The Five W's of New Year's

New Year's Eve is pretty uncomplicated as a single person. Each year, many things about celebrating remain the same. You know the why and when of the holiday. You simply decide where to go, who to go with and what to wear. 

Being married with a kid, New Year's Eve is easy in one respect. Chances are you won't care what you're wearing. Beyond your sartorial choice, the holiday becomes much more strategic. The where to celebrate becomes contingent on a who: "Who will watch the baby, if we go out for New Year's Eve?" The why becomes fraught: "Why in the world would I want to drink when I  have to take care of a child bright and early in the morn?" And the when is worst of all..."Are you kidding me? Stay up til midnight when me daughter will be the first one in the Western Hemisphere to wake up on New Year's Day?!"

Last night, George and I threw caution to the wind (well, we didn't actually go anywhere) and made it to the countdown and beyond, in spite of this cautionary tale. We had a lovely bottle of champagne (popping the cork quietly to ensure our daughter's continued slumber). At the stroke of midnight, I got to kiss my husband on the lips, like most couples do around the world. "Let the morning be damned", I thought. 

And here's the kicker. Claire decided to SLEEP IN ON THE FIRST MORNING OF THE NEW YEAR!  When her cries intruded upon my dreamland, as they do every morning, I looked up and the clock said 7:40!! Unheard of…priceless…a gift from above!

If you don't have kids, the hour on the clock may not seem like such a great deal. The moms and dads among us will surely understand the majesty of the scenario. 

So, thanks, Claire. I begin this year with an extra spring in my step! Tomorrow morning….be damned!

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Father Daughter

"Get up!" my toddler, Claire, implores, as she tries to push me off the living room carpet.

Evidently, I'm not moving quickly enough, so she orders again, "Get up! Papa coming!"

Papa has arrived. My time as the sun, stars and moon in the eyes of my nineteen month old has ended. George is now the desired partner for the block building party.  It's not surprising that it took longer for the father/daughter relationship to blossom like it is now. After all, Claire and I got a nine month jump on her father. Perhaps, this is the beginning of "Daddy's Little Girl" that I've heard so much about.

Intellectually, I know three things about this recent shift in familial relations.

First, it's hilarious to see a toddler engage in exclusionary behavior worthy of a Mean Girl, even when the person she is giving the cold shoulder to is moi.

Second, watching the father/daughter relationship grow is such a gift. Claire and George play together so beautifully. Papa doesn't treat her like a baby; she's his equal. I've never seen two people make more meaningful towers of blocks together. I relish the opportunity to see what else they will build in the years to come.

Third, I know that this kind of early triangulation is a hallmark of individuation, a process through which all children must go. I'm glad that Claire feels safe enough in our relationship to reject me without fear that I will abandon her. 

My visceral reaction is a different story, though..."What am I, chopped liver, here?" I find myself on the outside, not a part of their exclusive, little club.

I feel a little sorry for myself too…"Nobody likes me, not even my daughter."

Then, I start to question my interpersonal skills, "She's right. I need to be more fun, like George." Now, I'm acting like an insecure teenager who's trying to figure out how to please a boy or get those Mean Girls to like her. 

But I'm not a teenager anymore, I'm a mom. So I remind myself that, if I were Claire, I'd probably prefer to play with George too. I love them both more watching them love each other.

And, really, I don't need to change. The next time Claire bumps her head or needs a hug, I'm sure she'll seek out mama. She's smart to play to our strengths.

Plus, Claire's cosmos clearly contains room for both of us. And so much more.

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Things No One Ever Told Me About Motherhood

Ah, gotta love (or hate) the mom blog list -- for thoughts that are too long for twitter and not quite a blog. I think I'm relying on this form too much, but that hasn't stopped me from sharing this latest list, "Things No One Ever Told Me About Motherhood":

1) Your bladder will never be the same. I've heard people say "your body will never be the same". I imagined this sentiment referred mostly to weight gain, stretch marks and varicose veins. Maybe people were being too polite to add bladder control. Maybe they didn't know how to break it to me that no amount of Kegels will assure that I experience an uncomplicated cough, sneeze or laugh now.

