Like, I'm So Popular

Last week, The Baby stopped calling me Mama. Now I am Mommy. Correction, now, I am MY ma-ME. She has become extremely possessive of me around the other children. No one is allowed to speak to me or touch me without her blessing. So far, she isn't doling that out generously. The other day, my nephew, Lu was spending time with us during nap time-or, as I call it 'the Precious.' The Baby was already asleep by the time Lu arrived at our house. My sister asked me to try to put him down for a nap in our bedroom in the portable crib. But, Lu was too nervous to be left alone in our unfamiliar house and he began to whimper, "Mommy? Mommy?" This woke The Baby up- just enough for her to echo a cry- "MY ma-ME, MY ma-ME," asserting, just in case there was any confusion in the matter, that ain't no one gonna claim her mama as his own. It makes me feel so tangled and anchored in one small harbor so adored, so popular.

The following is a scene which occurred earlier this week between the dinner clean-up and bath time hours:

As I write this, she has insinuated herself between me and the monitor. She is yelling at the images of herself on the screen. 'No Violee (that is what she calls herself)! That's MY ma-ME!'

Wishing you all a Happy Friday!

mama witch

it all began with a dog and a baby

One year ago, my blog was born with an illustration of a baby (The Baby) and a dog (our Ruby). Actually, its birthday was last month; but, like all things that end up on my calendar, it’s a crapshoot as to whether or not the notations in the little boxes are going to make their way into my memory. When I started blogging, I was at a place in my life where the daily grind of being home with an infant was beginning to grind me down. I missed illustrating and writing so terribly that it hurt. It had been many, many months since I had last been creative- my biggest creation having been The Baby. I had something in mind- I wanted to illustrate anecdotes about my family. I had a style in mind- I wanted the posts to be in a sort of graphic novel format. But, it was apparent from the first post, that it was going to go in a different direction. I am happy with what I have been able to accomplish through writing- in the very least, I have created a collection of stories for my children that hopefully will not be looked back upon as the root of their damaged adult psyche. And, I've been able to glean a much greater understanding of the human experience through my connection with other writers and readers.

In honor of my belated bloggy birthday, I am re-posting my very first post, Dog, What Every Woman Needs to Keep Her House Clean. It's rife with run-on sentences.

The baby has just turned 8 months old. She has been practicing self-feeding with finger foods for a few weeks now. Generic crispy rice cereal seems to please her greatly. I only use them when I need a few minutes to prepare her "real" meal. I sprinkle a bit of crispy rice on her tray and she busies herself with her little pinchy fingers- picking at the individual pieces with precision and bringing them to her mushy mouth. For every one in the mouth, ten get brushed to the floor. I've never worried about the stragglers. We've always had a dog or two underfoot to lap them up with relish (yes, sometimes there is relish on the floor). Today, the baby seemed disinterested. She has a new high chair-one that she can lean over-one where she has a terrific view of the dog. And, the game has begun of pinching the food bits off of her tray and nonchalantly, deliberately dropping them for our dog, Ruby, to catch. 

Today, Ruby, also, seemed dispassionate in helping the baby finish her pre-breakfast. Instead of sitting by the high chair- at the ready, she was laying on the living room rug reluctant to budge. I called her over and pointed at the crispy bits on the floor. She sniffed and backed off. The only other time Ruby refused meals or snacks was this past July when she was ill with a horrendous case of diarrhea and depression as she mourned the loss of her companion, Oscar. So, I turned to Ruby,"What is the matter, dear?" Ruby promptly crossed the threshhold to the kitchen and stood before her water bowl. Dry as a bone. I seem to remember seeing it in my periphery last night-less full than usual- as I went about washing and drying the parts to my evening shackle (I mean, my manual breast pump). I made a mental note to fill the bowl before bed. But then my brain farted and knocked itself out. And my poor dog went thirsty. I filled the bowl to the tip- top with cool, fresh water. And, apologized for my neglect. She stood lapping it up for two full minutes and then joined us in the dining room where she effortlessly swiped up the crispy bits with one sweep of her purple tongue. 

In that moment, I realized how very grateful I am for Ruby. Without her, I would actually have to use the broom that spends more time hanging in our kitchen closet than it does on the floor. But, she is so much more than a four-legged Hoover. I feel safe(r) knowing that she is around. For years, the Mr. worked from home. I never worried about armed robberies during the daytime because I knew that I could fend off the burglar while he snuck in the other room to phone the police. But now that my hands are so often tied with baby matters and there has been a recent wave of thievery in our quiet neighborhood, I know that my enfeebled arms have no muscle memory for fighting and my flaccid brain may forget the three simple digits to call for help. I rely on Ruby to be my first line of defense. By physical appearances she looks like something wild. Her muttiness has been construed as both an homage to Muppet Theatre and also something to be wary of. I am certain I have heard more than one stranger mumble,"We don't know what she is, or what she is capable of- we should probably cross to the other side of the street." She alerts me to the changes in the rhythm of our neighborhood. As much as I would love to believe that this Chow Chow/ something mix would protect me- viciously warding off whatever enemy breaches the peace of our home, I know that she would just wag her tail and fold in on herself at the slightest attention from a stranger, from even the evilest of interlopers. She would not hurt a fly, but her high pitched, excited whining, would let me know that a fly has entered the house. Maybe that alone would give me enough time to find the fly swatter-arming myself against the intruding insect before it has time to take stock in our valuables and poop on the bananas we leave out on top of the microwave. 

