tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-42206154974731845442024-03-14T00:34:53.966-04:00Our World: Population Two ThreeMatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02152761577051109561noreply@blogger.comBlogger189125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4220615497473184544.post-79001233720731702682011-09-02T12:18:00.002-04:002011-09-02T12:25:02.409-04:00Work: 1, Life: 2, Balance: 0<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt"><i>Written last week on a flight to Chicago for a work trip.</i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt">I am 30,000 feet away from Amalia, and I am feeling every inch.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt">It has been almost three months since I last posted something, coinciding, almost to the day, with when I went back to work. My three-month hiatus from blogging has more to do with the lack of balance associated with work-life balance, but it also has something to do with the fact that when I first went back to work, I didn’t want to write about the anger and resentment I felt for fear that I wouldn’t put it into the right words.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt">But in just three short months, I have gained perspective. Ha! If only. Well, I've gained some, anyway.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt">Here is what it was like to go back to work: it was terrible. I missed Mollie fiercely, passionately, with my whole heart. I resented the fact that I was sitting at a desk while she was home. I counted down the hours I spent at the office or in meetings, and I felt so dispassionate about my work that I wondered whether it was really what I wanted to be doing. I hated pumping. Not only did it take an hour out of my day, it was an ounce-by-ounce reminder of both my physical separation and the fact that I was falling short of what Mollie needed (to eat), which made me feel like I was falling short of what Mollie needed (in general).</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt">And here is what it is like to be back at work now: it is slightly less terrible. I miss Mollie fiercely and passionately and I resent the fact that I don’t get to spend my days with her, resent the fact that I only get a harried hour with her in the morning in between pumping, making bottles, and making myself presentable for my day, and then an action-packed hour with her at night, nestled among bathtime, nursing, bottle-cleaning, dinner-making (ours) and mealtime (hers). Pumping remains an ounce-by-ounce reminder of my physical separation, but because of a lot of research and a come-to-Jesus moment with Enfamil, I no longer feel like I’m falling short of Mollie’s needs.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt">And something strange has happened in the past two weeks. Lo and behold, as many a wise working-woman told me would happen, I have found that I don’t hate my job. In fact, there are days when I love it, love the fact that I spend my time affecting social change, working to make the world a more livable one, love the fact that I get to feel like a role model to this person who will someday become a teenager and hate me. My days are busy, busier than they ever were before (cue the “what did I do with all of my time before I had kids” song) and yet I manage to get more and less done. Every minute counts now, for better (I can write more emails in 20 minutes than I ever realized) and for worse (I feel tethered to the clock, I know exactly how much I can and can’t get done in any given 10-minute span of time, my days are planned to the minute).</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt">And yet I still hate the fact of working. Rather, I hate the fact that I spent so much time and money getting to this point in my career, only to have a baby and wish that I could lead two lives – the one where I’m home with her, and the one where I’m making the world a better place while picking up a (small but critical) paycheck. Put more directly, I am a mother now.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt">I have no doubt that not working is just as hard as working, much like I am now certain that formula-feeding leaves parents just as crazed as breastfeeding, and sleep-training is just as exhausting as not sleep-training. Like everything else in life and in parenting (particularly first-time parenting), the decisions are hard, there’s merit on both sides of the spectrum, and the right thing for one parent is the wrong thing for another.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt">In the last three months, our little scrawny chicken has gotten fat. She has knee dimples, elbow dimples, and three round chins. She sits on her own, puts everything in her mouth, eats pears with gusto. She talks more when she’s around people she knows, she shrieks and squawks and kicks her legs when she’s excited. She will be six months old in just a week. It is amazing what six months can bring. Also, teeth.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt">I am 30,000 feet and several hundred miles away from her and I can conjure her sweet baby smell in my nose, and feel her cheek give under my lips as I kiss her in my mind’s eye. I am on my first work-trip, resenting the distance and grateful, so incredibly and unbelievably grateful for my two great loves at home.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt">I will be home again in 36 hours. And I will already resent Monday the very moment I pick Mollie up to feed her in the early hours of Saturday morning. In between then and now, I will meet the next generation of organizers, of world-changers, of people who work for a small but critical paycheck. Just like every day, the moment I hold her in my arms will be the sweetest homecoming I have ever known.<o:p></o:p></p>Lizzihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06869768127784109678noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4220615497473184544.post-48485284255485066782011-06-01T10:13:00.002-04:002011-06-01T14:05:37.475-04:00More of a Turkey than a ChickenFor the past 12 weeks and 4 days, I have been a stay-at-home-mom. On Monday, my time at home with Mollie comes to an end and I will be back at work. <div><br /></div><div>These are the cliches I am wrestling with: It is hard for me to believe how quickly the time passed, it is hard to imagine myself working in any other capacity than the job I have taken on here at home, it is amazing how different Mollie is now than she was when we first brought her home from the hospital, the thought of going back to work and being separated from her for an entire day fills me with such despair that I am fairly certain that I will have no cuticles left come Monday morning. I am also filled with such other adjectives as fear (about whether Mollie will forget me/hate me/miss me), hatred (for having to work), jealousy (of those who don't have to work), nervousness (about whether or not I really remember how to do my job), and apathy (about the work itself). </div><div><br /></div><div>Here is a new truth that I didn't know I would come to: if I could quit my job and stay at home with Mollie, I would do it in a heartbeat. Work seems more trivial than I could have possibly imagined.<br /><div><br /></div><div>***</div><div><br /></div><div>The year was 1989 and I was getting ready to go to someone's record hop. For those of you who were not a Jewish teenager in the late 80's or early 90's, a record hop was one way a very rich Jewish kid could celebrate their Bar or Bat Mitzvah. Those fortunate kids had two parties -- one fancy party for the grown-ups where a few of their Jewish friends were invited, and one "just kids" party where most of the 7th or 8th grade was invited. While a record hop was good in theory (twice as many presents for the lucky 13-year-old, plus the parents got to have the celebration that they wanted for all of their money) it also meant enduring the awkwardness that accompanies every dance where not-quite-teenagers are forced to co-mingle.</div><div><br /></div><div>Suffice it to say, it took me about an hour to get ready for the party. I had picked out the perfect outfit, which will sound ridiculous over here in 2011, but I'm going to give it a shot because it is important to our story. It was a predominantly purple tie-dyed babydoll dress, under which I wore a pair of black bike shorts. I wore it with enormous "scrunchy" socks, and what we called "Chinese slippers" at the time, but which are essentially black canvass Mary Janes. I carefully did my hair, securing it into a half-up-half-down 'do with a black scrunchie, and applied the mascara and lip gloss that my mom let me wear to Bar/Bat Mitzvahs. </div><div><br /></div><div>I came downstairs feeling pretty great, just about confident enough to ask Keith Delaney to dance after a Shirley Temple and some chicken fingers. It was critical that I ask Keith to dance at this party because I suspected that he liked me. He had been snapping my bra strap in science class for weeks, a sure sign of interest, but he hadn't said anything. I figured that the bra snapping was his way of putting the ball in my court. I was determined to run with it.</div><div><br /></div><div>"I'm ready to go," I told my mom. </div><div><br /></div><div>"Honey, you need to lose those socks," she responded as she picked up her keys.</div><div><br /></div><div>Lose the socks? Was she out of her mind? The socks were critical. The socks MADE the outfit. The socks helped to establish me as an almost-cool kid. Without the socks I was just a loser in a babydoll dress, pining after Keith Delaney. </div><div><br /></div><div>"But the socks are cool!," I protested. </div><div><br /></div><div>"No, the socks look ridiculous."</div><div><br /></div><div>"I'm not taking off the socks."</div><div><br /></div><div>"Then I'm not taking you to the party." </div><div><br /></div><div>And on it went. I'm not sure why the socks were so important to her. I don't know why she didn't believe me. But we both held firm. Finally, in the car, moments before we pulled into the parking lot for the party, I took off my socks. I held them out to her with tears in my eyes.</div><div><br /></div><div>"There," she said. "You look perfect now. Have fun!"</div><div><br /></div><div>I said nothing as I got out of the car, not even looking at her as I walked inside.</div><div><br /></div><div>The party sucked. Keith didn't come and there were no Shirley Temples. Midway through it I started to feel really sick, and by the time my mom came to pick me up, I knew that I had a fever.</div><div><br /></div><div>I sat down at the kitchen table with the thermometer in my mouth, feeling like I could fall asleep right there in my dad's dinner seat. </div><div><br /></div><div>"Honey, I'm sorry," my mom said as she smoothed her hand across my forehead. I assumed that she was sorry that I was sick, but she continued. "You were right about the socks. I saw all the other girls walking in and they all had socks on. I'm sorry I made you take them off. I should have listened to you when you told me that they were cool." </div><div><br /></div><div>I nodded and headed off to bed. I remember that the illness turned into some of the worst bronchitis that I had ever head, that I missed a week of school, and that by the time I got back, Keith was dating someone else, only rarely snapping my bra, and even then it seemed like it was just for sport.</div><div><br /></div><div>I don't know why this memory has been so vivid for me these days, but I can't stop thinking about it. I have thought about it over the years because it was so shocking. It was the first time my mother apologized to me like I was an adult, worthy of a real apology. But now I am thinking about it from her perspective. She must have felt really bad for making get rid of those socks, knowing how much I wanted to be one of the cool kids, despite also knowing what losers the cool kids would ultimately turn out to be. I wonder if she decided to apologize to me, or if she just blurted it out because she felt so sad that I was also sick. </div><div><br /></div><div>***</div><div><br /></div><div>A million times a day, I think about the ways that I will need to apologize to Mollie, about how sorry I already am for the ways that I am already hurting her.</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm sorry I have to work. I'm sorry I can't buy you the fancy clothes. I'm sorry that kids are mean. I'm sorry we can't take a trip to Disney World. I'm sorry I didn't listen to you. </div></div><div><br /></div><div>A million times a day, I think about things that I want for Mollie's future.</div><div><br /></div><div>I want you to be carefree. I want you to be above the popularity contest. I want you to trust yourself. I want you feel safe and secure. I want you to know that I am always listening, that no matter where I am, I love you. I want Middle School to be easier.</div><div><br /></div><div>***</div><div><br /></div><div>She smiles with purpose now, squeals with conviction. She rolls onto her side, talks to herself, tracks her mobile. She knows her mother, her father, her Julie, her Stephen. She is not a fan of long car rides but she is comforted by her pacifier. She tolerates her bath and she enjoys being on her tummy.