2) And speaking of bladders, you will never get to go to the bathroom alone again. Or anywhere else, for that matter. Your child will follow you wherever you go, as what you are doing is way more interesting than the toys that you spent your hard earned money on to get him or her to leave you alone long enough to do things like go to the bathroom (or write a post).

3) And speaking of entertaining a child, it's horrible realization that the only thing that your child finds more interesting than following you around is what's on television, a smart phone, or a computer.

4) Even if the television is babysitting, your child will cause great difficulty if you decide to talk on the phone for more than two minutes. You'd think I'd have known this fact, as I distinctly remember my mom yelling "I'M ON THE PHONE!" quite a bit when I was a child. My recollection is that she only had to give this warning once, and we'd leave her to her conversation in peace. I'm sure my mom's memory would be entirely different -- more in line with how talking on the phone is going for Claire and me now.

5) Babies find another thing entertaining --- your pain. They can be sadistic. I get it now. It's developmental. They really don't know they're own strength or understand they're hurting you yet. But it took me awhile to get used to being slugged in the neck, and then having my child laugh like bodily injury is great sport.

6) Your own entertainment takes on a different quality too. I get really excited about things that never would have interested me before -- like apple picking, an awesome swing set at a playground, or going to a tree lighting ceremony.

7) You get really excited about things that never would have interested you before. Your child shows no interest in these activities (like apple picking). Or he or she is interested for about 15 minutes and then is ready to go (like swinging on that awesome swing set). Or he or she is more interested in other things than the activity itself (like eating the hot pretzel you bought from the cart on the street corner instead of watching the tree lighting ceremony).

8) Numbers 6 or 7 show how boring you become after having a child. You morph into a more conservative person too, wanting to control the world in ways you never did before. When I had Claire, I walked out of the hospital and saw the world anew. Yes, our life seemed filled with possibility and I felt surrounded by a new glow. I was also surrounded by way too much trash on the ground and cars honking their horns loud enough to wake the dead. On the ride home, I wanted to kill all the aces in cars weaving in and out of traffic. All that happened before I had even gotten her home!

9) Numbers 6, 7 and 8 are examples that illustrate something I had heard before -- you will become your mother. What no one shared was the extent to which I get served this humble pie on a daily basis.

10) No one ever told me what the "hood" in "motherhood" stands for. I imagine it's called such because a mom is a safe place to call home. No one ever told me how hard it is to be that place for my daughter on a consistent basis (because of numbers 1-9, and because I always want to write a post). Like much about life that is challenging, I can always keep trying.

I'm sure there are more secrets that haven't dawned on me yet. Feel free to share them in the comments below. I wish I could say that a representative will be with you shortly to help you with your issue, but, unfortunately, you're on your own there.

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Home for the Holidays? Bah Humbug!

Holiday travel is not for the faint of heart. Holiday travel with a child makes me want to send my regrets to those close to my heart. 

Before we even cross the airport threshold, I've questioned our holiday plans a few times. I'm squeezing one too many things into my rolly-bag, and I wonder how it's possible that a baby half my size can require twice the amount of stuff as me. In long-term parking, I consider the fact that it took an hour-and-a-half to get to the airport, yet we haven't even begun the journey. 

The security lines are extra long this time of year ('tis the season), which is lovely because, in case you forgot, I'm carrying a lot of extra stuff. Plus a baby the size of Santa's sack. Our fellow comrades in line are neither merry nor bright, because...well, because they're in line too. Homeland Security isn't bright and merry, because...well, because they're Homeland Security. 

Waiting at the gate, I have to supervise an overstimulated baby, who manages to find emergency exit doors, random buttons to push and her way into the crowd of people rushing to their gates. Travelers bop like moving targets; my toddler walks like a drunkard. It's a video game gone awry. 

Three hours later, we finally squeeze down the too small aisle to the thousandth row of the plane (in case you forgot: with stuff and baby). I feel some sense of relief when we are finally have all our paraphernalia situated, and I get the small consolation of resting my weary bones down on an unforgiving middle seat that's the width of one ass cheek. 

