Archive for the 'intentions versus goals' Category

Retreat of the December Mom

I’m still ashamed, even though I now recognize it was a December Mom thing.

There’s simply no excuse for being — I can still recall the out-of-body experience of watching myself do this — the mom screaming across a crowded coffee shop at her child.  “Jake!  Jake!  JAKE!  DO YOU WANT A BAGEL?”  As if no one sits hunched over a laptop trying to experience a little peace and a nice cup of coffee between her and her child.

Yep, that was me.

On that early December Saturday afternoon, I became someone I never thought I’d be.  The mother all us peaceful coffee drinkers hate.  The woman oblivious to the fact that others do indeed occupy the somewhat inappropriate space to which she has spirited her children.

The one who is finally shamed by the sweet older man passing her as she gathers compostable forks and napkins and cups of water simply saying, “Quite a handful, isn’t it?”

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I Can Cook! And Lots of Other Things You’d Never Know I Can Do

By the end of our Thanksgiving meal, life as a mother, as someone who is (can it only be?) eight-and-a-half months postpartum, and as a still relative newcomer to my new home — it was all beginning to seem manageable, pleasurable even.

And then Ellen turned to Mike.  “You and I should have monthly Iron Chef-like competitions,” she said.

Ca-thunk.  That was the sound of my perennially left-out, insecure thirteen-year-old self dropping like an air conditioner out of a New York apartment window into my stomach.

It’s true that Mike’s turkey was a piece of edible art.  And Ellen is the only person I imagine has the culinary talent to turn green bean casserole into something approaching gourmet and without a hint of canned soup in sight.

But there was a time, not so long ago, when I considered myself a pretty awesome cook as well.  In fact, it was Thanksgiving just fifteen years ago (eegads, fifteen years — can I still say “just”?) when I tested the waters of my fantasy escape-the-law-firm job of opening a catering business by cooking a kick-ass meal in a tiny apartment with a kitchen that measured approximately one foot by three feet.

Granted, I’m not much of a foodie these days and pretend that it’s just that I really like the taste of unadorned food, not that I’m too lazy to cook a proper meal with seasoning and sauces and stuff.  Nonetheless, I’m more than a little bit sensitive about the cooking thing, for reasons I can’t begin to articulate.

All I know is that when Ellen summarily eliminated me from the Iron Chef competition it made me really sad to think that no one knows I can cook — and that maybe I no longer can.

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The Co-Sleeper Is Gone … And Time Marches On

Next to my side of the bed there is a large, clean(ish) patch of floorboards.  On the other side of that large, clean(ish) patch of floorboards there is room to open the drawers on the left side of my dresser.  In between there is space for my discarded shoes and socks to breathe without having to tussle with Mike’s.

What is not on my side of the bed any longer is the co-sleeper.

For those unfamiliar with this piece of modern baby-raising apparatus, the co-sleeper is a not particularly attractive crib-like thing that attaches to the side of the bed.  The idea is to more or less sleep with your baby while theoretically eliminating the risk of inadvertently crushing her.  (Couldn’t one still throw a sleep-heavy, errant arm on top of the innocent sleeping child? I wonder.  Best, I suppose, not to contemplate the possibility, as I’m not a limbs-flinging sort of sleeper anyhow.)

Given my love of the middle road, the co-sleeper is the perfect invention, a detente in the polarized sleeping-with-baby debate, a way to hush Lily back to sleep in the middle of the night without ever having to leave the cocoon of my down duvet wrapped around me in the hours since kicking Mike out of bed for snoring.

Just as Lily has grown up with the scent and sound of me sleeping a foot away, I have come to love the feel of her within arm’s reach.  I have become certain that there is nothing better upon awakening than propping up on an elbow to watch my angel sleep.  Except, perhaps, that moment when her eyes pop open and she greets me with a big, sunny morning grin.

Only now the co-sleeper is gone, the victim of increasing baby mass and the fact that I have been dying to get to those dresser drawers for eight months now and just can’t wait any longer.

And in that once longed-for space is a big empty hole.  Sort of like the one in my heart.

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Turn, Turn, Turn … or Not: What I Learned at Six Months

“Yep,” Mike confirmed the other day.  “Lily’s acting like a normal baby.”

He said this after our first sunny fall day in the park.  After Lily and I arrived with her pouting in her stroller because I decided that much as she was demanding it I was simply not up to the task of walking to the park with her in the Ergo.  After yet another night of our power struggle over when she got to wake me up to nurse (as opposed to just waking me up) and how many times.  And after I summarily dumped her in Mike’s arms and walked away to chat with some other adults.