</div><div><br /></div><div>She is suddenly a baby and not a newborn, more of a turkey than a chicken, so grown up and so little at the same time, probably the way that I will always see her. I am leaving her to do her growing, her thinking, her learning, her changing, all without me there to watch it. </div><div><br /></div><div>***</div><div><br /></div><div>Move at your own pace, little one. I may be a step or two behind you and it might take longer than you would like for me to catch up, to catch on. But know that no matter what, no matter where I am, I am always behind you. </div>Lizzihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06869768127784109678noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4220615497473184544.post-33407017215277190342011-05-20T09:28:00.002-04:002011-05-20T09:32:27.261-04:00Of Roots and Wings<div><i>I wrote this as an email to Mollie today, but because it is practically the only thing I have been thinking about for the past week, I decided to share it here. </i></div><div><br /></div><div>Dear, sweet Mollie,</div><div><br /></div><div>Last week we started transitioning you from the bassinet in our room to the crib in your room. You had been giving us signs that you were ready for this, sleeping better when we weren't in the room with you, kicking your swaddled little feet at the bassinet bumper, whinnying like a little barnyard animal as you slept. So we bought a monitor and braced ourselves for the possibility of a difficult transition, knowing all the while that it was the best decision for all of us.</div><div><br /></div><div>The transition has turned out to be much harder on me than on you. You sleep beautifully now, from somewhere around 11:30pm until sometime close to 4:30am, at which point you nurse and go right back to sleep. You turn yourself around in your crib, doing unseen acrobatics in your sleep that land you perpendicular from the place where I put you down. You still whinny like a little foal or piglet, but you do it to yourself. And sometimes when I come to get you after I have heard you chirping for a few minutes in the morning, you are staring at your mobile of angry birds, happy as a clam even with a heavy, wet diaper.</div><div><br /></div><div>I spent the past week looking over at your empty bassinet, steeling myself for the day when you eventually go to summer camp. Or worse, college. I liked the weeks that we spent sleeping in one room, treasured the knowledge that I was drifting into sleep closest to my two favorite people in the whole world -- you and your dad. I felt cozy and safe, the two of you within arm's reach.</div><div><br /></div><div>But now it's time for the first real separation. As your dad took your bassinet downstairs yesterday, where it will wait for a new baby cousin to be ready to use, I had to suppress the urge to tell him to "wait!, stop!, I'm not quite ready for this." Because you are ready, little one. You are ready to sleep your own sleep, to be more than an arm's reach away from me, to find your own space in your sweet little room. And so I will hold myself back. I will let you find your way. I will cross the short distance between our room and your room, comforting myself that I am no more than a squawk away from you when you need me, when I need you. </div><div><br /></div><div>I think that you will teach me this lesson over and over again, and that it will always be hard for me. Those roots that your father and I give you are always to be counterbalanced by the wings that you grow on your own. Every time you take flight, I will have to suppress the urge to pull you back to me, to hold you close to my heart and to the earth, just to save myself the pain of letting you go. I promise to do my best to let you fly, little one. It is a big world, and it is all yours.</div><div><br /></div><div>You are chirping right now, so I will go to you. I will pick you up and cuddle you, nurse you and make you comfortable. I will kiss you and rock you and snuggle you back to sleep. I will remember that the freedom to love another person, even one of your own creation, is a privilege. </div><div>I love you with all of my heart.</div><div>Mama</div>Lizzihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06869768127784109678noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4220615497473184544.post-55945336156408834482011-05-10T12:51:00.001-04:002011-05-10T12:54:40.207-04:00Another Sunday in May<p class="MsoNormal">For seventeen years, Mother’s Day has been a day for someone else.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>A day for people with mothers, a day for mothers.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>And then there it was, mine for the taking, complete with brunch and flowers and cards and Matt and my beautiful little girl.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>And I felt… sad.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Growing up, Mother’s Day was more or less just a Sunday with dessert. It was usually one of the first days that it was warm enough to grill, so we would invite my grandmothers over for a barbecue.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>They would get cards and big baskets of hanging flowers and my mom would get something nice from her mother (perfume, a pretty nightgown, a nice sweater) and something strange or passive aggressive from my dad’s (sponges, a book on how to be a good mother, salt and pepper shakers).<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I enjoyed the day because I was oblivious to the tension between my mom and her mother-in-law, because I loved my grandmothers in a totally unencumbered way, and because there was dessert.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Fast forward to Mother’s Day, 1991.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I was 12 and Andy was coming home from college to have dinner with us, making me giddy with excitement about the chance to see him.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He walked in the door with a huge bouquet of flowers, which he handed to my mom and then burst into tears.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>This naturally scared the crap out of me, because I’d never seen Andy cry, not even when he was stung by a swarm of bees in our back yard.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">That was the Mother’s Day that I learned that my mom had breast cancer.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I took it like a champ because they made it seem like some people get colds, some people get ear infections, and other people get cancer.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Suspicious of Andy’s tears, I pressed them on whether mom would be better by my Bat Mitzvah, and I was assured that of course she would.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">And then Mother’s Day, 1994.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The first Mother’s Day after my mom died.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I had just lost my mom, I was 15, I weighed approximately 93 pounds sopping wet, and so I did the most logical, teenage thing I could do: I hated. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I hated Hallmark, candy, and barbecues, I hated my friends with mothers, and I hated mothers.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Except that I was only 15, so I cried myself to sleep that night and spent the next morning cutting my classes, smoking cigarettes on the black top, and feeling sullen and sad.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I mostly grew out of the hate, attending the breast cancer walk in Philadelphia and later in Pittsburgh, even though getting up to volunteer for a walk at 7:30am as a college student was a sort of masochistic torture.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>When I got married I abdicated responsibility for Mother’s Day, even as I reminded Matt that hey, you have to call your mom.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Once, in law school, I sent “The Secret Life of Bees,” a book that’s essentially about the mothers that aren’t related to us, to a few of the women who mothered me through those hate years.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>And when Matt’s brother got married, my sister-in-law took over Mother’s Day duties, sending an email a few days before with, “I was thinking flowers for Char” or “how about an Amazon gift card this year?” and I felt so grateful for Amanda’s ability to just walk over, look at my pain and say, “I’ll pick that up for you honey, don’t you worry your pretty little head about it.”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I handed it over willingly, every time.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">And then there was last year, the mother of all Mother’s Days, when I didn’t have a mother, I had just had a miscarriage, and I wasn’t yet pregnant.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I don’t need to dwell on it much more than this: it was awful, hate turned into resentment.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I don’t know what I expected this year.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I half-expected to “take back the day,” to feel like this day that has held so much emotion for me over the years would once again be simple, or even feel like any other day.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>But Hallmark is pervasive, and so are my emotions.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>So I didn’t get to have a personal mommy-ist triumph, nor did it feel like just another day in the life of our 64-day-old daughter.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Instead, I just missed my mother.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>A lot. I missed her more than I missed her the day that Mollie was born.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I missed her more than when Martha was here, pinch-hitting on the mother AND mother-in-law roles.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I missed her more than I do when I’m sitting quietly in Mollie’s room with Julie, more than I do in those moments when Mollie looks at me with her intense stare, more than when I’m reading her “Where the Wild Things Are” or when we walk around the Chestnut Hill Reservoir.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I didn’t want the barbecue or the hanging pots of flowers, and I certainly didn’t want the awkward family drama, but I wanted the chance to have a conversation with my mother, to see her on a Sunday, maybe share some dessert.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I spent so many years hating the day, resenting what everyone else got to celebrate, that over time the day turned into both more and less than it was meant to be.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Mollie is asleep on me as I’m writing this, sucking on her pacifier every few seconds to comfort herself. She literally has everything she needs within inches and she is calm, comforted.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I hope that I am there on her first Mother’s Day, to tell her how amazing it is to see her all grown up and mothering.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I hope that after her years of hating and resentment over whatever or whomever she needs to hate and resent, that I can be there for her, that we can have a conversation and some dessert.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I am learning that it is the little things that add up to a Mother’s Day, the small moments and Sundays that make up part of a year, part of the role.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Yet I don’t want to miss a single one, and the saddest thing of all is that if I had to hazard a guess, my mother would have said the very same thing.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">So for now, this will have to do: wherever you are, Happy Mother’s Day.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>You are with me in the quiet moments and in the loud ones, and so you never really miss a thing.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I will eat dessert for both of us.</p>Lizzihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06869768127784109678noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4220615497473184544.post-51383392985343160072011-05-02T09:37:00.005-04:002011-05-02T10:17:34.907-04:00One Fart at a TimeI stare at Mollie in the early morning light on a Saturday. She is amazing. Her cheeks, begging to be kissed, are relaxed in her milk-drunk state. She inhales and exhales her sweet breath out of her slightly open mouth and I lean in to hear her breathing, to feel her breathing, to smell her delicious baby smells. Her eyes are closed and she sleeps so peacefully and I am so in love with her that I ache, and I literally have to remind myself that she is the same little person who screamed for three hours the night before. But in that moment, in the early pre-dawn moment, I don't care about her screaming. I don't mind that I can't think clearly, can't remember simple things, and occasionally forget that the milk lives in the refrigerator. She is so perfect that she is my only care, my only concern, and I am so grateful for her existence.<div><br /></div><div>"Eight weeks ago we watched our first sunrise over Boston together," I tell her, marking the fact that she has been in our lives for 56 days. I tell her this every Saturday, willing myself to hold on to the feeling of that morning, even as it fades from my memory, even as I can literally feel it fixing itself in my memory like a photograph of someone else's life, now replaced by new Saturday mornings.</div><div><br /></div><div>And then she farts.</div><div><br /></div><div>She startles herself awake, kicks her little feet inside her swaddle blanket (baby straight-jacket), and squawks, sounding part piglet, part rooster. I laugh at her, kiss those irresistible cheeks, and think, "so this is how you learn to be a parent: one fart at a time."</div><div><br /></div><div>Two Thursdays ago she cried inconsolably for four straight hours. Last Monday, Matt and I spent 20 minutes in our pediatrician's waiting room only to find out that Mollie had terrible diaper rash and was in desperate need of nothing more than frequent diaper changes and a massive tub of Desitin. I have stopped eating eggs. Every other day she has a projectile spit-up that lands on the floor, and there are splats in the kitchen, in our bedroom, in the nursery. Two Sundays in a row we have found ourselves out with friends but not spending time with them because we are rocking, rocking, rocking our daughter and trying to magic her back to calm. Our apartment overflows with baby things -- a boppy, a swing, a bouncy seat, a giant yoga ball. We have most of our conversations while moving, up and down on the yoga ball, side to side as we sway her. I find burp cloths in our bed, in my sock drawer, draped across my shoulder as I am ready to walk out the door.