Having animals reside in your life is expensive to both the financial and emotional pocketbook. When we made the decision to put to sleep the senile creature who barked to go outside and then would forget why he was out there, who then would come in and poop on the floor, and would have intense anxiety attacks even if he thought we had left him alone making him go out of his mind enough to gnaw on the metal support posts in our basement- we felt the blow to our chests. It knocks the wind out of you to walk into the veterinarian's office with this animal who has spent 12 years in your home and to walk out alone( this time the poor Mr. took on the death duty) . I know we will experience that with Ruby, as well. I don't want to think about that now. Our relationship has been symbiotic- we rescued her from the probability of a short life due to abuse and neglect at the hands of her former owners, and I believe that every day she rescues us- possibly from the dangers that would enter our home if she was not here. But, most definitely, she has rescued me from an exhausting Cinderella life (pre-glass slipper)- constantly mopping, always sweeping. What more could I need from her?

messy and colorful

Life with kids has been kind of like this:

...messy and colorful.

So here's the messy part:
This week I had been puttering along at my normal pace, going through the motions of my typical routines when this ugly feeling- I'm not sure what to label it, resentment maybe- crept up on me. It burrowed its little weed into my mind and made me acknowledge a part of myself that was rife with discontentment. The Baby had been doling out a heaping dose orneriness. She assaulted me with her acrimonious demeanor (not to mention her toys which were aimed at my head) and a mouth overflowing with drool. I felt my skin try to retreat off of my body when she came at me with wet, stinky, cranky fists- pawing for my undivided attention.  I wanted to bolt- I wanted to be any place than where I was. But, I stayed and allowed frustration to course through me rather than searching my heart for compassion and patience. I employed  the talents of the other children, hunting down loose change to bribe them to watch her while I tried to get house work done or to, god forbid, assemble some loose thoughts to architect a short piece of fiction I was working on. I was disenchanted with my station in life. It was only made worse by the fact that the disenchantment bloomed with it's partner, guilt.

"Pick me up, damn it!"

 I know that the nasty pot had boiled over after having spent Wednesday afternoon at Princess Commando's school's Open House. When Princess Commando and Henry were in 1st and 4th grade respectively, I took on a long- term teaching position in a fourth grade classroom at their school. It was challenging, frustrating at times, but it was, also, very fulfilling.  I loved my students, even the ones who gave me ulcers. And I loved that I was contributing to my family outside of our home. I was working under the guidance of the most wonderfully insightful and compassionate teachers. They had taken me, an outsider, under their wings and helped me figure out the muddle of the assignment I was given. I was growing, with a greater understanding of myself and my abilities in ways I never imagined I needed to grow. More importantly, I was proving to myself that I still had more facets to my being outside of simply being 'mother' which I realized I had become intensely absorbed by.

But, the growth was soon stunted. When I was pregnant with The Baby and subsequently after she was born, I spent very little time on site at the school. I stopped subbing. I didn't have many moments to think about my separation from school as I was overwhelmed by The Baby's needs. But, on Wednesday, after re-connecting with the teachers I worked with, feeling their embrace of acceptance and love again, I realized how much I missed teaching. Realizing how much I missed teaching made me consider the circumstances that kept me from teaching. Inevitably that made me look at The Baby- and not in the glowing, nurturing, grateful, motherly light I should have been. Instead, I felt the unpalatable taste of resentment.

I do not know if it is written somewhere that mothers are not allowed to entertain these feelings. But, I felt the lead vest of guilt buckle over my ribs. I felt that I must have developed some flaw over the past 14 years of parenting which made me deficient in my ability to brush unsavory feelings about motherhood aside. I love The Baby, I know that is true. But, I do not love that my life often feels one dimensional and that that dimension is occupied solely by her shrieking needs. And there are three other children in my house whose needs are often  placed on the back burner. They survive by virtue of the fact that they are far more independent and self sufficient than their youngest sibling. Still, I long to spend quality time alone with each one of them (whether that desire is mutual or not); and my hands, bound by baby business, have kept me from them. This only adds to the messy, ugly feelings.

I should be where that cat is sitting. I miss the days of reading with my girl.

And, here is the colorful part, or the part that does not so much resemble mud:
I'm too tired to tango with resentment. I didn't wrap my hands around it to wring the life out of it- but, I chose acceptance for my current situation and tried to walk forward from there. Fortunately, that dirty, nasty disturbance doesn't root too deeply. It is only dirt, after all. It is easy to wipe away the muck and the mire when I wake up to this flame haired, dancing person:

The orneriness has been temporarily placed on a shelf. But, I am still the one she clings to most. When I leave the room- I am still the only one whose return she beckons with her inconsolable cries. She never lets me out of her sight.

It finally dawned on me that,of course, we are bound to be agitated by one another even if we are dependent on each other. Especially because of that. 'I want you close- close enough for me to push away-but not too far away because I may need you again in a moment.' We do spend every single waking moment together, for crying out loud. It is difficult to maintain that state of enamouredness with someone whom you never ever spend a heartbeat away from- not even to go to the bathroom.  But, yes, I am dependent on her, too.  I rely on her to put me in my place. There are days when I am so set in my ways; but, she's clearly had enough of everything and everyone. And her crystal clear pronunciation of the phrase "All done" gives way an accurate social commentary of her family, "All Dumb!" It's true sometimes we are a bit slow. And I would be all done with us too, if I were in her situation. More than her ability to shed light on our ineptitude, I've come to depend on her to color my world. Because, despite how our days might end, they always begin with this- a smile which shoots a million strands of colored light.

child wrangler

The universe knew what it was doing when it turned our oldest son into a teenager the month before we welcomed a newborn into our family. It knew that there would be days when wrestling with a greased pig would be exhausting for harried parents. And, in would swoop the tireless strength and energy of youth to brace the wild beast so that we could make dinner or do a load of laundry.