But, wait, travel still has not officially commenced!

I start to wonder if it's too late to turn back. Microwave popcorn and a glass of chardonnay starts to sound like a sufficient holiday feast to me. 

Sorry dear relatives. Popcorn might not be quintessentially Norman Rockwell, but neither is getting from here to eternity during the holiday rush. We'll plan our next trip over Arbor Day when things are a little less hectic. Maybe, we'll plant a tree instead of cutting one down!

Thanksgiving

What day is it?"
It's today," squeaked Piglet.
My favorite day," said Pooh.”
― A.A. Milne

Teaching a child how to give thanks is important. At 18 months, Claire's a bit young, though. We won't be volunteering together or making a gratitude tree any time soon.

Anyway, she's a walking lesson in living in the moment. She finds wonder in all things great and small without any lesson from me.

I'm the one who's grateful to see the world anew through her eyes.

She hands objects to me throughout the day, a twig, a pea that's rolled under her highchair, sometimes something she's pulled out of her nose. I'm not sure if the objects are significant to her in and of themselves. Or if they become valuable out of the joy of discovery. Maybe, it's because she's given each one to me. Whatever the reason, I ponder each treasure closely in my palm and say, "Thank you, Claire."

About a week ago, I gave her a piece of apple. She looked at me and said, "Thank you, Mama."

I hadn't expected to hear these words from her for the first time then. She's not yet 18 months old, yet I have the great honor of witnessing a nascent sense about giving and receiving growing inside of her.

She is more than I ever expected on this Thanksgiving holiday. And every day.

Heir Extensions

"Claire has a black eye!" I announce.

"What?" George says, trying to figure out what I'm talking about.

"See there…at the corner of her left eye…It's, like, all black and purplish," I trail off waiting for an explanation about how it got there.

"It wasn't there yesterday," George says, nonchalantly. "She probably ran into a corner of a door or something."

"Uh-huh," I say, half listening to him, half imagining my daughter running into a wall.

Thinking of my daughter hurting herself is horrifying by itself. Add to it the idea that no one was watching her closely enough to have witnessed what happened to her. Then I worry about how this disaster's going to reflect on ME.

"What's everyone going to think?" my mind races. "That bruise positively screams 'Mommie Dearest'. It might as well spell out the word 'ABUSE' in black and blue!" 

Just as quickly as I get myself worked up, I come to another realization.

"Wait, what's going on here? I'm more worried about myself than my daughter! 'Mommie Dearest' redux," I think. 

Now, I feel even worse. I imagine my daughter at the therapist's office circa 2040 talking about how she lived her childhood as an extension of her mother. Or worse, writing a tell-all book about it.

At this point…Claire has a black eye, I look like I don't take care of her, and an adult life on the couch awaits my daughter.  

"A triple crown day for me," I think. "Oh, wait. Reminder to self! It's not about ME…"

Victory over Sleep Deprivation

I have an announcement. I've waited a week to share it. I wanted to make sure it stuck first.

CLAIRE IS SLEEPING THROUGH THE NIGHT!

I want to shout from the mountaintops that the sandman cometh! I'm shamelessly giving myself credit for making it to the other side of midnight, since George is the only one giving me props for my long slog (Claire certainly didn't). I've been patient (most of the time) and we have persevered!

Another thing I want to shout is, "Sleep training, I told you so! Nah-nah-nu-nah-nah!" First, a qualifier, I have nothing against parents who sleep train. If this decision is right for your family or if it worked for you, great. I would never tell you what to do in your own household.

My target is sleep trainers. More specifically, the ones who sent the message to me that if I didn't get my daughter's sleep in order and pronto, I was doing irreparable damage to her in the form of lifelong sleep issues.

Their voices got into my head. I doubted myself and my decisions for my child. After all, they are called the "experts".