</div><div><br /></div><div>It still amazes me how much my life has changed in two months. It amazes me even though I felt like I was truly prepared for my life to change, for the burp cloths and the baby things. I saw my friends become parents, saw the many ways that babies change you, laughed when well-meaning acquaintances posited that they would have more time for things like the gym when home on paternity leave. I knew that the waves of parenting would just keep coming. </div><div><br /></div><div>BUT. But, wow. I was prepared for the change, but I wasn't prepared for how stunning it would be, for how different I would feel because of it. I now really think that you can't anticipate all of the madness/chaos/amazement/insert-strong-adjective-here of parenting until you actually become a parent. No matter how prepared you feel (or are), no matter how many babies your friends have had, no matter how desperate you are for a baby, no matter how many books or blogs you have read. This is the wildest, most intense, most exhausting, most amazingly terrifying experience I have ever had. I couldn't possibly have readied myself for it. I couldn't have possibly known the depths of my love, but also my self-doubt, my uncertainty, my inability to make a decision for the very real fear that I am taking us down the wrong path.</div><div><br /></div><div>I have always questioned everything. Now I question it twice, consult the internet, call another mother, ask a friend for a second opinion, and discuss it with Matt ad nauseum, all before making a final decision.</div><div><br /></div><div>And then she farts. Which makes me laugh out loud and forces me to calm down, trust myself, go with my gut.</div><div><br /></div><div>She doesn't need much. She needs to be changed, fed, and burped. She needs to be kept warm enough and cool enough. She needs vaccines and pacifiers. But perhaps most of all, she needs to be loved, and cuddled, and rocked. She needs to be able to fall asleep, milk-drunk and full, and fart herself awake, trusting that someone will be there to laugh at her, change her diaper, kiss her delicious cheeks. And thanks to her, I can do those things in my sleep.</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/twilightinvasion/5665674912/" title="mollie and mommy by Twilight Invasion, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5025/5665674912_013719e312.jpg" width="375" height="500" alt="mollie and mommy" /></a></div>Lizzihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06869768127784109678noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4220615497473184544.post-45088874210187369242011-04-15T15:23:00.002-04:002011-04-15T15:26:47.737-04:00There is no such thing as an A+ in parenting<p class="MsoNormal">Six weeks ago today, I cancelled a conference call that I was supposed to have at 2:30pm because I knew that I wouldn’t be able to speak through the contractions.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>17 hours later, Amalia came screaming into the world.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">As with all of the other milestones (one week, 2 weeks, 4 weeks) I can’t believe that time has moved so quickly.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I can’t believe that she has been here for 6 weeks, I can’t believe that I only have another 6 weeks of maternity leave.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I can’t believe that in another 6 weeks, she’ll be 12 weeks old.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Parenting math is much harder than pregnancy math (a math story for another day).</p> <p class="MsoNormal">There have been so many times in the past few weeks that I have wanted to pick up my computer to write down what I have been thinking about.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>And for some reason, I just haven’t been able to do it.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>People have been cutting me slack, assuming that it’s exhaustion that’s getting in my way.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>But that’s not it.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I mean, I am exhausted, but that’s not what has kept me from writing.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>It’s the sheer enormity of it all, the fact that wrapping my head around this most recent life change is basically just as overwhelming as actually experiencing it.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">It has been an up and down week.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Last weekend went by too quickly.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I had too little time with Matt and by Sunday at 11am, I was already missing him, even though there were still many hours until he had to be at work on Monday.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>On Monday I cried in Cris’s living room, trying as hard as I could to soak up every parental-advice tidbit she could give me, feeling grateful, so incredibly grateful when she would say things like, “I remember feeling that way,” but simultaneously feeling so doubtful of my ability to make it as a parent.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>But today I am feeling alright, confident in my ability to wear Mollie to the grocery store in a sling, certain that I will be able to pull off a Passover Seder six weeks after I had a baby.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I have come to the conclusion that I am trying to get my PhD in parenting right now.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I am in the lab/classroom years.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>It is my job to repeat the experiment until I have something I can publish, something I can hold up in front of my committee and say, “look, this works!”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">An ideal day goes like this: Mollie sleeps for a 5-hour stretch, eats and goes back down at 4:30 and sleeps until 7:30, she has a lovely day involving minimal spit-up or wardrobe changes (for either one of us), she smiles affectionately at the ceiling fan and enjoys her tummy time, and I manage to shower, eat three meals, drink enough water, tackle some of the laundry, and pump 4.5 ounces.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>We have had bits and pieces of the ideal day.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>She will sleep for 5 hours one night and spend that entire day gassy and uncomfortable, producing such a massive spit up that it bypasses the burp cloth and lands squarely on her father’s (clean) pants, dripping onto the floor.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I will manage to eat enough food and pump, but she will be miserable every time I put her down for even a second.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Or she will take good naps, eat without problems, but I somehow haven’t managed to shower, eat, or drink any water until Matt comes home at 6pm.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">So every day, I go to my lab and try to re-create the pieces of the day before that worked, and then tweak the things that didn’t work to see if I can get them to work again.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I keep copious mental notes, reminding myself of when she ate, how much she ate, when she pooped, how much she pooped, whether I wore my hair up or down, whether I had three burp cloths or two, whether I burped her during or after she nursed.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Of course, I can only hold on to these notes for approximately 3 seconds before I have forgotten everything I was supposed to remember.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>This means that my life is less like a controlled experiment, and more like a chaotic stab in the dark. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I will never get a PhD this way.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I will never produce publishable results.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I will be ABD forever.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">So the new trick is working to become okay with this chaos.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>It is a very difficult trick.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I am filled to the brim with self-doubt, a cliché of a new mother, constantly worrying myself over questions like, “has she had enough to eat?,” “do I make enough milk?,” “how much spit-up is too much spit-up?,” “does she like me?,” “if she hasn’t smiled by exactly 6 weeks, is she developmentally delayed?”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I know that these questions are cliché, because when I start to type in “how much spit-up” into Google, it smartly finishes my question with, “is too much spit-up?”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Clearly, I am not the only one in a parenting lab.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Oddly, this is of little comfort when it comes from strangers on the internet.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>When other mothers, experienced or inexperienced, ask the same questions, then I feel comforted, elated to know that I am not alone here, not the only one blowing up her lab space.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I am sickened by the thought of going back to work, of leaving Amalia in the care of strangers.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Not because I think that I can do it better (see above), but because I cannot bear the thought of being apart from her all day for three whole days a week, cannot bear the fact that someone else will get to hold her, cuddle her, comfort her.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I do not mind nursing her at 3am because I love being the only person in the world who sees her beautiful face at 3am.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Sharing her with anyone other than Matt is difficult for me, even though I have no idea what I am doing, even though she sometimes cries so hard that she turns red and her lip quivers.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I want to be the one to stop the quivering lip, to be there to kiss her delicious cheeks, to wipe away the tiny little tears that pool in the corners of her eyes.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>This time, there is a conclusive result: I cannot always help her, sometimes I need help.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Both of those realities are intensely, emotionally trying. It must be painful to watch me struggle with it.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">This afternoon I went to see a lactation consultant, one of the myriad of people whose jobs absolutely baffle me.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>They are like magicians, pulling breastfeeding tidbits out of a hat just when you least expect it.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>In the middle of the consult, Beth had Amalia on her lap and had just finished weighing her.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Mollie started to cry, which was reasonable given that she was both naked and hungry.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Without thinking, I leaned in and started talking to her.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“It’s okay sweetpea, you’ll eat soon, I know you’re hungry and I can’t wait to feed you.”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Mollie stopped crying, turned her head towards me and opened her mouth in that perfect little “o” that makes my heart stop.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>And Beth said, “that’s right sweetheart, that’s your mommy,” and handed her over to me.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Time stood still for just the briefest of moments, and this is what I learned:<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I will always be working towards my doctorate in parenting, always trying to create the ideal day, the day that works and flows just like I want it to.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>But what I really need to learn is to recognize the moments, good and bad, that are totally out of my control.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>In other words, I need to simply relax and let time stand still when my well-fed, perfectly developmentally appropriate, beautiful daughter hears the sound of my voice and feels calmed.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Really, that is all the affirmation I need.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/twilightinvasion/5585161490/" title="Cheeks. by Twilight Invasion, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5025/5585161490_a29a0746f1.jpg" width="299" height="500" alt="Cheeks." /></a></p>Lizzihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06869768127784109678noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4220615497473184544.post-50583602945800066712011-04-09T09:54:00.003-04:002011-04-09T10:00:49.236-04:00Exhaustion in Three PartsPart 1:<div>I wake up to the sound of the baby crying at 4:26am and think, "when did we get a cat, and who is murdering it?" </div><div><br /></div><div>Part 2:</div><div>I step out of the shower only to realize that I forgot to wash the conditioner out of my hair. I step back in and turn on the water...with my towel on. As I loudly curse because I'm getting my towel all wet, I dunk my head under the water and curse again because in my haste not to get my towel wet, I have forgotten to turn the knob to "hot" and am standing half-naked, half-toweled under a freezing cold spray, conditioner running down my face.