Okay, well maybe the energy is not tireless. But, we have been able to borrow it for a brief respite from time to time. Looking ahead to the start of the school year, I am filled with the brand of dread you might feel before an impending major surgery. The older children have been such a great asset and have more than proven their worth this summer. It's been so nice to have an extra set of hands or two to wrangle The Baby. I wonder if I will ever be able to go to the bathroom alone again before three o'clock.

Have a great weekend everyone!

The Devil Binky

The Mr. and I had successfully nurtured 3 children through infancy and toddler hood with an inconsequential amount of physical or psychological damage (for us and for them). While others bemoaned sleepless nights and fussy babies, we reveled in the blessedness of our easy-going infants. We might have wondered (to ourselves) at times what other parents were doing wrong. Oh, how lucky we were. And, then The Baby came along with her suitcase packed for a sojourn in the Hamlet of Colic, a long stint in the Village of No Sleep Unless My Mother Wraps Me Tightly to Her Chest 24/7, and many return trips to the Town of Teething. We have not had a night of uninterrupted sleep in approximately 435 days (this is not counting the last trimester of pregnancy).

There are days, weeks even, when we are fooled into believing that whatever specters or demons have haunted The Baby at night have run their course. During the lull, there are no abrupt siren screams to wake us from the first precious minutes of deep sleep. Not even a whimper. The next morning, we sigh relief and laugh about our old zombie days. And then, bam! The incubus is back again- to keep us all from peace. This time the devil is disguised as a seemingly innocuous binky (pacifier, nukie, soothie, baba, Tokoyo (as my best friend, Robyn, calls it), whatever.

As an infant, The Baby did not use Binky very often-save for car rides or bedtime. I nursed her and I was her pacifier. But, when she turned 8 months old, she began to refuse nursing sessions. And despite my most concerted efforts, she self-weaned completely by 9 months. It was around this time that 4 more teeth were breaking through her tender gums. She was having a difficult time with the pain- despite our tried and true remedies and conventional pain relievers. But, she found solace in a special teething pacifier which she slobbered over throughout the day like a little puppy with a chew toy. We did not anticipate a night time reliance on Binky to develop. And, it was not an issue until recently.
 
Binky used to sleep serenely with The Baby, content to live within the confines of the crib. But as of the past 3 weeks, The Devil Binky has made numerous attempts to flee, escaping only so far and the little space beneath a dresser 3 feet away from the crib.  Binky seems to have decided that The Baby is old enough to fare well on her own now. But, The Baby is disturbed by the abandonment. So much so that upon realizing-when rolling over in her sleep, searching with her little hand for her comfort cork- that Binky is not there, she lets loose a blood curdling scream that you cannot ignore. We must check on her, whatever the hour, to be certain she isn't sick or hurt in some way. But, it's always the same thing: Devil Binky has rolled out of the crib- often within eyesight- but so far out of reach. The Baby is completely fine once she is reunited with her cagey pal. But, at 2:00 AM, we are not as well-finding it difficult to regain the hold of deep and restful sleep.

There are contraptions and means for keeping Binky tethered a bit longer to her charge. My sister went so far as to sew the back of my nephew's pacifier into the tail end of a Beanie Baby to weigh it down and keep it from deserting. But The Baby is 14 months old, and I worry about perpetuating this dependency any further- that she'll end up a five year old girl with a plug in her pie hole. Also, she has a fabulous throwing arm- if she wants my to get my attention during nap time, she'll just toss that butt plugged Beanie Baby against the window. You cannot imagine how resonant a lone pacifier against a hard wood floor is. At night, when Binky falls, I hear the children on the third floor grumble in anticipation of what will follow. "Oh, no. Plug your ears. Wait for it. (wailing from the second floor). There it is."


While in the stupor of sleep deprivation, my desire grows to banish The Devil Binky from our home for good- willing to ride out the discomfort of the nights of withdrawal. But, then it dawns on me that the poor baby is cutting molars and this is why it has been so critical over the past few weeks to have her thing of comfort at the ready. As with so many issues that have arisen with our lovely, high needs baby (thank you Dr. Sears for that label), I cannot rest on my past experience. With this baby, I find that I am slower to work things out. The only thing I know for certain is that it usually does work out. She won't be on the pacifier forever. We won't need to enroll her in a 12 step program for pacifier addiction. And there are only so many teeth that she can teethe, right? So, for now I am going to "borrow" one of Princess Commando's stuffed animals, surgically implant Binky in the bum and saddle it down with a deep pressure, weighted vest-and hope that we will all enjoy a restful sleep soon.

The Interloping Babydoll

The Baby discovered Princess Commando's lone Barbie doll (Astronaut Barbie) the other day. She was fascinated by the long silky hair and kept patting her own head to compare the texture and length. She produced a "word" which resembled "hair." And, it dawned on me that maybe having a doll would be a good opportunity to help her better relate to the parts of the body- to be able to show me where something hurt (for instance, when she had an earache) and to reinforce her growing vocabulary. And while she is a relatively gentle child, it would not be a bad idea to use the doll to help model how to be tender and compassionate toward others. I was telling my mother during a phone conversation about my excitement in being able to buy The Baby a babydoll, as Princess Commando never showed any interest in dolls. My mother told me that she still had in her possession a doll from her childhood and she would bring it over. 

