I Want to Go to Shabbat

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Melissa
on June 26, 2009
in Mommy time, bed time, centering, change, expectations, feeding my child, intentions versus goals, letting go, practice, structure and you can't control everything
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Shabbat starts in ten minutes.

In ten minutes, Jake will sing and dance.  He will yell, “Shabbat, shalom, hey!”  He will smile and mug and everyone there will tell me what fun he has in Shabbat.  He may even sit in another parent’s lap with one of his friends.

He will not sit in my lap because I will not be there.  I will be home with my daughter who seems to have developed a weird aversion to going to sleep at the times she normally does.

For example, much as she may have been fretting and telling me she was ready for her usual 9:30 a.m. nap this morning, after happily nursing herself to sleep her eyes popped open the moment I tried to shift us off the couch.  We tried nursing again.  She pacified without eating and once again those eyes popped wide open the moment I tried to move.  She is at this very moment very much awake in her swing and not looking particularly primed to fall asleep.

Which makes me moan even more about missing Shabbat because there is no way I can get dressed and to Jake’s school with his wide awake sister in the six minutes remaining.

Instead, I must sit here writing about how I want to go to Shabbat.

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Our First Stitches

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Melissa
on June 25, 2009
in Mama instinct, being in the moment, centering, illness, karma, letting instead of making, school, surrender, trust and you can't control everything
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When I was in eighth grade, my two best friends and I had an inexplicable obsession with the movie Kramer vs. Kramer.

We pined for Dustin Hoffman (must have been the feathered early-eighties hair).  Pre-VCR’s and DVD’s, we sat through it in the theater multiple times trying to memorize the dialogue.  We tracked down and then immediately discarded the book on which the movie is based when we came to the passage early on that said something about Ted fantasizing about having sex with fat women.  None of us were fat and, more importantly, I don’t think we were ready to think about our matinee idols in such carnal terms.

We also cried during the scene where Billy falls off the play structure and gets stitches.  I can still see Dustin Hoffman running, panting, through the streets of Manhattan with his injured child in his arms and his shirt smeared with blood.  I can see the worry and pain on his face as a doctor sews through his child’s skin.

And I wonder, as I see these images, why I was nothing like Dustin Hoffman yesterday when I took Jake to get his stitches.

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Full of Firsts — And Not a Parent in Sight

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Melissa
on June 18, 2009
in Mommy time, being connected to everything, change, communicating, daycare, expectations, intentions versus goals, school, stuck at home with a child, work and yoga class
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I thought — mistakenly, as it turned out — that it was pretty momentous to be witnessing Lily’s first props-assisted rollover yesterday.

We were about midway through our hour-long drop-off at daycare.  I was pretending not to notice the time I was supposed to be using for myself slipping away as I clung to my girl.  After all, I couldn’t be expected to just put her down while the infant caregiver was busy feeding one of Lily’s classmates.  And when Veronica set up a play mat to allow me to do just that, well, in my experience Lily doesn’t like play mats, so I was really doing everyone a favor by hanging out to rescue her when she complained about being stuck like a helpless little turtle on her back, unable to look away from the looming forms of stuffed horses and pigs with black and white checks on their bellies hanging overhead.

This particular play mat, however, had one thing our rejected-by-both-babies one at home does not:  a small, crescent-shaped pillow sewn into it.  Designed, I knew, even though Jake was never much of a tummy time guy, for helping infants appreciate tummy time by giving them a little lift.  Imagine, if you will, lying sprawled face down in a sea of whimsical shapes you neither recognize nor find particularly attractive while trying to lift a head that feels as if it is saddled with a thick, granite helmet.  You get a lift or two for a second or two and then crash nose-first back into the whimsy.

Now consider the benefits of a little crescent pillow that supports your chest and creates a gentle slope of your spine, allowing far easier head support.  Not that it doesn’t crash to the ground frequently, but at least you have time to appreciate the view before it does.

Quickly surmising that Lily was horrified by the animals Veronica helpfully hunted down and I obediently attached to the overhead arches of the play mat — something about her crying at the sight of them — I decided we should try out that pillow thing.  In the past week Lily’s been giving the lying on her tummy and lifting her chest and head routine a try, so I figured she’d be happy for a little prop to help her along.

She expressed a moment of initial surprise as Veronica and I arranged her.

“What do you think?” I chirped in a voice meant to suggest she should think this was just the best darned thing in the world.

She responded by rolling onto her back.

This was not the first time Lily has tried to roll over.  She’s tried more than a few times.  But has always been stymied by the bottom arm getting in the way, a common baby complaint.

This time, however, the pillow provided just enough clearance for her arm to magically move right through and — ta da! — she was on her back, crashed into one of the arches of the play mat and not particularly happy about it.