</div><div><br /></div><div>Part 3:</div><div>When the baby is fussy at 5pm, I think to myself, "only 3.5 more hours until my bedtime." At 11:34pm, when she is finally settling down from her nighttime fuss and thinking about sleeping somewhere other than my arms, I think, "please little one, please go to sleep, it's the middle of the night." And then I remember that once upon a time, in a galaxy far, far away, my nights used to start at 10:30. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Lizzihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06869768127784109678noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4220615497473184544.post-10564083167996296662011-03-28T14:29:00.004-04:002011-03-28T15:00:45.777-04:00Three Weeks and Two DaysMollie turned three weeks old this weekend. It is such an enormous amount of time for her to have already been on the planet that I am struck by her age every time I murmur it to myself. I do not understand where the time went, how we made it from those moments when she was a few hours, and even a few days old, all the way up until now, when we can measure her lifespan in weeks. It seems unfathomable.<div><br /></div><div>So it is an understatement to say that the last three weeks have been a blur. They have been a blink of the eye, one sleepless 24-hour stretch of breastfeeding, laundry, spit-up, teeny tiny clothes, thank you notes, and learning, OH, the learning.</div><div><br /></div><div>This is a short list of some of the things I have learned in the last three weeks:</div><div><ul><li>When your milk comes in, it feels prickly.</li><li>When your daughter is as perfect and tiny as ours is, people will always tell you how perfect and tiny she is, and you will have no idea how to respond. You will say, "thank you" as though you can take credit for her smallness and her perfection.</li><li>Exhaustion can be manageable, as long as you're tag-teaming, and as long as there is coffee.</li><li>Bottles and pacifiers won't cause her any real confusion, contrary to the teachings of the well-meaning, but slightly overwhelming, La Leche League.</li><li>Dr. Internet is much more knowledgeable and helpful when it comes to breastfeeding tips than she was during pregnancy. </li><li>Whenever anyone offers to help you through the first three weeks of parenting, the correct answer is, "yes, thank you!"</li></ul></div><div>I hardly know how to describe how amazing our little girl is. She makes this face sometimes, eyes wide open, bright, and staring, her mouth a perfect little "o", her hands clasped in front of her, and it literally makes my heart hurt, I love it so much. I want to consume the image, eat it so as to make it wholly mine. </div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/twilightinvasion/5560029938/" title="kiss by Twilight Invasion, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5139/5560029938_94e02309e5.jpg" width="500" height="374" alt="kiss" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>"It's crazy to think that she will never be this age again, that next week she will make new faces, new gestures, totally different expressions for us," Matt says. And I want to burst into tears for how sad it is that the time is literally flying by and that she is growing so quickly, and I want to jump up and down for joy, sky-write to the world about how incredibly lucky we are to have this healthy little girl we get to raise, how amazing it is that she is growing so quickly. </div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/twilightinvasion/5559419733/" title="population: three by Twilight Invasion, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5108/5559419733_d6ec476c44.jpg" width="344" height="500" alt="population: three" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>When I hear Mollie crying in another room, I know exactly what face she is making based on the sound of her cry. I love having that knowledge, love being one of the few people in the world who knows that about her. It is so intimate.</div><div><br /></div><div>I spend a lot of time thinking about motherhood, things I have thought of only fleetingly over the years. I think about women in the Holocaust, unable to breastfeed their children because they were starving themselves. I grieve for those women, I grieve for the pain it must have caused them to know that they were unable to nourish their babies. I think about women who have lost their children, and I hold Mollie closer, kiss her soft head, tell her that I cannot imagine my world without her in it. I think about trying to keep Mollie safe, trying to give her good advice. I realize that I am not as cool as I thought I would be: I do not want her to try drugs and have lots of sex; I do not want her to hurt her body because it is too precious to me. I think about the fact that I have a little girl, that I was once a little girl. I think about being a mother and I think about my mother. </div><div><br /></div><div>Late at night, I think about sleep. </div><div><br /></div><div>This weekend our families will be in Boston for Mollie's baby naming. We will formally welcome her into the world as a member of the Jewish community. The ceremony itself is beautiful, a gesture of our commitment to raise her as a Jew, in the likeness of both her fore-mothers and the two amazing women for whom she was named. But more than the ceremony is the fact of her existence, that we have a daughter to welcome, that we have family who have new, never-before-experienced roles like Aunt, Uncle, Grandparent. We will all come together for the ceremony because of this one teeny little girl, this yet-unwritten beauty. I am struck, over and over again, by how different my world is now, how grateful I am for the change, and how quickly one little person can touch so many people. </div>Lizzihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06869768127784109678noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4220615497473184544.post-13109564927165376432011-03-11T09:52:00.006-05:002011-03-11T13:02:37.517-05:00Episode 1: The first five days<div style="text-align: left;"><i>This post was written on March 10, 2011, Mollie's actual due date. As is starting to become the new normal, it took me a day longer than I expected to actually get it up.</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Today is the bean’s due date, the date by which medical science predicted she would be ready to enter the world.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The world that she has inhabited for five whole days as of 4:48 this morning.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>In fact, in just 18 minutes, it will be five-and-a-half days.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Twelve hours is very important when you only weigh 5 pounds.</div><p class="MsoNormal">These five days have been the most unbelievable five days of my life.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>And I mean that in every sense: I literally cannot believe that these five days belong to me, that I get to fold them into the story of my life.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>It sounds cheesy to say it, but they feel like a true gift, like something I waited all of my life to have, and now that I have it, I just want to savor each and every moment, even the ones that make me cry (and man, there are SO many of those).</p><p class="MsoNormal">I want to try to recap these five days, but I’m certain that I won’t do it justice, mainly because I can’t quite figure out how to write about our Mollie-bean and parenting and all of the million things that come with it.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>It sort of comes out in a list of things I cannot stop thinking about (practically in order): how beautiful my daughter is, the fact that I have a daughter, breast-feeding, the state of my nipples, Matt, parenting with Matt, not sleeping and co-sleeping, overwhelming emotions, family and friends, eating one-handed, my 4-months-pregnant-looking belly.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>These are the things I think about all the time, cannot get out of the running dialogue in my head.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>And then Mollie wakes up and whoosh! all I hear are my thoughts of how amazing she is, how cute she is when she makes that half-smile that shows the dimple on her left cheek, whether she is warm enough, comfortable enough, or hungry.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"></span></p><p class="MsoNormal">Here is labor, the short version: I started having contractions at about 11:30 on Friday, March 4<sup>th</sup>.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I went to the hospital when my contractions were about 5-6 minutes apart and the triage nurse was mean and unhelpful.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>We waited an hour before the doctor came in, and when she did her exam, my contractions were about 3-4 minutes apart, I was 7cm dilated, and 90% effaced.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>After being rushed up to labor and delivery, the wonder-doctor, the anesthesiologist, came in and gave me an epidural.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Blissful, pain-free labor ensued from 10pm until about 3:50am, with only a few hiccups when the baby’s heart rate slowed down.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal">At 3:50am I felt a punch from within and then heard a big gush as my water broke.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>By 4:30 I was pushing, laughing out loud at the fact that I was actually pushing, trying to figure out how I was actually doing anything given the fact that I couldn’t feel a thing from the waist down.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>When my amazing labor and delivery nurse, Denise, took my hand and put it on our baby’s head after the second push, it was a feeling so miraculous that I am almost hesitant to share it here, that’s how sacred and special it was.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Looking into Matt’s face, I told him, “that’s the baby!” through tears, and he laughed with me, saying, “I see it!”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Then there was an urge to push, a squirm that told me I wouldn’t need to, and the baby on my chest by 4:48am.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>It happened so quickly that the nurse had to turn the baby towards Matt, “It’s a…” she prompted, “GIRL!” he finished.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>And we laughed and cried and cried and cried and laughed and kissed, while they cleaned her up and stars shot across the sky, fairies danced in the forests, Matt and I became parents, and the world changed forever and ever and ever.</p><p class="MsoNormal">I am making myself cry.</p><p class="MsoNormal">But that’s how it was, especially with the stars and the fairies.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>At least, that’s how it felt to look down and see this wet little head on my chest, this squirming little body, all while knowing that she was mine.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I felt like a superhero at that moment, invincible not because of what I had done to bring her into the world, but because of my power to protect her.</p><p class="MsoNormal">After we went up to the room with Mollie, we started calling the people who are destined to love her most in the world.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Those were some of the best calls to make because we got to hear people’s excitement over her existence and the fact that she was a girl-bean. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Julie was the first to meet her. And later that day, she met Stephen, Jason, Cris, Adam, Linda, and Katy.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>And still later, she met Dan and Steph.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>And then, much to our surprise, she met her Pop-Pop and her Uncle Andy, who drove from Philly a few hours after they got the phone call so they could meet her on the day she was born. On Sunday she met her Aunt Elissa and her cousin Ike, who suddenly looked so big that I cannot believe that Mollie will be his size in just a short 18 months.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">And the next day we got to take her home.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>As I was being wheeled down the hall at the Brigham, holding her in her carseat on my lap, I was silently talking to her like I used to do when I was pregnant with her. “Some of these people are doctors, some of these people are sick.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Some of these people are daughters, some are friends, or parents, or grandparents. Some of these people are poor, some of these people are rich.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>You are the only you here, and your whole life is ahead of you, waiting to happen.” </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>By the time we got to the car, I was overwhelmed with the emotion of driving home with our daughter, so that when Matt said, “I can’t believe they’re letting us take her home,” I knew exactly what he meant.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>We had spent her first two days of life inside that hospital room, and as bizarre and unfamiliar a place as a hospital is, it felt like the place where we were supposed to be with her, making home more surreal.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Of course, in the grand scheme of her entire life, those two days are but a blip on the radar screen and home is always home.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/twilightinvasion/5516920043/" title="our living room and a car seat by Twilight Invasion, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5132/5516920043_e52b6984ae.jpg" width="375" height="500" alt="our living room and a car seat" /></a></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">In the days since we have been home, we have spent our time learning her and learning ourselves in this new role.