The doll is 55 years old. It is about the size of a 6 month old baby. It has piercing blue eyes with thick dark lashes and lids that close when she is tipped backward. She also has a bright red, cupid's bow mouth. The Baby was terrified of the doll and hid behind a chair until my mother sweetly coaxed her out. My mother sat both babies on her lap and assured The Baby that Babydoll was harmless. But, The Baby wasn't buying it.

The Baby took a little time to warm up to Babydoll. But, eventually she extended her hand to examine Babydoll's body parts- shifting her limbs, manipulating the movable eyelids and assessing the whorls and grooves on her head which suggested hair.

I thought that maybe The Baby would be able to better relate to Babydoll if she was dressed in familiar clothing. I pulled an outfit that The Baby had outgrown from a storage bin and dressed Babydoll in it. It did not produce the desired result.  In fact, it freaked the older kids out when it appeared that The Baby was hanging off of the couch- when in reality it was Babydoll tipped on her side. I must admit, on a couple of occasions that evening, my eyes had been tricked into believing The Baby had escaped from her crib when I caught a glimpse of Babydoll sitting in the middle of the living room wearing The Baby's clothes.

The Baby did try to engage Babydoll in conversation. It was really quite sweet. The boys and I watched from the kitchen doorway as The Baby babbled to Babydoll in the living room. Upon realizing that she was not going to receive a response from Babydoll, she knocked her over and then dug her little fingers into her eyeballs and dragged her by the face across the floor. So much for tenderness. When The Baby realized we were watching her, she quickly flashed us a huge grin and shrugged her shoulders up and down in a little dance- as if to say, "I wasn't doing anything wrong. We were just dancing."

Maybe, with time, Babydoll will grow on The Baby. But for now, she has found a home in the fireplace with our flying monkey statue who is forever frozen in a "raise the roof" pose.

On a positive note, Babydoll has provided me with a new method of tormenting my children. If you really  want to spook someone, replace their afternoon snack from the cupboard with an eerie 55 year old babydoll.

Fishing for Kitties

 

 

May You Be Snot Free

I don't feel well. Please hold me.

I appreciate that you put me in this comfy bean bag and plopped me in front of the TV to numb my mind of this pain. But, today I don't think watching Jack Black wander through Yo Gabba Gabba land in DJ Lance Rock's jumpsuit is going to make me feel better- even though it is my favorite episode.

I  know that you said that we were  trying  to limit my use of the pacifier since I am growing up. But, do you think  just for today I could have it back?  Look how much my head hurts. 

Ahh, that's  good stuff.  I'm just going to lie here and not move. I'm not going to sleep or anything...

Five minutes later.

Wash your hands. Cough into your elbow. Use a tissue to blow your nose.  Don't pick up things off the floor and put them in your mouth. Take your vitamins. Eat your vegetables. Stay healthy, everyone.

The Baby Turns One

12 months of Violet

My baby turns one today. She is our last baby (unless someone sees fit to bequeath their child to us). All of her firsts have been both occasions for celebration and bittersweet reminders that this will be the final time we will observe such beginnings. Of course, I become wistful and sappy when remembering the day she was born. I was five days overdue and had resigned to the idea that I would be pregnant forever. But, she decided that in the middle of the night, during a good old fashioned Buffalo blizzard, that she was ready. My labor and delivery was unremarkable except for the fact that it was intensely fast and, at the same time, quiet and serene.  Under a full moon, on a Thursday (just like H and Princess Commando) we welcomed her, Violet Emily. She was the crowning golden thread which completed our family’s tapestry. And, it felt as if she had always been with us. How had we gotten along for so many years without her?

  

 In the very beginning of the pregnancy, there was a slight scare and I was sent for an ultrasound, “just to check on things.” As the tech waved her magic wand, there it was in the dark shell in which I carried her, the unmistakable, first, bright flickering of her heart. There is not much else to see at six weeks, just all heart. And that is what she still is today (all heart). I could sing the praises of her wonder, her joy, her love all day. But, instead I will just share some recent pictures and eat birthday cake.

She kept chasing Princess Commando around the living room. And, each time she would stop at the same spot and "talk" to me with her hands and her little baby babble. The first picture is my favorite because she kept putting her hand over her heart, ever so dramatically, as if she was saying, "Mom. that last run almost gave me a heart attack!"

Violet is obsessed with noses. Ruby is obsessed with fingers.

  Princess Commando is squeezing the love right out of her.

Only, I Didn't Say Fudge

Ain't No Half Steppin on My Snow!

I have not been able to write in a while because I cannot get my thoughts together. Visions of sugar plums keep occupying the small space left in my brain that isn’t observed by holiday anxiety, the maintenance of children’s schedules and fulfillment of their needs, the lists of things to do and the list of things that won’t get done for a very long time. So, the best I can offer is randomness.