Still, it was an auspicious moment to recount to Mike half an hour later when I had rocked her to sleep so I could finally put her down and leave.

My big, euphoric bubble deflated more than a little bit, however, when I arrived to pick her up.  Lily, I was informed, had rolled over on flat ground that afternoon, a far more monumental achievement than doing so with props.  And, of course, she achieved this milestone when I wasn’t around to witness it.

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Sharks and Bunnies: A Potty Primer

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Melissa
on June 16, 2009
in Mama instinct, aging, being in the moment, change, daycare, opening your heart and potty training
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It’s been a big week for growing up in the Jake-and-Lily household. And, not surprisingly, I have mixed feelings about it.

First, Lily received glowing reviews of her first afternoon in daycare yesterday and spent last night and this morning grinning and babbling at me.  Plainly, she approves.  Or so I am telling myself as I shift anxiously in my seat pretending I’m totally okay with leaving her for her second day.  (Has the novelty worn off?  Will she be able to successfully communicate her dislike of the play mat on which I fear she will be left when the caregivers necessarily have to tend to other babies than mine? Just how much does she cry when set off by those other kids who, with several months on her, really ought to be old enough to control their emotions?)

Then — perhaps as a reaction to the news that his baby sister is now attending the same “school” he used to go to — Jake announced this morning that he wished to sit on the potty.  And peed in it.

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First Day of School (Infant Remix)

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Melissa
on June 15, 2009
in Mommy time, being in the moment, change, daycare, school and surrender
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Here is how not to get ready for your baby girl’s first day of daycare:

First, while it might seem like a good idea at the time, I do not recommend spending the previous week visiting your mother-in-law in St. Louis, having a lovely time, receiving lots of help with child care, and generally forgetting why you so desperately wanted to leave your baby somewhere you are not for a few hours every day in the first place.

If you insist on having that lovely vacation talking to adults and taking showers whenever you’d like (if, say, like me, you are facing a week when your son’s school is closed and you do not feel the least bit equipped to care for a two-and-a-half-year-old in addition to a three-month-old all by yourself to the point where you are kind of even looking forward to an airplane ride with the two of them if it will free you from this prospect), try very hard not to have the airline lose your bags on the way home.  I seriously doubt the vintage-1983 car seat United loaned us was the cause of Jake’s sudden awakening to howls of apparent pain on the long ride back from the Greenville airport, but the situation was far from an ideal end to our trip.  Furthermore, I suffered a general sense of discombobulation on my one-day buffer between travel and the start of school and, worse, didn’t get a chance to wash the darling dress in which I had planned to have Lily begin her new adventure, having rather stupidly packed it.

Try, too, to approach your last day before school starts on more than five hours of sleep or, if that is simply  not a possibility in your infant-caring days, consider not dragging yourself cheerfully to the swimming pool to thoroughly exhaust yourself, your three-month-old daugher, and your two-and-a-half-year-old son.  Especially do not follow this frivolity with shopping for groceries on your last few molecules of adrenaline while your husband whips up a beautiful meal for a visiting friend with whom you sit on the deck enjoying the evening air until past nine o’clock only to face the prospect of cleaning up and making your son’s lunch in a sleep-deprived stupor that greatly disappoints the friend who was quite reasonably hoping for a little conversation as he loads the dishwasher.

Most importantly, however, you should never, ever, ever wait until ten o’clock the night before your daughter’s first day of daycare to discover that you own only a single bottle suitable for her dining enjoyment while at school.  Because that means you will spend the morning before she starts in a bit of a panic trying to fit her nap in before a mad rush to Target to buy more bottles, which must be sterilized at home while she waits patiently in her car seat (on the kitchen floor, not in the car; no need to call Child Services) so you can rush unceremoniously into her new school out of breath and utterly disorganized.

Of course, I could have done everything right, taken all my own advice, had her diaper cream purchased and labeled twenty-four hours in advance, and none of it would have mattered.  Because nothing else in the world matters when you leave your darling, tiny infant sleeping in a strange crib and walk across the street without her to your car, your heart singing in pain as something that feels like a serrated paring knife neatly severs it into big, raw, hurting pieces.
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Busy with Baby: Me, Myself, and My Baby Who Demands All of Both

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Melissa
on May 28, 2009
in Mommy time, awareness, being in the moment, practice, sense of self, stuck at home with a child, too much to do and trust
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We have reached that precious stage of infancy where Lily is alive to everything around her, singing out the sounds of conversation to us, staying awake longer between naps, and not looking quite so ridiculous in teeny tiny little dresses.  This can mean only one thing:

Just when I have the most to write about I have the least time to write about it.