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>There have been more visits and so many thoughtful gifts and emails.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>We have seen projectile spit-up and pee, and this morning she farted so loudly that she woke herself up.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I have struggled with breastfeeding and am working through it, because there is something amazing about holding her so close to my body and actually providing all of the nourishment she needs, much like I did just six days ago, but in a totally new way.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Because she is my daughter, I am privy to certain information about her: I know how much she loves to have her hands close to her face, that she can find her thumb in a time of real need, that she curls her lower-lip under when she breastfeeds, that she has a tiny stork bite on the back of her head, that her eyes are getting pigmentation around the pupil, that she looks almost exactly like her father when she sleeps soundly.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I study her face every chance I get.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>If I could draw, I could draw it from memory for you.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I miss her when she sleeps.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/twilightinvasion/5516938269/" title="holding on tight by Twilight Invasion, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5058/5516938269_1b0af4e4a3.jpg" width="375" height="500" alt="holding on tight" /></a></p> <p class="MsoNormal">One of the most amazing things I have noticed about being her mother is how wonderful it feels to be her mother, to know that no matter what, I will always be her mother.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>And I find myself thinking, over and over again, “She’s here! She’s here! She’s here!,” a running dialogue in my head, repeating itself regardless of my ability to have a normal conversation.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>As with sad things, I am always having two conversations – the one I am actually having, and the one I am having internally.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The only difference is that my internal conversation is delighted, thrilled, overwhelmed with joy.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">These have been some of the best days of my life in every possible way.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I am exhausted.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I am amazed.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I am so incredibly lucky.</p>Lizzihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06869768127784109678noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4220615497473184544.post-35268020066174819672011-03-06T11:03:00.000-05:002011-03-06T11:03:43.156-05:00Because Every Superhero Has an Origin Story...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">...and this is hers.<br />
<br />
Meet our little girl and future caped crimefighter Amalia Ruth. But when she's busy bringing the ne'er-do-wells of Boston to justice, she goes by her alter ego Mollie Danger.<br />
<br />
Ok, so maybe her ninja training and spandex body armor are a few years off, but no matter what she's here and ready to take the world by storm.<br />
</div><div style="text-align: center"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/twilightinvasion/5502896020/" title="our little girl by Twilight Invasion, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5299/5502896020_52d049f0a6.jpg" width="375" height="500" alt="our little girl" /></a></div><div style="text-align:center"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/twilightinvasion/5502896370/" title="mom and mollie by Twilight Invasion, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5252/5502896370_699270757c.jpg" width="500" height="375" alt="mom and mollie" /></a></div>Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02152761577051109561noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4220615497473184544.post-56854102868196655472011-02-27T17:25:00.002-05:002011-02-27T17:31:15.451-05:00I Always Thought I'd Be Taller<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; ">At some point or another in one's childhood, I think that it's normal to wish that you were older. I think that's probably the reason that up until we're about 10 or 11, we count our age in halves or even quarters: "I'm four-and-three-quarters" or "I'm nine-and-a-half." <br /><br />I don't remember a time in my childhood that I wasn't wishing I was older. I think that for me, the yearning had something to do with the fact that my brother was SO much older. He got to do really cool things that I was going to be too young to do for a very long time. I remember being four and wishing I was thirteen (when Andy got Bar Mitzvahed), being seven and wishing I was sixteen (the year Andy got a car), and being eight and wishing I was seventeen (the year Andy went to prom and graduated from high school). <br /><br />I vividly remember being about two-years-old when my dad promised that he would teach me to fly when I turned ten (I truly believed that he could fly until I was almost eight), that I could get my ears pierced when I turned thirteen (my mom relented at 11), that I could shave my legs when I was twelve (I started shaving them at summer camp long before this), and that they would never ever let me drive (Andy crashed the car he got for his 16th birthday not long after he got it).<br /><br />But for me, the yearning to be older didn't end. When I was a teenager, I wanted desperately to be in college. I thought that the world would be my oyster, that I would take it all by storm, that if I could simply bypass the years between high school and grown-up, life would be better. I even wished it in my 20s, thinking that my 30s would be so much easier -- financially, emotionally, professionally.<br /><br />Wishing the years away has never really stopped me from living in the moment. Rather, it has always been a way to remind myself to slow down, to live through what I'm currently experiencing. And it has always served as a reminder that I can and should envision the future, that it might not always be as difficult as whatever I'm currently experiencing.<br /><br />But there was another component to the whole fantasy of being older (and wiser) than I was. Whenever I pictured the grown-up version of myself, I was always taller. Not much taller, not freakishly tall, but certainly a few inches taller. A more respectable 5'5", say.<br /><br />The taller-than-I-am image of myself has persisted throughout my adult life. When I imagined myself graduating from college, I stood in my cap and gown and modest heels, standing head-to-head with my friends. When I pictured myself walking down the aisle at my wedding, I was wearing flats, because I naturally came to somewhere around my dad's cheek. When I pictured myself in a courtroom, I comanded quite a presence in my sleek pumps, because the extra three inches they gave me made me a daunting 5'8".<br /><br />And here I am, about to have a baby. I am quite round these days, so round that I wonder if I am awkwardly round, round like I give the impression that I might topple forward at any moment. I am the kind of round that causes strangers to chuckle at me as I waddle down the stairs. I look like I swallowed a bowling ball and then ate about 12000 calories. Every day for nine months.<br /><br />I did not expect to be a tall pregnant woman. But even now, two weeks before my due date, I imagine a taller version of myself bending down to retrieve a dropped blankie or pacifier or taking our bundled bean out of our car. As it is, I will be stuck with myself, 5'2" on a tall day, frantically trying to scale our not-so-tall SUV in order to awkwardly haul the carseat out of the car, which is a little bit higher than is convenient for my height.<br /><br />I think that the taller-than-I-am images in my mind are really about being older, being old enough, rather, to be someone's mom. My own mother was short, just 4'11" in bare feet, so it's not like I associate motherhood with exceptionally tall women. No, it's just that ever since I can remember, being older, being old enough to do SOMETHING, also meant being taller. <br /><br />Now that there are just two weeks left in the pregnancy, people have started asking me whether or not I'm ready. In case you're interested, this is a terrible question for me. Of course I'm not ready. How can you be ready to be a parent? Isn't that sort of the point of parenting? You're not ready...ever... for anything? I mean, sure, you have blankets and clothes and diapers, but is that the kind of thing that makes you ready? Not by my standards.<br /><br />Anyway, this is what I want to tell people when they ask: "No, of course I'm not ready. I have to grow three inches in the next two weeks; who can possibly be ready for that?!"</span>Lizzihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06869768127784109678noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4220615497473184544.post-61712625791326025492011-02-10T15:53:00.003-05:002011-02-10T16:50:05.413-05:0036 weeksDear Bean,<br /><br />I have only dared to write directly to you a few times during this pregnancy, and even then, it has only been in the privacy of my own journal, never on this website. I talk to you in my head all the time, telling you how amazing you are, how glad I am that you are growing, how exciting it was to hear your heartbeat. I call you "little love," and "sweet one," and "darling bean" in my mind. Writing to you directly has felt different than writing about pregnancy. It has felt like I would be tempting fate, possibly writing a letter that, horrifyingly, you might never get to read. I have been too scared to address you directly.<br /><br />But I woke up this morning with the overwhelming urge to write to you. I am 36 weeks pregnant today, you are somewhere around 4-5 weeks from making your way in the world. Just like I cannot believe that I made it to 16 weeks, to 20, to 30, I cannot believe that we are here, glancing around the corner at the day when you will actually make your arrival in this world. It is in your hands, little love. We are ready whenever you are ready. Rather, we are ready to be not ready for the way that you will certainly turn our world upside down. We are as ready as we will ever be.<br /><br />Yesterday the doctor felt your head. While I won't go into the (intimate) details of how she did that, rest assured that it felt just as strange for me as it did for you. You responded exactly the way I would expect someone who has resided completely undisturbed for 36 weeks, and your heartrate skyrocketed to 165, calming down to its usual 145 after a few seconds, in rhythm with my own decreasing heartbeat.<br /><br />The amazing thing about the experience was the fact that the doctor FELT your little head. Until that moment, I had imagined so many things about you: your feet, your hands, your eventual personality, whether your first word will be "Julie" or "Stephen." But until yesterday, I hadn't pictured your little newborn head. It swam in front of my eyes with sudden clarity -- dark and curly, covered in yuck, soft and mushy and cone-shaped and requiring the utmost care. I wanted to kiss the image in my mind, wanted to reach out my hand to stroke the picture of your beautiful little head. And then I realized that sometime within the next few weeks, I will get to actually kiss you, that I will brush those dark, soft curls with my actual fingers, that I will get to hold your neck and stare at your face and be the person in your life who gives you the utmost care.<br /><br />So I woke up this morning and wanted to tell you this: I cannot wait to meet you.<br /><br />With every ounce of love and then some,<br />Your Almost-MamaLizzihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06869768127784109678noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4220615497473184544.post-31162454785803549162011-02-01T19:01:00.004-05:002011-02-01T19:07:30.474-05:00"Ready" on One! Three...two...At last week's 34-week appointment, my doctor turned to me and excitedly told me that 34 weeks is when she really feels good about a pregnancy.<br /><br />Matt and I looked at her quizzically.<br /><br />"34 weeks," she explained, "is when the risk for all of those horror-story-type pregnancy complications go way way down for the baby. So if you went into labor right now, we wouldn't try to stop you, we would just let your body do what it wants to do and in all likelihood, you would give birth to a perfectly healthy baby."<br /><br />What good news! A perfectly healthy baby! We've waited so long to get here!<br /><br />Except that Matt and I came home and promptly freaked the F out. <br /><br />Of COURSE we want a perfectly healthy baby (who doesn't?). In fact, we're more or less "ready" for the baby (where ready is that place where we bought most of the things we need, or we know who we're borrowing them from, and we're ready for our world to turn upside down). Except that we're "ready" for the baby to make its appearance in six weeks. Or 5 weeks and two days at the time I'm writing this. Not now. Not 5 days ago. <br /><br />So I now have a hospital bag that's packed with a really random assortment of things (pajamas, maternity clothes, underwear that I don't care about but is very comfortable). And we ordered a carpet for the nursery (greyish blue with a white border). And the baby's room is more or less coming together. You know, minus furniture. Also, my hospital bag doesn't have any clothes for the baby, which is ultimately fine because Julie is in charge of ensuring that the bean doesn't have to go home naked. But there we are: ready.