We live in Buffalo, NY. We have a negative reputation for miserable, snow burdened winters. Really, it’s not that bad. Aside from the frigid snowstorm in the middle of the night while we dashed off to the hospital to birth The Baby on January 28th- there hasn’t been a notable snowfall around the metro area for years. We did have a freak snowstorm in October 2006- which was dubbed Arborgeddon because of its widespread destruction of trees in the city and surrounding suburbs. The two “snow days” we’ve had thus far this school year held nary a flake to the ground in North Buffalo. Our south towns got hammered (we draw a large portion of our students from South Buffalo; so, the school closings were due to transportation issues for that area). This week we were finally awarded what I consider our first real snowfall of the season. Beautiful, fluffy flakes marched down in bands, blanketing the sheet of ice on the streets- making a gorgeous but treacherous scene.  But, I have no motivation to escape the confines of my home to partake in the wonders outdoors.

I have a hopeless need to hibernate this time of year. I am happy to enjoy the view from inside. Fortunately, the children- who adore winter weather- are old enough to not need my looming supervision. I can superintend from the front windows-occasionally admonishing them when they venture too close to the street or pelt each other too enthusiastically with snow balls.  Anyway, the gloomier the weather, the heavier the snow, the icier the streets, it is all the better for the guilt that nags at me for not participating in the season’s hibernal offerings. I have very little faith in our weatherman (my hair is more adept at predicting changes in the weather than he is). But, when he drolly says, “It’s a cold one. If you don’t need to go out, stay indoors!” I follow his advice.

My moments of bad conscience stir again when I realize that the baby has been trapped indoors with me for days without a spark of new, external stimulation. But, I think being sequestered in our home hasn’t done too much damage because she has used the time to develop a new skill- taking drunken unassisted steps. She can run agilely along the furniture and walls with just a fingertip’s contact for support. When she is impelled to let go, she continues to run a few steps until she crashes into furniture or the Christmas tree. She’s not content to walk, she needs to run. Ain’t no half steppin for my kid (I realized today that she takes just enough steps to tap out that gem of a lyric from Heatwave. Now the song is stuck in my head). And, soon enough, she will be like the Gingerbread baby, taunting, “Run, run as fast as you can…” And, by that point, she may have worn me down just enough that I will let her keep running over the river and through the woods until that sly fox comes into view. Then I’ll intervene.

And speaking of intervening and more guilt, H in a last ditch effort to defend himself against First Born Son’s obnoxious, relentless teasing at dinner last night, told his brother to “Fudge off!” Only he, of course, didn’t say fudge. I am the worst offender of the F bomb. I grew up in a no swearing household. I was always respectful with my tone and my choice of words- even in moments of excruciating pain or anger. Something happened when I had children. In order to quell the moments of overwhelming anxiety or deep frustration in parenting, I would let loose an expletive or three. It was a release that kept me feeling grounded so that I would not lose my mind in those moments. I realize that it is terribly wrong. I’ve tried- I’ve really, really tried to stop- to exchange the unsavory words for others. But, nothing feels as good to say. And nothing feels so awful to hear coming out of your 11 year old’s mouth. My dinner literally turned in my stomach. But, I did not react. The Mr. took care of that. The gentle, mild mannered, non-cussing Mr. snapped, “That is not acceptable! It is not ok even if your mother does it.” I lowered my head in shame. If I had any money to my name, I would certainly put a quarter in a jar each time I unleashed an ugly word. I could create a healthy college savings fund for the children by my cussing alone. But, alas, my piggy bank is bare, so, I must settle for a New Year’s Resolution- to will myself to bury those words and set a good example. The Baby is absorbing things at a rapid rate. If the F bomb sounds disgusting coming from an 11 year old, it can only kill innocent kittens and puppies if it passes a baby’s lips. 

And, one final note relating to fudge, I will be up to my elbows in cookie baking and, yes, fudge making next week preparing for a little Christmas party I promised Princess Commando we would host for the neighborhood kids next Thursday after school. It’s too bad I don’t have a clue how to set up our video camera. If I did you would be able to watch live streaming video of true three o’clock craziness. 

Tokens of Love

The Baby has been sick the past three days.  Her stomach is disordered and her poor bum- well, you can imagine. She has slowed down ever so slightly- not so eager to practice her new climbing skills. And, although I would never wish an illness on any of my children, I do enjoy this temporary quiet of The Baby’s body. She is receptive to being caressed and carried, her soft downy head willingly nestles between my chin and my heart, she awakens in the wee hours of the morning just to connect with Mama for comfort and reassurance. Even though her whimpers startle me out of a sound sleep, I do not resent the dark hours, rocking her in her chair and hearing her softly breathe and hum. With that said, I am exhausted. We are coming on four days of around the clock care and my reserves are running low. The other children are patient and compassionate for their littlest sister, and they know in their hearts that we each take our turns with illness and neediness. But, I worry that I have not given each them enough attention over the past few days.

Last night, as I was getting ready for bed, I was placing my earrings in their pottery container on an old table we recently brought up from the living room.  My eye caught the outline of a red chenille pipe cleaner heart sweetly placed beside the pottery. Just the day before, I was folding laundry in the bedroom and had to untangle a crumpled up red chenille pipe cleaner from a toe hole in one of First Born Son’s dingy, threadbare socks. I threw it on the table intending to use it to lecture the kids about emptying their pockets before haplessly stuffing their clothing down the laundry chute. And, here it was metamorphosed into a token of love. If I were to guess, I would say it was the handiwork of Princess Commando. She has been known to take a stack of pennies from a bedside table and transform them into the outline of a bird or some other whimsical creature for us to find as we reach over to turn out the light. Or, there are other times when I find her Cheerios arranged on the dining room table to spell out, "I LOVE YOU" (with a heart replacing the word love). It is a gesture that I appreciate beyond words. A love note to remind me that while I am caring for others, there is someone thinking of me- caring for me.