There is, of course, nothing wrong with acting like a normal baby when you are, pretty much, a normal baby.  You get to fuss.  You get to yell at your mother for not holding you enough, not nursing you enough, having the audacity to put you down on the floor so she can, say, put on her sweater for a walk to the park.  And you definitely get to refuse to sleep through the night and not care that the books say by six and a half months you probably should be doing so.

I know there is nothing wrong with all of this.  I know — I think I know, I tell myself I know — that just because Lily can be a little grumpy with me now and then it does not mean that she will come to hate me in thirteen or so years.  She will hate me then regardless of what I do right now.

What I’m having some trouble wrapping my mind around, however, is the notion that there is nothing wrong with me responding to her grumpiness with less than perfect equanimity and nurturing sweetness.  There is nothing wrong with telling a baby at one o’clock in the morning that you want to sleep and she should stop crying at you.  Especially if you are offering a tone of voice and a back rub that are a great deal more gentle than the words you are saying because you know she can’t understand them anyhow.

In short, I spent the past several days beating myself up because Lily’s crankiness made me cranky as well.

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I Want to Go to Shabbat

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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Full of Firsts — And Not a Parent in Sight

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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Photographs and Memories. And Babies.

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.

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The Most Natural Thing in the World

What’s the most natural thing in the world?  Breastfeeding?  The naked human body?  Worms and cockroaches and creepy crawlies?  A little flatulence after a satisfying dinner of rice and beans?

Any one of them.  Except for breastfeeding.

This declaration, I know, sounds a bit aggressive, wounded perhaps, certainly not in keeping with the spirit of someone who believes that everything can be cured by yoga.  Everything, it turns out in my own personal experience, except breastfeeding.

Because no matter how many people might tell you otherwise, it is not the most natural thing in the world.  At least for those of us whose children would end up wolf food were it not for utterly unnatural things like the medication I take to induce lactation.  A medication whose dosage I am slowly reducing, slowly reducing my milk supply along with it.

I am also, not incidentally, watching my sanity level slowly reduce as well as I fruitlessly wish I just knew for sure when I should stop.

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Everything Bad for Me Is Good Again (or at Least a Few Things)

There are a few things that feel unshakably bad for me:  Voluntarily being outside in the snow.  Spending my work weeks in an office building (and, even worse, a suit).  Wearing my pajamas all day.  Watching television in the middle of a beautiful afternoon.  And eating chocolate.*

* I understand that I have just alienated 90% of my audience, including a few of you I hold particularly dear, but please bear with me and my eccentricities and read on for even more horrifying evidence of my chocolate antipathy.  Remembering, of course, that we vilify that which we love the most.

For the most part, my weeks of second-time new motherhood confirmed these truths by which I live.  Except, most surprisingly — and, probably, most enticingly for those of us (that is all of us) who want another excuse to eat it — for the chocolate.

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A Brief Return to a Past Life, or How (Really) Did I Get Here?

A couple of weeks ago, Mike handed me a book that had come free to his workplace.

“I doubt it’ll be very good,” he said, “but it’s a memoir about going to Columbia Law School.  I thought you might be interested.”

Maybe it’s the buddha-like peace that has descended on me as I prepare to give birth.  (Hardly an accurate description of my demeanor, but apparently the impression I give off in yoga class, where, I am told, women vie to practice next to me for my “beautiful energy.”  Frankly, I think this has more to do with the public-ness of a pregnant belly than anything I am or am not doing, and it makes me feel a little crowded.  So I guess buddha-like peace does not account for my reaction.)  Or maybe it’s the passage of time, both since I graduated from Columbia and since I taught law school.  Or maybe it’s just where I am in my life at this moment.

Whatever the reason, I did not take the book and throw it back at him.

In fact, I read it.  Not with great enjoyment, certainly not with fond nostalgia, if anything with more than a touch of jealousy that a division of Simon & Schuster would publish something with nothing new to say, said in an occasionally amusing but mostly unoriginal way.  (I realize one could say the same thing of my YogaMamaMe essays, should they ever be published, and this is no doubt a large part of what contributes to the jealousy.)

What I did find as I read was an ability to read more.  And to smile when I recognized certain professors.  And to sometimes nod without feeling a clenching sensation around my heart and a desire to run in the general direction of “west” so as to put a bit more distance between myself and that part of my life.

Because, I am realizing with a certain amount of awe, I no longer feel the need for that distance.  I seem to have picked up perspective somewhere along the line instead.

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