While I was sticking a pacifier back into my year-old child's mouth at 1AM, I was hearing the "experts" warn me that I would face an epic battle to pry said bink from her lips come kindergarten -- along with permanent orthodontic problems. (she gave it up at 14 months, by the way).

While I was rubbing my daughter's back deep in the night, the voices said I should be fostering independence in my child, because she needed to learn to put herself to sleep without my help (um…she did…at 17 months).

While I was breastfeeding her at 3AM, I was thinking about how my baby should be able to go seven hours without eating and of the plethora of advice about how to eliminate nighttime feedings.

It's not their fault the voices got into my head. I wish I had a better ability to believe in myself and have confidence in my decisions. I wish I could've trusted my baby's cues more. I wish there were more voices for me to look to for guidance.

There was one. It was Kelly's mom. Thank god for Kelly's mom.

I was sleep deprived and desperate, when the "experts" were telling me I was doing it all wrong (talk about adding insult to injury). That's when I turned to kellymom.com. I wrote a post about it awhile back. If you are struggling with baby sleep issues, I think it's worth a look. A lot of it still rings true to me today:

Kelly’s mom flat out says don’t believe the hype. Scare tactics are usually designed to sell product of some kind or another, and the product in this case is sleep advice that is targeted at sleep deprived parents not babies burning the midnight oil. In essence, parents are the ones with deep pockets; babies have no pockets at all.

I think she’s right. It’s easy to be swayed by slick websites and offers of professional help when you are near insanity, with a child glued to your boob and have come close to dissolving your marriage in the middle of the night on several occasions. You are willing to consider depriving your child of food. And the business of baby sleep is counting on this fact. 

Kelly’s mom didn’t have a solution to offer, but she provided evidenced-based information that explained the developmental reasons for this grueling sleep schedule. I still felt insane with a child glued to my boob, but I breathed a sigh of relief that our not so normal nighttime routine was normal. 

I don't have a lot advice for moms, because I don't want to give advice. But I do have one piece of advice: Be careful about listening to advice.

Opposites Attract

“Vee cole, vee cole,” Claire said repeatedly.

Translation: "Feet cold".

My poor little baby had cold feet for the first time in her life. Actually, I think it was her first experience with cold in general. It isn't hyperbole to say that it took me an hour to warm them up, rubbing each tiny foot over and over again in my hands. I don't know who was more traumatized, her or me. Actually, I take that back it was me.

You see my husband, George, had taken her for an impromptu THREE hour trip to the zoo in FORTY degree weather wearing ONLY canvas sneakers!

I was mortified. I considered being mad along with mortified, but I’m trying to be more philosophical since having a kid. I can definitely cut him some slack this time too. First of all, how great is it that Claire and her papa went to the zoo together? And, really, George doesn't mean to be reckless. He’s barely used to being married, let alone having a child. There's a learning curve to fatherhood, just like anything else.

Same goes for motherhood. While I'm a stickler for schedules and routines, George would probably say I'm an old stick in the mud. He puts up with my neurotic need to make sure she eats on time, always has a nap at the appointed hour and that she's never, ever cold.

In other words, that Claire has a boring mommy, who doesn't know the meaning of the word "spontaneous" and never does anything fun with her daughter.

I'm the yin to George's yang, the traditional to his untraditional. We compliment each other nicely. So Claire can go on adventures and explore with her papa, and then come home to the warmth and security of her mama.

(In the future, I will just have to be more careful that I supervise how my child is clothed more closely.)

Learning to Walk and Other Life Lessons

I barely remember a time when Claire didn’t walk. It’s been a mere two months, but the transformation could not be more enduring.  Sure, children start out with the struggle of the learning curve, but once they reach a milestone, they never look back. 

While Claire was learning to walk, I was learning about life. It was my first lesson in letting go. I wanted to help. I could hold her hand and cheer her on, but I couldn’t stop her from falling. I couldn’t show her how to find her equilibrium. I couldn’t take a step for her.

She had to discover how to stand on her own two feet and move through the world. Literally and metaphorically, isn’t this experience what we want most for our children? Why is it so hard to do?