A note: I have not had the creative power to illustrate over the past few days. The illustrations above are from a picture book that I created for Princess Commando. You may view it here:

http://www.lulu.com/product/paperback/annies-beach-rocks/4555361

Whimpering Over Spilt Milk

Last Bottle of Liquid Gold

To all men who might happen upon this page, you might want to skip this post. It is about milk that comes out of boobs.

 

All of The Baby’s firsts- first time rolling over, first time standing up, first time crawling, first time taking steps, etc, have been the last firsts for me.  This is the last time one of our children will pull herself up for the first time, or say her first word, or take her first unassisted steps. Each milestone is wrought with a bittersweet choking back of sadness for the all too swift passage of time. Among the rapidly growing list of firsts, I never expected to add the first time she refused to breast feed so soon.  She has become the most curious and busy little being. She would rather starve than miss out on an opportunity to seek out danger in tight spaces around the house. There were hints that this day was arriving. She would nurse for a few minutes, whip her head away from me, and then fight her way out of my hold to follow the cat. But, she was still waking in the middle of the night to sneak in a session. I did not deprive her of it, as it was the only time that she was perfectly calm and cuddlesome.

When you are pregnant, no one ever tells you how troublesome and complicated breastfeeding can be. You read the Womanly Art of Breastfeeding and you are led to believe that this process is a natural, precious gift  and it will flow from you as freely as your love for your new child. The book also makes sure to let you know, in no uncertain terms, that if the milk doth not flow, it is your damn fault. I had nursed First Born Son through a case of double mastitis which lasted for 8 weeks. I finally gave up when the pain was too unbearable, the fevers were so high that I could not safely cradle him in my arms due to fainting spells; and, we had exhausted all antibiotics which were safe for breastfeeding. I was gun shy with H- and decided that, with a toddler at home, I did not want to suffer through an illness like that again. And with Princess Commando, my attempts were more concerted; but, she fell ill at 6 weeks old with meningitis, was hospitalized and I was told to temporarily halt nursing. I, too, became very ill and did not have the energy to pump in order to maintain my supply. With The Baby, I was determined to make nursing work. The hospital lactation consultants were kind and patient; but, my boobs were unruly and it took these veteran nurses several attempts to figure out what might aid our situation. We were sent home with an arsenal of nursing devices and the faith that it would all work out. But, it wasn’t working. At The Baby’s 3 day old appointment with the pediatrician she appeared to be gaining some weight; but, at 6 days old, she had lost some and she was not pooping. The pediatrician sent me to a lactation consultant who determined that the supply was there, The Baby’s ability to suck was there but something was disconnected. The solution was to pump and feed. So, I invested in an expensive electric pump and proceeded to provide for her that way. She was gaining weight nicely and she finally pooped; but, the process was torture. I’d pump, feed, pump, feed. I was exhausted and in pain. This was my last baby. I wanted to enjoy these moments with her. So, I quit at 6 weeks.  She was already colicky and I felt like I needed to focus my efforts on comforting her. I felt like a failure- a breastfeeding drop out. At 8 weeks old, during an extremely trying fit of colicky screaming, she began to root. We were alone in my bed, it was quiet in the house, so I offered the breast and she took it. It was magic.

I managed to exclusively breastfeed her for a total of 6 months (minus the 2 weeks I took a break) before we introduced solid food and occasional bottles of formula. I did not have a breastfeeding goal in mind- I just wanted to offer this as long as I could, in whatever amount was available. There were a lot of trials along the way. I nursed through the stomach flu and a 6 week battle with vertigo. I nursed through painful plugged ducts. I nursed and pumped (by hand) around the clock to compensate for another drop in supply which caused a plateau in The Baby’s weight gain. I waited patiently through her increasing distractibility- offering myself to her more times throughout the day to ensure she was getting enough.  I literally cried over spilled milk when I tripped over the dog on the way to the kitchen dropping an uncapped bottle of freshly squeezed boob juice (as the older kids called it) on the floor. My supply had been dwindling since we started to introduce solid foods and since she (gloriously) started sleeping through the night. I put even more effort into maintaining what was left by taking herbal supplements, eating oatmeal, pumping, etc. She would take what I offered in a bottle, but she no longer wanted to be pinned down to the breast. And, trying to manage and measure it all became an obsession which quickly wore me down. It just felt like it was time to close this chapter.

We made it to 9 months and one week. I pumped one last measly bottle the other night and put it in the fridge to save for a quiet moment. I discarded the parts of my manual pump last night (the electric pump was sold to a friend the first time I retired). I even made sure this pump touched Princess Commando’s old, stepped- in–dog- poop sneakers which were sitting at the top of the garbage pile so I wouldn’t be tempted to pull it out. I warned the Mr. that it was going to be emotional for me. He was sympathetic; but, of course, a man will never experience this. And, even the most empathetic husband and father will never quite appreciate the true purpose of the fun bags and all of the labor that went into sustaining his child. And, by no fault of his own, he will never fully understand how monumental and emotional the decision to cease nursing is for a mother.

I sat with her, early this Sunday morning, in her rocking chair before her morning nap. I gave her the warmed bottle of milk- the last bottle of liquid gold. She fell into the most peaceful milk coma. I lingered a little longer than I normally would, examining the pristine sweetness of her little face- the downy red hair, the long deep copper lashes, the rosy cheeks, button nose (where did that come from?) and cupid’s bow lips. And, I thanked her for being here and for giving me this experience.