I would, for example, like to write about the frustration and guilt engendered when the desire for sleep overwhelms the biological imperative to tend to an infant’s needs in the middle of the night; the conflict between hunkering down to endless rounds of goo goo goo with an infant and the desire that arises after about thirty seconds of it to be doing pretty much anything else; the uncertainty revolving around whether I will ever get everything necessary to my sense of self done in the five hours when Lily is finally at day care (a good hour of which will be consumed with her breast milk consumption); and, of course, the Terrible Mother-ness that revolves around sending one’s three-month-old to day care in the first place.  (I have lost count of the number of times I have deleted “part-time” from sentences involving day care as I recognize that it is not technically relevant even though it feels absolutely necessary to state.)

However, as Lily demands eye contact during her waking hours and, consequently, as I will not be writing about these topics in any timely manner, I pledge instead to:

1)  hold onto all these lovely lessons barreling at me and trust that if I lose any ideas before I have time to write about them properly it is probably to the benefit of my readers, since those ideas must not have been particularly compelling in the first place;

2)  continue to use the most certain nap-time for my yoga practice because if I stop practicing yoga what will be the point of anything I manage to write here?;

3)  practice patience and the belief that my life will some day return to me (see necessity of #2 above);

4)  enjoy these last few weeks before Lily starts day care (see #3); and

5)  know that even if I don’t write a thing between now and the day she starts, I will have plenty of fodder for YogaMamaMe-ing the second she does.

Et voila! She awakens.

What Happened to My Yoga Practice?: Lamentations of a Postpartum Mom

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Melissa
on May 22, 2009
in aging, change, compassion, following your heart, grace, practice, respecting your body, sense of self, the bigger picture and yoga class
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I was initially kind of excited when I sat down to breakfast this morning and discovered an article in the New York Times Style section about a yoga class I attended a few times.

It felt like a brush with celebrity, an acknowledgment of a past life maybe not steeped in but occasionally brushing up against glamour.  “I know uber-teacher Vinnie Marino,” I pictured myself saying to someone who cared.  “And that’s the waiting area at the Main Street YogaWorks,” I smiled knowingly as I scanned the accompanying photo for a familiar face.

There were no familiar faces.  Perhaps because it’s been at least four years since I attended a class at the Main Street studio.  And I’m pretty certain Heather Graham was not in it with me, even though the article reports that she is now a regular.

In fact, the more I read, the longer ago it all seemed.  And the longer ago it all seemed, the sadder I felt.  It’s not that I was ever a regular in that class or that I wasn’t a regular in a local class right up until the day before I gave birth.  Rather, as I read the article’s description of the mad rush for a spot, the mats placed perilously close to each other, the intimidating poses, I knew that if I were to show up for the class now I would be kind of frightened.

Four years ago I wouldn’t have been frightened.

Four years ago I would have confidently spread out my mat.  I would have had at least a bit of a grasp on any pose Vinnie threw my way and a healthy sense of confidence if it was one still beyond me.  I wouldn’t have been the tiniest bit intimidated by the other practitioners.  I would, in short, have belonged.

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Be Careful What You Wish For … and then Wish Away

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Melissa
on May 19, 2009
in balance, being in the moment, breathing, change, chattering mind, expectations, toddler tantrums and you can't control everything
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I don’t suppose I blame the other parents for laughing at me, even though I resented it deeply at the time.

Shouldn’t the sight of a woman holding a screaming infant to her shoulder as a two-and-a-half-year-old clings to her leg crying, “Mommy!  MOOOOOOOMMMMMMYYYYY!” invoke sympathy — nay, even empathy, considering the limited reasons any adult would be hanging out at a playground — rather than snickers with a strong undercurrent of, “Better her than me”?  And when the beleaguered mother erupts, “I can’t carry you!!!  DO YOU HEAR THE BABY CRYING???” you’d think the other adults in the vicinity would have the manners to pretend there is something more interesting to look at in the other direction.

My sister-in-law Maureen valiantly tried to convince Jake that she was just as good at carrying him as his mother, despite having just suffered through a prolonged session of pushing him on a swing (she admitted to finding it as mentally stimulating as I do) while Lily and I rested comfortably on a nearby bench.  But her kindness and patience were paid back by Jake sobbing, “MOMMY!!!!” in her ear as he sadly reached for my unresponsive arms.

This display, I am rather amazed to say, has not been a staple of the past two months that Lily has been in our lives.  It is a recent phenomenon, triggered, I would guess, by the pre-playground morning, when Maureen navigated the stroller ramps of the Nature Center with Lily while I got to be the one carrying Jake, reminding him of just what it’s like to be Mommy’s little boy.