<br /><br />Ha!<br /><br />Bean, if you're paying attention, please know that your parents are not yet ready for you to make your appearance in the world. We're thrilled and excited to meet you, but we're a little slow on the uptake over here, failing to completely realize that 34 weeks pregnant doesn't just mean that you've been growing for 34 weeks, but also that you will be here sometime within the next six. <br /><br />And parents out there who are reading this, please reassure me that this is normal, that realizing you're going to be a parent eventually just dawns on you. Tell me that we're not SO slow on the uptake that this is basically a referendum on our parenting skills even before we've had a chance to implement them. Because if it's a referendum, all of the Weyants (grown and in bean form) are in for some serious growing pains!Lizzihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06869768127784109678noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4220615497473184544.post-90266856327745171702011-01-24T10:15:00.003-05:002011-01-24T10:22:19.357-05:00On Fatherhood<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; border-collapse: collapse; ">The message in my inbox, sent from Amazon.com, said, "A Gift from Daddy." I was skeptical. It isn't like my dad to buy me presents online, and it's even less like him to send me something directly to my inbox. It's just a little too...2011 for his tastes. But there it was. I clicked on the email.<div><br /></div><div>When I opened it up, I saw that he had purchased the mp3 of "Free to Be, You and Me," the record I listened to over and over and over again as a kid, wearing it out and necessitating a new copy. I can still sing most of the words from memory, and they still remind me of hours spent on the brown couch, belting out the hippie tunes along with Marlo Thomas (and Friends). I was touched. My Dad bought the bean a song! So I forwarded the email to Matt and told him that we should download it when we got home from work. </div><div><br /></div><div>Two minutes later, my cell phone rang. It was Matt.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Hi Sweets," he said. "I'm calling with some news that I hope won't burst your bubble."</div><div>"Okay..."</div><div>"The song wasn't from your Dad. It was from me. To the bean."</div><div>...</div><div>"Sweets? Are you okay?"</div><div>"Yes! I'm more than okay, I'm, I'm just, I...YOU'RE the 'Daddy!' You're going to be a Daddy!"</div><div><br /></div><div>I was crying and laughing at the same time, sitting at my desk with my head in my hands, marveling at a fact that had somehow escaped me despite its obviousness. But it was in that instant, in that one perfect, bright moment, that I realized, from the bottom of my toes to the top of my head, that Matt is going to be a father. And not just anyone's father, he is going to be this little bean's father. This very little bean that has been growing and changing inside of me for 33 weeks, this little bean whose heartbeat we first saw together as a tiny little pulsating lima, who he reads stories about his favorite superheroes to at night, who he wakes up every morning to cuddle, who he kisses goodnight and says, "be good to mama." He is going to be this little bean's father. He, this man I married, this man that I love more than anyone in the world, is going to be the father of this baby, this little creature that on some level, some strange maternal level, I know that I already know.</div><div><br /></div><div>Here is what I want to tell them, these two great loves of mine: you two are perfect for each other. My sweet boy and my precious bean. You two are going to be so great together, and I already know just how lucky you are to have each other.</div><div><br /></div><div>***</div><div><br /></div><div>All of the women in my family have always called their dad, "Daddy." My mother told me this when I was a little girl, and it stuck with me, part history, part admonition. I was pretty young when she told me, and I remember thinking that I couldn't imagine my grandmother calling her father "Daddy." But that's because it was hard to imagine my grandmother even being young enough to have a Daddy, especially when the only image I had of her father was a picture she kept on her bureau of a serious-looking and handsome young Russian man in a uniform. But it was also because in my mind, my own father was what it meant to be a Daddy, the man who made me oatmeal in the morning, took me "flying" in his Z-car, and would occasionally wake me up early on a school day in the winter to tell me that we were skipping school and going skiing instead.</div><div><br /></div><div>Either way, the rule was written: fathers are Daddies. To this day I still call my dad, "Daddy" when I'm talking to him, typing that word into my gmail contacts when I want to send him an email, scrolling through my phone to find his number listed under that word. He has also abided by the rule, always signing his cards and emails appropriately.</div><div><br /></div><div>I remember the day when I was too old to hold his hand when we crossed the street. I don't remember which one of us was more sad about it. I remember the day that he taught me to skip. Wildly, recklessly, in front of strangers. People might have laughed at us, but I don't remember them. I only remember feeling like I was flying. I remember learning that my dad could roller-skate backwards, a fact I learned at my 8th birthday party when he took my hand during the "couples skate" and twirled me around the bright yellow rink while all of my friends looked on, their faces showing the same surprise that I felt.</div><div><br /></div><div>That's what Daddy means to me. There are other lessons associated with my father, times when I slammed the door and called him Dad, times when we were disappointed in each other and couldn't manage to communicate. But when I think of "Daddy," I think about oatmeal and a fast car, falling asleep on the way home from the Poconos. I see the disco ball from the roller rink throwing tiny little lights around the smooth oval while I'm holding tightly to his hand because he's a much stronger skater than I am.</div><div><br /></div><div>***</div><div>"A Gift from Daddy," said the email. There it is, in my inbox. A gift from my husband, from my husband to his child. Somehow that's amazing and strange, and as life-changing as many of the other moments of these 33 weeks.</div><div><br /></div><div>Even at 24, I had the good sense to realize that you shouldn't marry a man who you couldn't see as the father of your children. Over here at the wise old age of 32, I am realizing that I will soon come to know a side of him that I have never met. But more importantly, our child will know a side of him that I will never know, and will have a relationship with him that I will never have.</div><div><br /></div><div>Good memories and bad, the things I think about when I think about my dad are mine and mine alone. And someday, this little person will have a similar story to tell. Some of the things I can imagine, because I know Matt. But others, the ones that are truly theirs and theirs alone, will be for them to capture and hold on to, for them to remember and to pass on.</div><div><br /></div><div>***</div><div><br /></div><div>It's a few days early for a birthday post, but it seems like the time to say it: on the eve of your 33rd birthday,my love, I can say without a doubt that you are going to have one hell of a year. </div></span>Lizzihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06869768127784109678noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4220615497473184544.post-83197774780938197562011-01-19T08:23:00.001-05:002011-01-19T08:25:15.194-05:00Someplace Like Home<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt">I have been straightening my hair a lot these days.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>It is something that I do in the winter when it is cold, because it saves me from walking outside with a wet head every morning.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>But it is also something that I do when I feel like I need some control in my life, when I need a change, however small, that is entirely within my purview.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt">I used to straighten my hair in college whenever I broke up with a boy.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>In high school, I would straighten my hair when I had a week that felt particularly low and I needed to be noticed.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Since Matt and I got together, these are the memorable times when I have straightened my hair: when I found out that we were leaving Oklahoma to move back to DC, after we got married (almost every week for an entire semester), when I was applying for clerkships, when I finally decided to come to terms with how miserable I was in Pittsburgh, and right now.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt">Which is to say that my hair has always been the one thing that I knew I could rein in, even when everything else was seemingly off track.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt">Matt and I have spent the last three days in Hollidaysburg, PA, the place that is more or less Matt’s hometown.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>To know Matt is to understand that he is a man of many hometowns.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>But Hollidaysburg is the one place that has been consistent for him, consistent for his family since the 1820’s, if you want to put a number to it.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>This is the town where Matt learned to drive, went on his first date, really figured out his parents, met his first love, broke no significant rules, came to see the meaning of family, and bought his first car.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>In short, this is home.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt">So coming to Hollidaysburg was something that we knew we wanted to do during this pregnancy.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>It occurred to us sometime early on, sometime before we called his grandmother to tell her that she was going to be a great-grandmother.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>We decided to come when I was good and huge, big enough that the bump was unmistakable, not so big that I couldn’t fly.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>And we let Matt’s brother, sister-in-law, and parents know that we were going to be at the homestead, hoping that they would drive from their respective towns to meet us here.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt">Coming to Hollidaysburg is always a mixed bag for us.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>On the one hand, we’re spending the weekend with family at home.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>On the other, we’re spending the weekend with family at home.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Family is a challenging concept for both of us, which is part of the reason we have each other, part of the reason we have our urban family in Boston, and the main reason that we understand the complex realities of what it means to be from somewhere.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Our lives in Boston feel so different than what life in Hollidaysburg would be like.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The food, the sounds, the stars, the feel, the air, the bed, the water, the lights, EVERYTHING is different.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt">And yet family is family.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>They take you out and get you to pick out fabric so that they can make a blanket for the niece/nephew they’re so excited about.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>They ask you to send them a book about your faith so that they can learn a little bit more about it.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>They goad you into an argument about things that don’t matter.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>They tell you what life has really been like here while you’ve been living far away in that big city.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>They love you for who you are, even if they don’t understand you.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt">My hair has been straight for most of the time that we’ve been here, for most of January, actually.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>And I’m ready for it to go back to its natural state, to freely curl and frizz however it wants to, to get big and puffy and wild.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt">Matt held up a brand new onesie, white with tiny green elephants, so small, so cute.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“I’m so excited,” he said as he hugged me.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“I’m kind of scared,” I said.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>And he tightened his grip.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt">The thing about family, the thing about hair, the thing about life, is that we can control little bits of it, but we can only go so far. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>We live far away, but we feel guilty and genuinely sad about the things we’re missing at home.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>We look in the mirror and know that we don’t look quite like our real selves.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt">And every so often, we take giant leaps of faith, because we know that even with an apalling lack of control, we’re going to land somewhere, somewhere a little bit like home, even if at first that place is unbelievably exciting and tremendously scary, all at the same time.