Peanut in Pumpkinville

I don't have a story today. Just exhaustion. The Baby was up to her wicked ways again last night. Awake at 1:30 and 2:30.  When her mood is especially cantankerous, as it was today, I find it cathartic to illustrate her during a moment of pure baby sweetness. This weekend she was introduced to her first pumpkin on our annual trip to Pumpkinville in Great Valley, NY. She was a little peanut next to the colossal gourd. She tried with all of her might to push, rock, and roll it out of the way. It did not budge, but neither did her determination. I'm sure her conviction to move obstacles out of her way will serve her well as she gets older. For now, her persistent protest screeches for being left in the other room (for 5 minutes!) in baby jail (her Exersaucer), are moving me to wrap this up quickly.

Playdate Therapy

The Baby has been my most challenging child. She has been a test of endurance, strength, patience, creativity and faith. And, shamefully, I will admit, for at least the first 5 months, I struggled to resist the temptation to sell her off to the gypsies. I raised 3 babies before. Why was this one so hard? In spite of the fact that The Baby was a "surprise," I was confident going into this venture that she was going to be a piece of cake. Why wouldn't she be? Her siblings, as infants, were gifted sleepers and talented eaters with easy dispositions (when they got older, of course, that changed). This having been my last pregnancy (yes, the Mr. took care of that prior to her birth), I thought I would treasure every moment. The other three children were in school all day; and, I would have time to focus inward on connecting with the new little one- growing her, loving her. But, from the get go, the pregnancy was exhausting- despite the fact that I was in the best shape of my life prior to getting pregnant. I was nauseous; yet, I was agonizingly hungry all the time. At nine o'clock at night, I had such intense cravings for hamburgers, I could not sleep. I was in constant pain; and, I was woefully fatigued. My midwives were quick to point out that at 34 I was much older this time around. It was not comforting. The only silver lining, to a tarnished pregnancy, was the fact that for the first time in my history of being pregnant I had friends to go through this with. Five friends to be exact.

When I had First Born Son, I was 21 years old and the first among our friends (by 12 years) to have a baby. I had, by my own accord, isolated myself from everyone to immerse myself in the role of mother. At the time, becoming a mother was the most profound experience (it still is). Everything else paled in comparison. I looked at the Art History degree that I was working so diligently to complete as pointless. Art History, Fart History. Nothing could make me feel more complete than my days spent raising my son. It was too easy to push everything else aside and become drunk on baby love- to revel in my tiny creation. I didn't realize what little value I placed on my friendships. I made excuses not to see people-probably because I felt we weren't in the same place and I feared they would no longer understand me. I loved motherhood, but I didn't know that I was allowed to have more than one dimension. I can not be sure if I suffered for it at the time. The Mr. probably did though, as I tried to get him to wear the girlfriend hat, the one which allowed me to confide in him my deepest thoughts, unload my all my emotions, and gripe about him- to him. I secretly scoffed at the fluffy articles about the importance of friendship in the women's magazines that my mother handed down to me. "Real Women Have Girlfriends," "Girlfriends are Good for the Heart," "Without Girlfriends, You will Die Young."

I was excited at the prospect of bonding with my friends over their newborns. I was happy that I would be able to offer my years of expertise in all things baby related. But, with The Baby, I found myself in uncharted territory. None of my other children had colic. None of my other children had trouble gaining weight. None of my other children would scream bloody murder if I put them down in the coziness of their cradle to, God forbid, use the bathroom. The Baby was the universe's little wake up call to me- "You haven't learned everything yet, Oh Experienced Mother." I had wanted to breastfeed this child as I didn't fully commit to it with the others (that is a story for a different day). But somehow, at the start, we were incompatible. The Womanly Art of Breastfeeding (oh, how I loathe that book!) does not mention anywhere about how over 13 years and 4 pregnancies, your boobs can become stretched beyond Gumby proportions, making it difficult for the baby to get milk. So, I exclusively pumped. It was so taxing physically and emotionally. I only made it through 6 weeks before I could no longer handle the injuries I was sustaining. I tried formula, but she was so sensitive to it- it made her colic worse. We eventually figured it all out on our own and I was able to nurse her. But in the stupor of that dark time, I emailed my friend J, a new mother whose daughter is 6 weeks older than The Baby. I've known J since she was 5 years old. She is actually my sister's good friend. But, since my sister lives on the other side of the U.S., I get to reap the benefits of J's beautiful friendship.  I was so upset and felt like trash for giving up nursing (I blame the Womanly Art of Breastfeeding, for putting so much emphasis on breastfeeding as the sole means to being womanly and artful). I wish I had her response to post here; it was truly magnificent. Her words lifted me out of a gray cloud. She made me laugh. She validated my emotions. She offered me her friendship.

