‘Oh my goodness, do you know that your daddy’s name begins with the letter K?’ and then I realized; the baby doesn’t know my first name!!!! Can you believe it?? She doesn’t even know my first name!!!!!”
I couldn’t help but to lose it, in that moment,
doubling over in laughter,
as my soup bubbled in the pot next to me.
C is for cookie
C is for cuteness
K is for my husband, who, sometimes, reminds me of just how cute he really is.
I know.
That was bad.
But, I had to.
And if anyone asks,
the big yellow bird made me do it.

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Daylight Savings

mommyeverafter — Sun, 07 Nov 2010 02:10:04 +0000

Tonight, we will be turning our clocks back.
It is daylight savings time.
And, the time as come for you to learn a few things about me that you don’t already know:
1) I hate cilantro and parsley. The presence of either of these two green garnishes will ruin a meal for me.
2) I am terribly afraid of space. And the planets. And the sky. And I can’t write anymore about it because I’m getting anxiety.
3) I get very confused by time. I have a very hard time trying to grasp time. All things time-related tend to baffle me. Daylight Savings makes my head hurt. Also, yay DST, but seriously, do babies get the memo about being able to sleep an extra hour? I think not. However, I will get back to you on this one.

in approximately 5 hours time
(well, actually, it’s a little less than that, but, you see, I get confused with all of these time-related-calculations, so I’m just going to approximate before my brain starts to throb)
my baby will turn 29 weeks.
Wow,
you say.
You’re so exact. How can you keep track of how many weeks she is?
I can’t.
Tonight, as we were giving her a soapy bubble bath,
I tried, desperately, to figure out how old she would be at 2:22 am tomorrow morning,
and I failed.
I had to resort to the calendar on my computer, and count each week,
week by week,
from April 18 until today.
I told you, I’m bad with time.
Moreover, I am even more befuddled now that I’ve just heard that Daylight Savings begins at 2am. Does my baby turn 29 weeks at 2:22 or 1:22?
AHHHHH, brain.is.disintegrating.
And, also, 29 weeks? Come on.
Come.On.
How is that possible?
I’m not trying to be cute here when I ask, “Isn’t time really, truly speeding up?”
How has it been 29 weeks,
203 days,
(oh, I obv used my calculator for that one)
since our baby story began?
Time is strange.
Using my magical powers
and my IPhoto,
I dug up photographic evidence of what we were doing on this exact date, last year.
I was growing a human.
That’s what I was doing.

Oh, and that’s how I looked.
On this day last year, I was nearly 4 months pregnant.
I can’t tell you how many weeks because that involves time-calculating skills that I have previously established I do not possess.
Kapish?
It’s weird that so much has changed in the time since that picture has taken.
It’s weird that so much hasn’t.
For instance, I was just rummaging through my pantry, searching for the perfect late-night snack, and came across an open box of Handi-snacks. Not the best kind with the breadsticks; the pretzel kind. They were a pregnancy craving. They’re still residing in my cupboard. A little gross, yes, but sentimental, nonetheless.
The handi-snacks haven’t changed.
The fact that 9pm now constitutes a “late-night” meal has.
We dined on cheeseburgers tonight at 5:30 pm. Dinner. At 5:30 pm.
Time. It’s mind-boggling.
When I was in elementary school and went to summer camp, I became enamored with my Junior Counselor, Beth.
I idolized her.
She had blue hair and her backpack was covered in patches and she listened to punk music.
She told me that she was going to a punk rock show down on South Street, for a band called Black Train Jack.
I begged my parents to let me go with her.
I was 8.
They said no.
By the way, thank you, mom and dad. No. Seriously. Thank you.
I pleaded.
I told them that if they let me go, I’d stop sucking my thumb.
No. I am not kidding. No. I will not elaborate.
They said fine, but they would take me themselves.
I don’t remember much about the night.
I longed to dye my hair blue like Beth’s, but my parents would not allow it.
Once again, thank you. I did not appreciate you and your boundaries at the time, but now I do. Oh, how I do. Thank you!!
They did, however, take me into Zipperhead, a crazy shop that sold body piercing apparati and leathers and all other items that were grossly inappropriate for a third grader.
They would not let me get the permanent hair dye, but did allow me to get the wash-out spray.
As far as parents go, mine were pretty awesome.
Still are. You hear that? I love you!!!
ANYHOO,
the reason I am telling you this story is not because I’ve lapsed into a Daylight Saving’s bout of incoherence.
It’s because
a) that experience feels like yesterday. I remember everything about that night and the image of it is as clear as day in my mind. How is it possible that it is nearly 2 decades ago?
b) In the time that has passed since that night, I have become a parent myself. I would never let my daughter go to a concert, on South Street, alone with a blue haired teenager. At least not until she’s out of elementary school. In the 18 years since that show, I have grown up. I get it now.
c) The reason why I was so eager to see Black Train Jack perform at the TLA that night? My absolute favorite song of the third grade moment was called,
you guessed it,
Time.
I’d quote the song for you, but it’s so inappropriate, and not at all a tune I’d ever choose to listen to today.
But, it’s about time nonetheless.
It is hard to write about time without sounding trite or speaking in cliches;
It’s hard to write about time without feeling sentimental or nostalgic;
It’s hard to write about time without my getting confused and frustrated, and needing to hide my head in my hands, which makes it very hard for me to type.
I guess that ultimately, all that I want to say is, it’s normal for us, as humans, to want to look forward to the next best thing. When you are a woman and longing to get pregnant and to start a family, it can’t happen soon enough.
When you’re pregnant, you can’t wait to get past the first trimester so that you can feel human again.
When you’re huge and tired and achy, you’re so anxious to give birth and to meet your baby.
Trust me. I’ve been there. I’ve been all of those places.
But, if the past 29 weeks have taught me one things,
and believe me, they’ve taught me many,
it’s that wishing away time is not only futile, it’s a mistake.
Time is time,
and no matter what we do or think or say or want,
it will continue to pass.
The baby will come and then she will learn to focus her eyes and then she will begin to hold her head up and then she will start to smile and laugh and talk
and sit up
and crawl
and ask you to take her to a Punk Rock Show on South Street with dyed blue hair and a ripped up leather jacket.
It will happen.
So don’t wish the baby steps away.
They’re the best part.
The baby can’t sit on her own without the weeks of wobbling in your arms.
And trust me, as soon as she can sit on her own, and does not need you to hold her up anymore,
you’ll feel elated,
and proud,
and maybe just a tiny bit lighter, without the weight of her on your arms.
And maybe, just a tiny bit sad.
Because it goes by so quickly.
29 weeks might as well be 29 seconds,
as they pass by in an instant,
before you can blink your eyes
or finish a box of Handi-Snacks.
Trust me,
I know I’m no expert,
but, if I can give you one piece of advice, it is this:
Tonight is Daylight Saving’s Time.
It’s one day, once a year, that Time gives us all a most precious gift; it gives itself back.
It allows us to take 60 of those fleeting minutes,
all of those missed, lost moments,
and re-live them,
or live them better
than we did the first time.
It lets us rewind one hour,
so that we can enjoy one more hour of sleep
or hugs
or bad punk music
or cheeseburgers
or whatever you are lucky enough to do or feel.
I hope that you have a wonderful Daylight Saving’s.
I may not be able to figure out how time works,
and I may not want to think about it too much, at the risk of losing the few marbles I have left,
but I’ll tell you one thing:
I plan to use my hour well.
Because in a world where time, and life go by more quickly than any of us would like,
Daylight Savings can be the ultimate
Saving grace.

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