</p>Lizzihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06869768127784109678noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4220615497473184544.post-19028597672761180512011-01-11T22:30:00.004-05:002011-01-11T22:43:10.625-05:00You Take the Good, You Take the Bad"Where are her eyes?" she asks. Charlotte is looking up at me with her soft, blond curls framing her truly angelic face.<br /><br />I point to somewhere low on my belly, somewhere near where I think the bean's face is located these days.<br /><br />"Here," I say. She reaches out a hand and touches it gingerly, smiling at me, smiling at my belly.<br /><br />We are in the bathroom at her house, at her parent's house, the house where I spend most of my Sunday nights. She has been potty-trained in the past year and sometimes she wants company in the bathroom, while other times she requires strict privacy: the purview of a three-year-old. I never mind being being invited into the bathroom with her after I've turned on the light or the "air" (vent), because I relish the chance to talk to her one-on-one, even with a toilet between us.<br /><br />"I'm pooping," she whispers, smiling her I-have-a-secret-smile.<br /><br />"Good!" I say, "that's a good thing to do when you have to poop."<br /><br />I am suddenly struck by the fact that Charlotte is 3, that I have known her for her entire three years, that from nearly the moment of her birth, our lives have been connected in some way.<br /><br />I have been thinking a lot about the stories of our lives, the stories that shape who we are, the facts and the histories that round out what makes us, us. It is something I come back to often, the fact that we all have a story, that there are certain immutable facts that we live through and incorporate into our sense of self.<br /><br />I first started thinking about it again when I miscarried last year, when I realized that someday, the miscarriage would be a fact of my life, something I folded into the facts of my 30s, the facts associated with starting to expand our family. And lately I have been thinking about it in terms of this little bean, the fact that almost completely independently of me and Matt, this little one will be born in Boston, always a Bostonian, and will say things in college like, "I was born in Boston, my parents were living in a second-floor apartment with their two roommates."<br /><br />"Does it have ears?," she asks, pulling me back from my thoughts.<br /><br />"Yes!" I say. "It has ears and eyes and a nose and a mouth and hair."<br /><br />"Not yellow hair, though," she advises.<br /><br />"No, probably not yellow hair," I agree.<br /><br />I am a fact in Charlotte's young life. I realize it at that very moment and it almost moves me to tears. It is an emotional day, and I am 31 weeks pregnant, so there are many things that almost move me to tears. But this day is different. This is the death-day, the day when the facts of my life at 15 came to require that I fold in the fact of my mother's death.<br /><br />I have <a href="http://populationtwo.blogspot.com/2009/01/long-goodbye.html">written before</a> about how free I felt when it had finally been 15 years since her death, when my mother had been dead for as long as I had known her. I felt some of that freedom this year, but I also knew that it would be different, because every year is different, but because this year I am pregnant.<br /><br />"After I'm done I get to go downstairs because it's not my bedtime yet," Charlotte assures me.<br /><br />"But it will be your bedtime soon," I remind her, "and then it will be my bedtime, and mommy and daddy's bedtime, and then the whole world will be asleep."<br /><br />"And then we'll wake up... and Santa will not have come," she concludes, not unhappily, as though just to remind me that tomorrow is not Christmas.<br /><br />"That's right, tomorrow when we wake up, Santa will not have come."<br /><br />She nods.<br /><br />I look at her and I realize just how lucky I am to know her, how lucky I am to get to be a fact in her life. On impulse, I reach out my hand and cup her beautiful little face, whose features are perfect to me, perfect in every single way. I am so happy right here in this bathroom with Charlotte, her toilet and my belly between us.<br /><br />In that instant, I think to myself that it's possible, maybe even probable, that my mother didn't dwell on what she was robbed of in her death. Maybe she tried not to think about what she would be missing. Maybe that was just too sad. Maybe she thought instead about all of the moments we did get to spend together, all of the moments and facts of her life that included me, and by extension, all of the facts of my life that included her.<br /><br />I think about it now, almost constantly, how grateful I will be just to meet this little bean in a few weeks, how lucky I will feel for those first moments, those early facts, and then day by day, bathroom by bathroom, a lifetime.<br /><br />"Santa will be here in the summer," Charlotte tells me.<br /><br />"Nope, not in the summer, in the winter. But the baby will be here in the summer. We'll all go to the Cape together and look at seaweed."<br /><br />"Oh," she says, nodding, incorporating this fact into her life. And then she puts both hands on either side of my belly, gives it a little squeeze, and grins.<br /><br />I put my hands on top of hers, give the bean and Charlotte a little squeeze, and grin back.Lizzihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06869768127784109678noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4220615497473184544.post-76503936067603063232010-12-30T19:36:00.008-05:002011-01-05T15:07:38.917-05:00I Thought You Were Smuggling Something Under There!*<i>Or, How I Came to be 30 Weeks Pregnant</i><div><i><br /></i></div><div>Last Wednesday afternoon, Matt and I got to see the bean for the first time since our 18-week ultrasound. Same drill as before: we spend a few minutes in overwhelming waiting area, get progressively more nervous while waiting and staring at other mothers-to-be, we walk into the dark ultrasound room and make stupid small talk with the ultrasound tech while I climb up onto table and pull down the elastic "waist" of my maternity pants. I forget that the ultrasound tech is going to squirt jelly on my tummy and I gasp when she does, and then I turn towards the screen because there! right there! is that perfect little heartbeat.</div><div><br /></div><div>And then I smile and cry a little and relax, finally, because the tech is saying things like, "there are the four chambers of the heart," and "there are the kidneys," and "look at those cute feet." </div><div><br /></div><div>All of a sudden, time slows down and it's just me and Matt and our bean, suspended in that dark cocoon of a room, like we're all swimming around on that black screen while someone waves a magic wand over us so that we're projected on some other, different screen, and larger than life.</div><div><br /></div><div>The bean looks and feels like a real little person now. It moves around during the day, making my belly and abdomen twitch. If you were watching me at all times, you would occasionally see me frown as the bean pressed on my bladder or stuck its little fist up and under my ribs, like it's trying to do right now.</div><div><br /></div><div>We had a chance to find out if we were having a boy bean or a girl bean and debated the option right up until the very moment when the radiologist matter-of-factly asked us if we wanted to know the gender. It is an important detail that the radiologist was matter-of-fact; radiologists seem to never think about the patient attached to the magic wand, and speak only in abrupt, short sentences. "Let's wait," I said at the very last moment, and as the radiologist casually tossed some construction-paper-masquerading-as-tissues in my direction and walked out of the room, Matt smiled at me and said, "fine by me."</div><div><br /></div><div>So we don't know whether it's a boy bean or a girl bean, only that it's definitely a bean. With a heartbeat, and a spine, and a bladder, and more or less Matt's nose.</div><div><br /></div><div>I can't believe that there are only 9 weeks left in this pregnancy. It's 9 very important weeks, I know, but the fact that I'm almost 31 weeks pregnant means that I'm 3/4 of the way through the whole thing. Even though I know that time will slow down in these next 9 weeks, much like it sped up during the past 9, there is a part of me that just can't even wrap my head around this final home stretch and is eager for it to slow down. I know I will rue the day that I wrote this, probably sometime around March 16th, when I will read this post and think, "dummy, you tempted karma and basically asked for this to happen!" But right now, I want to freeze the moment, like a picture I could print out from the ultrasound machine, and carry it around with me.</div><div><br /></div><div>I am 31 weeks pregnant. I am okay. Matt is okay. The bean is head down and ready to go, organs formed, Matt-like nose ready, arms waving and moving so much that it's almost impossible to snap its photograph.</div><div><br /></div><div>It seems like forever ago that I first found out that I was pregnant. But it was 31 weeks, just over 6 months ago, and yet almost an entire lifetime. And then in 9 (probably 10) weeks from now, the bean will be more than ready, it will be HERE. I cannot put into words how amazing this feels for me, how far it feels like I've come. So I will say this instead: my arms get tingly when I think about holding it, my chest feels tight when I think about kissing its little head, and I am excited and nervous and scared and thrilled that life is actually about to become larger than life.</div><div><br /></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>*The title of this post refers to something our hostess said when she seated us at a table last night. As I was taking off my coat to sit down, she said, "I thought you were smuggling something under there! Congratulations!" And it made me laugh out loud. Smuggling, indeed.</i></div>Lizzihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06869768127784109678noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4220615497473184544.post-51175503092676567072010-12-18T15:05:00.008-05:002010-12-21T10:00:11.551-05:00Twenty Years in the MakingI was sitting in my oncologist's office last Friday, waiting for her to come in and give me my routine exam, when it occurred to me that my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer 20 years ago. The fact stunned me, and I sat there on the exam room table, looking out at the tops of the buildings I could see from the 4th-floor room, marveling at the fact of those 20 years.<br /><br />My doctor pronounced my breasts, "perfect" and my belly "so cute," and scheduled me for another routine appointment in six months. "Bring the baby!," she called as I was finalizing the details of the appointment. And I smiled at her, because it's nice that she wants to meet the baby, nice that she would be interested in knowing what the bump turns out to be.<br /><br />Twenty years ago, my mother's initial instinct was to keep me shielded from her cancer. I knew about it, but in a very peripheral way. I clearly remember that she wrote a letter my teachers explaining what was going on at home, and I will never forget the look on Mr. Deluca's face when he read that letter. I remember going to the wig store to pick out a wig that matched her tight brown curls, and I remember that was terrified that the wig would fly off when she was lifted up on a chair at my Bat Mitzvah. But I remember these things in a way that is fuzzy and distant, and not just because it was 20 years ago. You see, she wanted me to be able to erase these memories, to move on with my life as though they didn't have to be part of it. She wanted to try to shield me. I know this for two reasons: one, there are other memories from the same time in my life which my mother crystallized for me, carved into stone and handed back to me wrapped in a bow. And two, with just three months until I become a mother, it occurs to me that this is part of what it means to be a parent, that you pick and choose those things from which you incorporate or shield your children, to the best of your ability, anyway.<br /><br />When I was a month shy of my 24th birthday, just barely on the cusp of my first year of law school, I found a lump in my right breast. The fear I felt that day is indescribable. In fact, when I think about the way that I felt the night I first discovered that something hard and foreign was residing inside my body, I associate it with the color white, which only makes sense if you know that I often associated strong emotions with colors. White is fear or panic, and when I think about having cancer, I feel the color white with every fiber of my being.<br /><br />The biopsy showed that the lump was nothing to be overly concerned about, but its discovery opened up a whole pandora's box of white. To mitigate this, I was told to get regular check-ups by a breast specialist, something I have more or less avoided, despite two additional breast lump scares, until we moved to Boston. It was here that I decided to take control of my fear, that I determined to overcome the waves of white, and talk to an oncologist who would finally assess my cancer risk.<br /><br />It is no secret that my single greatest fear is having a child that I do not get to know, of raising this baby until she is 15 or he is 24 and then vanishing from the world. Yes, I have certainly heard that one could get hit by a bus at any moment, but this statement has never worked to calm me and instead reminds me that I should be smart enough to look both ways before crossing the goddamn street. No, for me, the white hot fear is cancer, not rogue buses.