We now have playdates. When we first placed the girls side by side on the floor (at 2 months and almost 4 months) they reached for each other's hand and held on. A sign of knowing. A sign of friendship. Our daughters are very similar in temperament in that both are high needs and neither one of them wants to give us a break. Sleep has been such a struggle. I always know that if The Baby has been up all night, that I can talk to J and find out that her sweetheart was up all night too. And with the ever changing guidelines from the American Academy of Pediatrics (which our pediatricans follow as the Bible) on infant feeding, mealtimes have never been more complicated. But, we've been able to navigate through it together. I am learning from Js' trials and errors as much as I hope she is gaining something from mine. I feel that when I spend time with her, I can exhale. I am free to unload and she does not judge. I hope I do the same for her. It is like therapy. I walk away with a better understanding of myself, of my baby, of what changes might need to happen in order for us to grow. The Mr. always says that I am a much nicer (more "chipper" is how he puts it) person after our playdates. He suggests that we have one every day. And one of the biggest light bulb moments I've had, happened with J during our playdate this week. J was talking about how she does not feel the need to escape to have a drink with friends- that her sweetheart might be her one and only child forever and that this time goes by so fast that all she wants to do is savor it- even the difficult moments. I realized that The Baby's disposition is the universe's way of forcing me to appreciate this experience. A child who is high needs does slow down time. I had been lamenting all of these months that the days were dragging on, that I was suffering from not getting any sleep or exercise because my baby needed me all of the time. But in reality I was being given an opportunity to be in the moment. Her immediate needs were all that mattered. Her health and well-being was all that was important. And, now that I've stopped fighting it- The Baby has become truly delightful. And, miracle of miracles, she sleeps! But, without J's support and perspective, I might have still been floating adrift at sea. I will no longer scoff at articles in my mother's magazines touting the positive significance of friendship. It's true, "Girlfriends Give You Clarity."

Dog, What Every Woman Needs to Keep Her House Clean

The baby has just turned 8 months old. She has been practicing self-feeding with finger foods for a few weeks now. Generic crispy rice cereal seems to please her greatly. I only use them when I need a few minutes to prepare her "real" meal. I sprinkle a bit of crispy rice on her tray and she busies herself with her little pinchy fingers- picking at the individual pieces with precision and bringing them to her mushy mouth. For every one in the mouth, ten get brushed to the floor. I've never worried about the stragglers. We've always had a dog or two underfoot to lap them up with relish (yes, sometimes there is relish on the floor). Today, the baby seemed disinterested. She has a new high chair-one that she can lean over-one where she has a terrific view of the dog. And, the game has begun of pinching the food bits off of her tray and nonchalantly, deliberately dropping them for our dog, Ruby, to catch.

Today, Ruby, also, seemed dispassionate in helping the baby finish her pre-breakfast. Instead of sitting by the high chair- at the ready, she was laying on the living room rug reluctant to budge. I called her over and pointed at the crispy bits on the floor. She sniffed and backed off. The only other time Ruby refused meals or snacks was this past July when she was ill with a horrendous case of diarrhea and depression as she mourned the loss of her companion, Oscar. So, I turned to Ruby,"What is the matter, dear?" Ruby promptly crossed the threshhold to the kitchen and stood before her water bowl. Dry as a bone. I seem to remember seeing it in my periphery last night-less full than usual- as I went about washing and drying the parts to my evening shackle (I mean, my manual breast pump). I made a mental note to fill the bowl before bed. But then my brain farted and knocked itself out. And my poor dog went thirsty. I filled the bowl to the tip- top with cool, fresh water. And, apologized for my neglect. She stood lapping it up for two full minutes and then joined us in the dining room where she effortlessly swiped up the crispy bits with one sweep of her purple tongue.

In that moment, I realized how very grateful I am for Ruby. Without her, I would actually have to use the broom that spends more time hanging in our kitchen closet than it does on the floor. But, she is so much more than a four-legged Hoover. I feel safe(r) knowing that she is around. For years, the Mr. worked from home. I never worried about armed robberies during the daytime because I knew that I could fend off the burglar while he snuck in the other room to phone the police. But now that my hands are so often tied with baby matters and there has been a recent wave of thievery in our quiet neighborhood, I know that my enfeebled arms have no muscle memory for fighting and my flaccid brain may forget the three simple digits to call for help. I rely on Ruby to be my first line of defense. By physical appearances she looks like something wild. Her muttiness has been construed as both an homage to Muppet Theatre and also something to be wary of. I am certain I have heard more than one stranger mumble,"We don't know what she is, or what she is capable of- we should probably cross to the other side of the street." She alerts me to the changes in the rhythm of our neighborhood. As much as I would love to believe that this Chow Chow/ something mix would protect me- viciously warding off whatever enemy breaches the peace of our home, I know that she would just wag her tail and fold in on herself at the slightest attention from a stranger, from even the evilest of interlopers. She would not hurt a fly, but her high pitched, excited whining, would let me know that a fly has entered the house. Maybe that alone would give me enough time to find the fly swatter-arming myself against the intruding insect before it has time to take stock in our valuables and poop on the bananas we leave out on top of the microwave.

Having animals reside in your life is expensive to both the financial and emotional pocketbook. When we made the decision to put to sleep the senile creature who barked to go outside and then would forget why he was out there, who then would come in and poop on the floor, and would have intense anxiety attacks even if he thought we had left him alone making him go out of his mind enough to gnaw on the metal support posts in our basement- we felt the blow to our chests. It knocks the wind out of you to walk into the veterinarian's office with this animal who has spent 12 years in your home and to walk out alone( this time the poor Mr. took on the death duty) . I know we will experience that with Ruby, as well. I don't want to think about that now. Our relationship has been symbiotic- we rescued her from the probability of a short life due to abuse and neglect at the hands of her former owners, and I believe that every day she rescues us- possibly from the dangers that would enter our home if she was not here. But, most definitely, she has rescued me from an exhausting Cinderella life (pre-glass slipper)- constantly mopping, always sweeping. What more could I need from her?