Claire took it all in stride. She would find a tentative center and lurch forward. Her feet didn’t yet know how to keep up with her head and upper half of her body. She would stumble back down to the floor. Over and over again.

I was impatient.

Yet, falling was time well spent for Claire. She developed elegant ways to catch herself on the way down, crashing on her belly and looking up at me with a giggle. “How smart!” I thought. “She needs to know how to fall right, before she can walk.”

I started to feel in awe of her grace. I started to feel joy being in her presence and watching. I began to wonder about my own need to be right and to have things just so.

When do we begin to see our efforts as failure when what we really need is more practice? When do we replace the ability to make fools of ourselves with feelings of shame and embarrassment? When do we stop having fun in the moment and worry only about the end result?

Claire has no self-doubt. She shows complete faith in the process. She isn’t concerned about when the goal will be achieved.

The best self-help gurus preach about this stuff all the time.  They’ve got nothing on my daughter Claire.

Life of the Party

I dared throw a party one time in high school, while my mom and step dad were out of town. It wasn’t my best decision ever. I spent the whole time sober, watching drunken people do stupid things.

The other night, Elmo landed on the floor in a way that suggested he'd had one too many.

I realized that inebriated teenagers and toddlers have much in common. 

Like living with a toddler, I witnessed lots of stumbling and falling down the night of that party. I cringed each time a heavy and/or breakable object was pitched in the air. The floor became a garbage can strewn with random debris. And people couldn’t seem to keep their voices down.

I felt like the “no” police spoiling all the fun. I repeated myself a lot. I expended way too much energy waiting for disaster to happen.

After the festivities were over, I was the sole person left to clean up the mess.

Thankfully, Claire hasn’t burned her bangs off trying to light a cigarette on the stove like Angie Shivle did that night.  Plus, I was this close to throwing everyone out. Things can get chaotic around chez Demas, but my love for my daughter always keeps me from cracking.

Most importantly, having Claire is my best decision ever.

Young Frankenstein

I spend way too much time pondering this toy: 

It’s a bug on human legs, two very long human legs, wearing very long circus pants. 
 

A triangle hole is the void where its private parts should be. A half bug/half man creature that has been castrated by its maker.

It came as part of a musical set. The rest of the instruments are normal enough.

Why does the bug stand out so from the others? Who made it and was his or her inspiration Mary Shelley? 
 

I wonder what it must be like to work for the toy maker. I imagine a place like Willy Wonka. 

Or an office in which 95% of the personnel would fail a drug test (I'm referring to a different kind of "doping"). 

The toy would definitely make more sense to me if I weren't so sober.

 

Because I said so

momsinmarketing.com

  

We begin with the best intentions as mothers. Only to find ourselves, then, doing things we swore we’d never do.

I also lament the things that I don’t do…

“Oh, today looks like a lovely day to take Claire to the park…Ah, we’ll go tomorrow.”

Or…“My daughter looks like she can go another day without a bath."

It’s hard to admit. Makes me feel like a horrible mother.

Equally cringe-worthy are the things that I thought I wouldn’t say. I find things flying out of my mouth that a) are just plain ridiculous, b) make me realize I’m becoming my mother, and/or c) are probably over my 16-month-old daughter's head right now.

Indeed, she’s ignoring me anyway. But I often wonder what she would say if she had the words (my homage to ‘honest toddler’ on twitter, @honesttoddler):

ME:                                                            CLAIRE:

Why did you just do that?                         Because

Where does this go?                                  I’m guessing…on the floor?

That doesn’t go in that hole.                     Why? It fits.

Stop whining.                                            Don't count on that happening.

You’re too loud.                                         I don’t know the opposite of loud

Eat your food.                                            Maybe

Try it; you’ll like it.                                   If I don’t try it, we’ll never know.          

You're giving me a headache.                    And your point is?                                                                      

Calm down!                                                Why?

We don’t hit!                                               I just did.

I’m only going to say this once.                 That’s good.

You’re not listening to me.                         What’s your point?

What do you want?                                     If I knew, I’d tell you.

