"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.

Having a Child is Like Eating Oreos

 

Coloring time starts off sweet and yummy...

Claire walks to the easel and says, “chi-choo”, her delicious word for crayons. She hands the purple to me and says, “Lo” (translation: “Mommy, will you please draw Lloyd, our cat, for me?”) 

I’m so in love with her right now. I’m so happy to oblige.

But, after I’ve drawn Lloyd the cat a hundred times in a row, I’ve had way too many cookies. Just like Oreos, it’s possible to have too much.

Mother/Daughter Collaboration

George, on the other hand, is on a diet, a strict regime. He’ll text me near the end of a long rehearsal: “I’m hurrying home. Is she asleep yet?” He’s dying for his sugar fix of Claire. When I reply, “Great. Hurry back”, I’m happy father and daughter will be reunited once again, happier still that I will soon hand Claire off to her devoted daddy. 

Then, he can draw Lloyd the cat for her. I’m just jealous that she’ll be off to bed, before he’s had his fill.

Unlike me, he rarely seems to fill up on Claire -- something else to compound my ever-present terror about measuring up as a mom.  But George’s perspective comes with downsides too. The number of firsts he misses frequently frustrates him. He’s also surrendered himself to the fact that mama is number one right now.

When jealously gets the best of him, I’m quick to point out that there’s still plenty of time for Claire to hate her mother.

Mommy and "Me Time"

I felt like I was having a long overdue spa day. My body relaxed into the contours of the chair. The lights on the ceiling called to me like spinning mandalas, pulsating with meditative energy. I sighed and surrendered myself to the lady taking care of…

My teeth.

Yes, I was at the dentist. I can’t say I ever imagined considering a teeth cleaning a luxurious treat. But having Claire has given the term “me time” a new meaning. These days I will take it where I can get it.

But, really, the dentist office as “me time”? It made me realize how much of the energy in the Demas household flows from me to Claire, and how I survive on fumes.

Which means that all is about as it should be with a 15 month old.

When I am my best self, I remember that one of the beautiful (albeit challenging) gifts of a child is the lesson of self-sacrifice. Generally, the act of giving comes easily, almost reflexively, with a child. What requires contemplation is the repercussion of resentment that can often follow -- especially when I feel tired, overwhelmed and lacking patience.

Sometimes, I need to remember that it's okay to metaphorically put on my oxygen mask first. Often, I must make a conscious effort to find time for me hidden in different places and smaller moments.

To the last bit, I can thank my daughter for giving me a fresh perspective about the much-maligned obligation of going to the dentist.


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Arsenic and Old Rice

A store called Jubb’s Longevity had its heyday in the East Village of NYC long before gentrification pushed the hippies aside. I remember being intrigued by the name and asking my friend (who was the unofficial mayor of the East Village) about the store. She shared that Jubb was a breatharian, a practitioner of the philosophy that it’s both possible and healthiest to live on air and light as the primary source of nourishment. My first thought (after “only in the East Village”) was “what could they possibly sell in the store, if there’s nothing to consume?” We went in, and I recall books sparsely spread out on the shelves and maybe some teas and herbal cleanses. 

I hadn’t thought about this store in years, but I found myself longing for the days of Jubb recently. 

Today's new is that rice, the proverbial health food, may contain arsenic. Hmm, am I really slowly poisoning my daughter? I've found equally disturbing things about our food supply lately in my quest to find what's healthiest for Claire.

Now, in case you're thinking “she’s just another conspiracy nut”, let me assure you that I don’t go looking for this stuff. One seemingly innocent internet search suddenly leads to any number of doomsday proclamations. I try to find out about the benefit of feeding my child cod liver oil (none, it’s contaminated with PCB’s), and stumble upon Excitotoxins. The story goes that Excitotoxins are hidden in all kinds of prepared food from soups to frozen foods, and can lead to damage to the nerves and endocrine system. Then, I am looking for iron rich foods to feed Claire and learn that legumes and grains contain Phytates, which supposedly inhibit the uptake of iron and zinc. Next, I google “how to make your own bread”, and read that most commercial bread is made with a mutant strain of wheat that is ominously named “hydrolyzed dwarf wheat” (I learned about this one in a post called “Is Wheat Evil?”).

But I don't recommend pitching your chickpeas and crackers or breaking out your reading glasses to read the fine print on a bunch of labels. Not only will you drive yourself crazy, but you can easily find plenty of people on the net who will argue the opposite view just as vociferously, with just as much research to back up their claims. So the problem becomes who to believe? I've heard that knowledge is power. I say the internet has turned it into paralysis. 

At this point, I figure my goose is cooked (no pun intended), but I do have the opportunity to start from scratch with Claire. I am now at a loss about where to begin -- which brings me back to Jubb…I am starting to think it would be easier if we could all just live on air. Since that’s clearly not possible, I intend to stop googling altogether.