I mean “got to be” in the truest sense of the phrase.  I have been starving for the chance to hold that pale, warm body against mine, to need only turn my head to kiss that firm round cheek, to wrap my arms tight around his ribcage and love, love, love on him.  That his enthusiastic entry into the house at the end of the day generally sets Lily off into a frenzy of “Hold me! Save me!” neediness generally prevents the kind of contact with my son to which I had grown accustomed in our pre-Lily days.

So I complained relatively little about carrying him through the Nature Center (only on the uphills, really).  I coddled him as we picked up picnic provisions in Greenlife on our way to the Nature Center and even let Maureen wear Lily in the sling without breaking out in a single panic sweat.  Instead, I happily relished the sweetness of limping around toting thirty-five pounds of toddler perfectly capable of walking himself.

I should have known I’d pay for it.

But what mostly occurred to me as I tried to shake Jake off my leg in the playground and wished desperately that Lily would stop shrieking was that this scenario was exactly what I had expected with the new baby.  That I had been lucky to escape it thus far.

And, too, that — horrifying as those few minutes may have been — it all became worth it when I finally got Lily in her car seat and pulled Jake to me in a full-body, clinging-to-each-other, drenched-with-love hug.

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Traveling with Two: An Ode to My Generous Little Spirit

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Melissa
on May 12, 2009
in Mommy time, being connected to everything, compassion, expectations, following your heart, grace, gratitude, inner beauty, opening your heart, partners, practice, traveling with toddler and vacation
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Last week, Lily was awake during my acupuncture appointment.

Her newfound alertness was one of those developments you look forward to in theory, only to realize once you get there that it isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.  Sort of like when I used to stay up half the night anticipating a trip to Disneyland only to get there and find more in the way of crowds and heat than personal audiences with Mickey Mouse.

Don’t get me wrong.  I love the way Lily and I now make my already favorite chore of folding laundry into a game where I wave each item of clothing in front of her rapidly darting blue eyes on its way from basket to drawer.  I cherish the puckered little smile that blooms across her face when I bluster, “B-B-B-B-B,” to her.  And I’m pretty proud of how I cobbled together parts from two partially functioning mobiles to make one under which she kicks and coos in wonder.

But what you gain in moments of unexpectedly woozy love when your infant approaches two months you lose in sleep time.  Hers.  My own is, thank goodness, increasing.  Which is a good thing because I’m reduced to a pretty complete state of exhaustion at the end of a day spent trying to cram just as much dish washing and cooking and, yes, writing into the shrinking hours during which she now naps.

This cramming includes acupuncture.

The first time I brought her with me she was sound asleep in her car seat by the end of our ten-minute drive there.  The most stressful part of my appointment was worrying that she’d awaken as I lay there full of needles, forcing me to tug at the ones sprouting from my wrists as the acupuncturist had advised me to do in just such an event.

This time, however, she proved her new prowess at staying awake by — quite amazingly in the context of our new world together — staying awake during the car ride there.  And then sitting in her car seat in the waiting room gazing suspiciously about herself as she decided whether I was going to release her or she needed to complain.  And, when we settled into the treatment room, finally letting me know it was most definitely not okay to leave her in the car seat stationed in front of what I took to be some lovely shadows.

Whether it was my anxiously fluttering pulse or his own worry that he wouldn’t be able to fit a proper treatment around a fussy infant, the acupuncturist was as nervously creative as I at suggesting things that might — one could always hope — placate her for long enough to make a difference.  We moved the car seat around.  I took her out of it.  I swaddled her.  I rocked her.  I spread her blanket on the floor and assured her that we were in a very safe place.  He offered another blanket to put under it as if to prove how safe and welcome she was.

Lily settled back cautiously.  “Pretty comfy,” she seemed to say, still reserving judgment on the larger situation.

She looked around.  “Decent shadows up there,” I could hear her say to herself as she gave a few experimental kicks.

“Okay?” I asked.

She kicked again and ignored me.  “Okay,” was her answer.

And, true to her promise, she didn’t utter those first clicks of I-might-cry-ness until the acupuncturist started removing the needles.

“You are a generous spirit,” he told Lily graciously.

And thus defined her and my good fortune in a few short and honest words.

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Photographs and Memories. And Babies.

Published
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Melissa
on May 5, 2009
in aging, awareness, being in the moment, centering, change, intentions versus goals, letting go, letting instead of making, motion, structure and you can't control everything
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Friday night, after a lovely family evening eating pizza at an outdoor table overlooking a local parking lot, I relaxed on the couch and looked through old pictures of Jake when he was Lily’s age.

That was my first mistake.

Continue reading ‘Photographs and Memories. And Babies.’