That’s not a toy.                                          And your point is?

I’ve just read over the list. It’s long! I’m embarrassed. And I’m glad I don’t live with an honest toddler.

Hidden Treasure

theartreference.blogspot.com

  

Claire has turned our home into a scavenger hunt of sorts. An Easter Egg Hunt without the eggs, if you will.

When I find a random ball or blocks under a chair or table, it’s barely worth a yawn. I’m much more surprised when I open the door to the hall closet and happen upon a piece of apple. Or when I’m booby trapped by a trail of Cheerios crunch, crunching under foot, as I walk to the bathroom in the middle of the night.

I’m most intrigued when it seems that Claire has specifically placed things in certain spots…The half of a cracker that’s perfectly wedged in the small round hole of a toy… The square piece of cheese that has come to rest exactly in the middle of the metal coaster on the side table…The sippy cup straws and primary colored crayons that seem made to go together in a cup on her easel.

I have weighed the idea of keeping her in the highchair to eat. But then I would be more concerned about how I look as a housekeeper than Claire. Really, she’s a toddler. I’m  happy to get food in her, even if it means she’s on the run and food ends up elsewhere.

Plus, I remember reading the truism that the creativity of youth is rarely tidy. Her various hidings are evidence of how she engages with and transforms her environment. Her serendipitous, little presents are like interior decorating, toddler style.

On the other hand, I am less happy to find a piece of food that’s been hanging around for awhile -- like a desiccated old man calling out for cockroaches and/or mice. Likewise, my patience wears thin when she’s hidden my keys.

I draw the line at hiding keys. Unfortunately, like most toddlers, she remains completely undeterred by this line in the sand!

Accidents Happen

 

I get hit with the astounding responsibility of having a child at random times during the day. My daughter doesn’t need to be with me either. A solo trip down slick subway steps summoned the terror recently. Behold my spiraling stream of consciousness below:

“SLOW DOWN! You’ll break your neck…

"What if I broke my ankle? I was single that time I sprained my ankle. I was ALONE then. NO ONE took care of me. But I did get to put my feet up and relax while laid up! I’m a mom now – FORGET the luxury of being laid up…

“What do injured mothers do?! It must happen EVERYDAY! Those subway steps almost got ME...

“WORSE, what about single moms? Or no family nearby? No safety net. I’d probably tie myself up in bubble wrap or something…

“There’s that Visiting Nurses Service. They visit old people when they’re hurt. How about a Visiting Nanny Service for moms? Same acronym, anyway. Insurance should cover it. Or the government! In Sweden, they’d pay for it…

I wish we lived in Sweden!”

By the time the C train arrives, I’ve imagined myself walking around in bubble wrap and/or living in Sweden. Any old irrational contingency plan helps keep my fears at bay. 

If I’m lucky, my plotting just might hold me for awhile…at least until the next chance happening occurs…

Soul Search

 

The Homage, Marc Chagall, 1972

I stare endlessly at my daughter and marvel. Her face is compelling, purely because she is mine. Sometimes, my purpose is to see how she’s grown and changed. More often, I simply wish to behold.

Lately, I’ve been looking for my father. I search for him in the shape of her eyes, the set of her mouth, the way she furrows her brow. No trace of my dad is evident there, at least not yet.

I don’t know which I fear more...that my daughter will never come to resemble him...or that I have lost the ability to recognize him altogether.

My dad died when I was eleven. I am now 45. Much of my life has been marked without him in it. I have come to identify more with his absence than his presence.

Sadly, this space only grows larger as I grow older. Tragically, I no longer miss my dad.

I long for him, though. I search for him, too. Lately, I’m searching for my father in my daughter’s face.

Tales from Tinseltown

  

Kristin Cavalierri can’t wait to have another one. Jesssica Simpson changes her daughter’s outfits ten times a day. Guiliana Rancic is “loving every minute” of motherhood.

 babylifestyles.com

In the land of tinsel, postpartum depression and colic have been eradicated like Polio. Babies latch onto the breast with the greatest of ease. The Hollywood script says that sleepless nights only happen in Seattle. Or so the story goes. You rarely hear differently.

I want to hear how celebs would mother without nannies, assistants, personal chefs and trainers – kind of like seeing stars without makeup. And without their publicists serving up half-truths to the media and public.

Richness and complexity are missing in this fabricated fable of family.  Motherhood stretches you in unimaginable ways. Yes, it's a unique and special love. Also, a terrifying shock to contemplate the weight of responsibility for a small, fragile creature. Helplessness takes hold when you can’t stop your child’s cries, no matter what you do. Deep, in your bones exhaustion is brought on by the one-two punch of sleep deprivation and a baby who's still on the move like the energizer bunny. Just the beginning of the story, too.

I might envy the luxury of a celebrity’s life in the moment. When it comes down to it, I don’t. I've learned about myself by embracing some of the challenges of motherhood.

I am grateful for different things, like sitting down on the couch at the end of the day after Claire’s asleep. Or going out for dinner with my husband and having a conversation about something other than Elmo.

I’ve gotten over my bad self too. When I toiled in the kitchen making Claire an apple/sweet potato tart and she immediately spit it out, I moved on to the next thing. No applause there.

I’m not trying to make myself out as a hero here. I’m trying to say I’m an ordinary mom, ready to wear my triumphs and my struggles on my sleeve.

It's unclear whether celebrity moms really don’t have the same struggles as the rest of us, or if they're just keeping them under wraps. Either way, they’re making regular moms look bad. I don’t like that very much.

This post is featured as one of the Top Twelve Funny Posts of 2012.

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"What is it, then, between us?"

- Walt Whitman, Crossing Brooklyn Ferry

A dark urn of walnut wood sits on the carpet surrounded by plastic, furry and felt toys. It’s a somber piece that looks strange alongside the jumble of bright, primary colors. Children’s toys scream out for attention. The urn, on the other hand, draws you in with its quiet energy, like a fetish.

It has drawn Claire in. She pulls off the top by its bulky knob, puts blocks inside. Closes it, again and again.

I had mixed feelings about letting her play with it. She’s rough, dinging it up. She has yet to learn its significance to me. The piece sat on a bookshelf to be contemplated; I thought it remained out of her reach. Or maybe that’s what I pretended to believe. Perhaps, I secretly wanted her to find it.

My grandfather made this urn. He died in 1996. I miss him, and Claire will never meet him. When she touches the wood, I like to believe that somewhere in its oils rests grandpa's DNA and that Claire is coming under his influence.

Grandpa and Me

She has his eyebrows. I wish for her his gentleness, his love of God, his good singing voice. He would have loved Claire so.

As I watch her, my mind drifts to my grandfather in his “wood shop” (really the garage). He would start with a block of rough wood and turn it on a lathe, until it took on a refined shape and burnished surface. The work required patience and concentration. Not unlike the work required of a good relationship too.

I am honored to be a witness to these two lives. I am sad that they will never come to know one another. The dark walnut urn becomes the hand that reaches across the divide of generations and connects the two.

The Ghost of Halloween Past, Present and Future

Ah, Fall. The snap in the air is the first harbinger of the season. Then, the light takes on low, slanting glow. Life settles into a more ordered routine. My favorite time of year, sullied only by one day…Halloween.

I have been boycotting Halloween for a long while. The titular reason is that I want to avoid women dressed like ho’s and their male moron counterparts. Indeed, this statement is true. But the real reason is that I don’t have an ounce of creativity when it comes to costumes.

Opting out of Halloween as an adult has been no big deal. Now that I have Claire, it’s been on my mind again. When you have a child, you benchmark her experience growing up against your own. As the saying goes, we relive our childhood…

I remember my mom bent over the sewing machine with a knitted brow. I stood by her side, just about the height of her hands feeding the fabric through the needle. I watched what seemed a miracle transformation. She was turning one of her shiny, sequined 70’s disco numbers into a fairy princess costume for me. Come trick or treat time, I felt like the best shiny, sequined princess on the block. Later, the same piece became a tin man costume for my brother. One year, my brother and I both went as Raggedy Ann and Andy. That costume was so authentic; mom even made the wigs!

Mom, Brother Ben and Me (circa 1978)

I felt sorry for the kids who had to wear those Woolworth generated plastic items, complete with suffocating masks and an unseemly smell. They looked scratchy and uncomfortable, and made a weird rustling sound going up and down the street. But, worst of all, they lacked the hand of a mother’s love. I am haunted by the fact that Claire will now be one of those children.

I have warm feelings in my heart thinking about the love that went into the costumes mom made for us. I feel emptiness in my heart for Claire, because she will not have the same experience as me.

But I know I don’t need to be all things to her. Teaching children that we have limitations is wise. At some point, I will have to tell her that the craft gene has skipped a generation. This fact bodes well for her. Maybe one day, she will carry on the Halloween costume tradition with her own kids.

The Boob Police

 

I was suspicious. A relative was taking a curious interest in Claire’s breastfeeding habits. Her queries came at me with a jagged, little edge. I wondered about the subtext. Non-committal retorts like “uh-huh” reinforced my hunch that disapproval lurked just under the surface. As she was saying one thing, I was hearing another:

She says: When do you plan on stopping breastfeeding?

I hear: You should stop breastfeeding.

She says: Has she started asking for milk?

I hear: When she’s old enough to say “milk”, she’s old enough to eat ‘real’ food.

She says: Doesn’t she bite you with all those teeth?

I hear: When she’s cut a mouth of teeth, she’s old enough to eat ‘real’ food.

She says: Do you also give her cow’s milk?

I hear: When she’s old enough to have ‘real food’, you should stop breastfeeding.

She says: What if she won't stop?

I hear: That baby's gonna be five years old and still on the tit.

She says: What do you do when you’re outside?

I hear: You should be ashamed of yourself for breastfeeding a 16-month-old in public.

I wanted the interrogation to stop. But I just calmly provided answers to the ‘questions’. Really, I'm an unlikely ambassador for breastfeeding. I don’t want to make people uncomfortable. If other breastfeeding mamas want to make a statement, they have my blessing. I just want to feed my child.

Barbarians at the Baby Gate

The phrase “You need a license to fish, but any fool can have a baby” often rumbled through my head, as I neared the end of my pregnancy with Claire. I felt ill equipped to bring a newborn baby home for the first time. A justifiable fear, since I hadn’t changed a diaper in 30 years. George had never changed a diaper. 

We both had (and have) much to learn. Our mutual inexperience with babies has meant that we’ve had many surprises along the way. Many suggest that babies are heartier than we give them credit for. Here are a few:

1)    Babies are loud. I’ve read that they are getting to know their voices for the first time. I think they are trying to wake the dead.

2)    They don't fight fair. Yesterday, Claire took her dexterous, little index finger and found the tiny tear duct space in the corner of my eye. She reached in and tried to scoop out my eyeball. It was an unfamiliar kind of pain. Labor still beat it though.

3)    They fart frequently and in a variety of places and situations. Enough said.

4)    Their fingernails grow like wildfire -- much to my dismay, since they also loathe having them cut.

5)    They hate having their nose, mouth and hands wiped. And the plethora of appliances meant to help with the task (such as the Nose Frieda) merely plays on a parent’s desperation and adds to the resistance.

6)    They are tough mother suckers. The other day, Claire was trying to climb onto a chair and fell backwards. Somehow, her mouth was involved in the mishap. I was completely freaked out by the amount of blood that ensued. She was just mad that I made her stop playing long enough to deal with the damage (refer to #5).

7)    They're daredevils. We were at Claire’s grandma’s house. I walked out of the bathroom and found Claire crawling up the steps for the first time all by herself!

Or I could have said, “conquering the Steppes”, since the summary of this post is that babies often act like barbarians. Perhaps you’re thinking, "My child doesn't do these things. Speak for yourself!”If that’s the case, I’ll end by saying that Claire makes a damn cute barbarian.