<br /><br />While I was sitting in my oncologist's office on Friday, I realized that try as she might, my mother wasn't successful in shielding me from anything. That's partly because genetics betrayed her and I'm considered high risk for breast cancer, but it's also because in some respects, by working to shield me from the cancer mess, she made me more curious and more afraid. I have spent 20 years worrying that I will get cancer and leave young children behind when I die. I am about to have a young child. In the past 20 years, despite all of the races and the pink ribbons, despite the advances in chemotherapy and hormone treatments and radiation, despite my own measures to overcome my fears, very little has changed.<br /><br />I don't know whether this baby will worry about breast cancer the way that I do. I don't know if it will understand our family history, or have a girlfriend/wife/mother-in-law who is going through her own scare. I don't know if this baby will remain unshielded from my fears, or if it will live them and devour them as though they are their own. I can only say that I hope that the next 20 years bring some kind of change. I hope that in 2031, when I realize that it has been 40 years since my mother was first diagnosed with breast cancer, I am not sitting in my oncologist's office breathlessly waiting for her to tell me that my breasts look perfect. I hope that this son or daughter knows no real cancer fear, never picks out a wig, or watches their science teacher cry, or harbors all of the memories associated with watching cancer take someone they love.<br /><br />I realized the other day, sitting on that crinkly white paper in my cotton gown, that I can't really shield this little one from, well, anything. And that is what is making motherhood real for me right now. Twenty years ago, my mother sat in a similar room, wearing a similar gown, waiting for her doctor, hoping that she would hear that her breasts looked perfect. And I imagine her sitting there, thinking of her babies, hoping against hope that she would be able to shield them from whatever lay ahead.<br /><br />If all goes well, in six months, I will have a 3-month-old at home. I will shave my armpits, put on the cleanest clothes I can find, and go to my routine oncology exam. I will not bring the baby with me, and I will perch on the crinkly white paper in my cotton gown and I will think about the fact that I am nearing the end of my maternity leave. And then I will wait breathlessly for my doctor to tell me that things are fine, that my MRI looked great and that I should come back in another six months. I can only imagine that no matter what I hear, I will go home after that appointment and think, "thank god for you, little one."Lizzihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06869768127784109678noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4220615497473184544.post-13769529356607060632010-12-13T23:32:00.004-05:002010-12-14T00:05:55.705-05:00Eye of the Storm<div style="text-align: left;">The last time I sat down to write something, I was 24 weeks pregnant. Four weeks have passed since then, and for the first time since I found out that I was pregnant, time went quickly. I feel like it was just yesterday that I last heard the bean's heartbeat, last peed in a cup for the nice people at Harvard Vanguard, last skipped out of work on my way to my appointment.</div><div><br /></div><div>I can't quite figure out why time sped up this past month, and I can only conclude that the closer I get to actually having the baby, the more there is to do, and the less time I can spend fuh-reaking the F out. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>A year ago this Wednesday, I was in a conference room in Boston, about to start a day-long conference that I was more or less dreading. But I got a text message that morning from Julie saying this about J and Cris: "It's a boy! A nine pound one!" And I spent the rest of the conference nearly jumping out of my seat, I was so eager to meet Oliver Paul. I showed everyone at the conference his picture, grainy and small on my phone, but nonetheless so fantastic that it was all I could do not to reach into the phone and kiss his enormous cheeks.</div><div><br /></div><div>I remember walking through the hospital that night, bouncing on my feet and nearly speeding through the halls, Matt close on my heels. I remember whispering into Ollie's shmooshy little face, finally kissing his sweet chubby cheeks. I remember going to eat Chinese food after we left the hospital, ordering a plate of spicy pork buns in honor of the spicy pork bun that had come into the world that day. </div><div><br /></div><div>The crazy thing is, I remember it like it was yesterday. I literally can't believe that a year has passed since Oliver was born. Today, Oliver walks, eats cheese, says "dada," and sticks his tongue out while concentrating. A year ago, he was just a spicy pork bun.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>A year ago, I was living in Davis Square, I'd never met Stephen or Linda, and I was a few weeks into a pregnancy that wouldn't last. Matt had only just started his current job, Ike wasn't even sitting up yet.</div><div><br /></div><div>And yet here we are. 12 months, 52 weeks, 365 days later. I both can't and can believe everything that's happened this year, just like I can't and can believe that I'm 28 weeks pregnant, counting down the weeks until I become somebody's mother. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>I think that the last four weeks have moved at lightening speed because some months have to do that. Some months have to leave you surprised at all that's happened, bracing yourself for what's ahead. Some months move like molasses, forcing you to examine your life from every possible angle, wonder whether or not you're comfortable with what you're living, whether it really suits you. </div><div><br /></div><div>And no matter what, there are some days in every month where you're granted the gift of freedom from your thoughts, the rare moment where you can look at a little boy who was once just a spicy pork bun and think, I am so glad I get to know you.</div><div><br /></div><div>Happy (early) birthday, Ollie-bear. Thanks for slowing me down.</div><div><br /></div><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_mkXD8SFV9Qk/TQb59nI38FI/AAAAAAAAATo/bKeOuAu92Ww/s200/Olliebear.JPG" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5550398427654254674" /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Lizzihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06869768127784109678noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4220615497473184544.post-33132617029052410002010-11-18T18:26:00.003-05:002010-11-18T19:54:52.643-05:00Wow.Wow.Wow.Wow.Wow.The title of this post roughly translates to the sound of the bean's heartbeat. Whisper it to yourself quickly, with short "o" sounds, at roughly the rate of 140 beats per minute. And that's the magical sound our little bean's heart makes as it flips around on the inside. <br /><br />It is the best sound I have ever heard. Really. Ever.<br /><br />I am 24 weeks today, and feel like a pretty good cliche. I have energy but I sleep well. I can eat a full meal and feel satisfied. Walking up a flight of steps is annoying but not totally exhausting. I crave chocolate but I also crave broccoli. I am hormonal but not totally off the deep end. I feel grateful that the bean is still warm and safe, and I don't yet feel annoyed with it for taking up so much space under my ribcage. And so far, I only get up to pee at most twice a night.<br /><br />Despite all of this, despite the total unremarkable facts of this pregnancy, despite the fact that I have felt more or less okay since I passed the 16-week mark, the other day I had one of those horrible anxiety-ridden days where I just couldn't calm myself down. <br /><br />The Anxiety Day came just after a very full weekend and a very long preceding week. Matt's return from Amman was fantastic. I felt like I'd never been so happy to have him home from somewhere. He came home on a Wednesday, the same Wednesday that I had my first ever work-related high-profile speaking engagement. That Thursday was my birthday, but it was also the beginning of a 3-day conference where I was supposed to remain intellectually engaged in the topics at hand while schmoozing with other lawyers. At the end of those three days, I went to work on a Saturday, and capped everything off with a birthday dinner, followed on Sunday by a football gathering at our place where I made too much food and worried that the invited guests wouldn't feel comfortable in our apartment.<br /><br />I woke up on Monday feeling like I'd been run over by a truck. Which in my current state, translated to waking up and realizing the following impossibilities:<br /><ol><li>There is no way I am going to be able to cram 7 months of work into the 4 months that I have left before I go on maternity leave. And even though I probably need to take it easy on myself, I can't slow down because I haven't yet talked to my boss about my post-maternity-leave plans, and I don't want to her to think that I'm a slacker.</li><li>There is no way that Matt and I are going to be able to afford to pay for daycare and this apartment at the same time. Which is a problem because I want to think about decorating the baby's room, even just a little bit, even though it makes me feel superstitious, because it also makes me excited. Except that I can't think about decorating the baby's room if I don't know whether we're staying in this apartment, which I can't figure out until I know how much it will cost to send the kiddo to daycare, which I can't know until I figure out whether we're staying in this apartment.</li><li>There is no way to balance all of the changes that Matt and I are going to face in our relationship with the changes that we're going to confront when the baby is born; it is impossible to prepare for such things, so we are likely doomed.</li></ol>This culminated in the obvious: a total meltdown at Park Street Station while waiting for my train to arrive. <br /><br />Matt rescued me from Kenmore and stayed silent while I ranted for the car ride home. He was silent for two reasons. For starters, I was yelling. But also because when I finally took a breath between high-decibel tear-infused frustration, he looked at me and said, "I'm so glad you're finally ready to talk about this stuff."<br /><br />What?<br /><br />It turns out that Matt, like most dads-to-be (at least according to <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Expectant-Father-Advice-Dads-Be/dp/0789205386">this valuable tome</a>), think about all of these nitty-gritty details from the moment they find out that they're going to be someone's father. Moms-to-be, on the other hand, initially think about things like their changing bodies, and labor, and nurseries, and whether it's really okay to have sex in your pre-pregnancy favorite position. But eventually, all of us parents-to-be come to the same conclusion: having a baby is a giant mind fuck, and there's a lot that's going to change, a plethora of unanswered questions, and completely uncharted territory.<br /><br />So my questions about where I'm going to live are other parents' questions about how to work out their call schedule. My concerns about getting all of my work done before maternity leave are other parents' nanny versus daycare conundrum. In typical Matt-Lizzi fashion, while I was spending my time marveling at the size of my breasts, Matt was patiently waiting for the day when I was ready to talk about things like our budget, our apartment, and our childcare options. <br /><br />We had a long talk that night. It involved spreadsheets. We made a list of the things we need to do. We made some decisions. We made some decisions about not deciding. We reached out to some people who might have answers. We fell asleep on the couch totally exhausted. Matt read Superman to my belly.<br /><br />I woke up the next day with the start of what turned out to be a 24-hour (plus) stomach virus, which I took to be my body's way of telling me to slow the F down, for REAL this time. And today I finally feel like myself again: 24 weeks pregnant, just as many unanswered questions as answered ones, and wow.wow.wow.wow.wow.wow.wow beating a steady pace inside me.Lizzihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06869768127784109678noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4220615497473184544.post-37721658154716666982010-11-16T17:44:00.002-05:002010-11-16T17:59:58.981-05:00Never on a FridayThe bus is packed. Bodies are pressed against bodies, windows fogged from the humidity of the rain outside coupled with the warmth of the people inside. Despite the fact that most people look showered and ready to work downtown, the bus smells like an old, wet dog. You spot the odor-culprit muttering to himself and rocking back and forth. Sighing, you heave your computer bag onto your shoulder and collect the various other bags containing your lunch, conference materials, and the cookies you're bringing in for a co-worker's birthday. You manage to grab onto a pole as the bus lurches to a start, and two of your bags swing dangerously close to the women sitting in front of you. She looks up, annoyed by the near-death encounter with your baked goods. You smile an apology, she takes in the fact of your bags, your exhaustion, and your swollen belly, and she returns comfortably to the book she was reading for the remainder of the ride.<br /><br />"You're clearly and obviously pregnant now!," chirps the cheerful words from the baby website you read once a week to find out how big the baby is (the size of a Harry Potter book!). "People will smile at you on the street, give your belly unwanted pats, and stand up to give you their seat on the bus."<br /><br />Except that there's a limit to even the nicest commuter's willingness to give up their seat, and I have found that it is correlated to two things: weather and day of the week. If it's raining on a Friday and you are so huge that you look like you're going to go into labor any second, be prepared to hold onto a pole while balancing 14 packages for an entire train ride, all while trying desperately not to wet your pants.<br /><br />Sunny Mondays are the best. Filled with the good will of a weekend, event BU Frat boys will offer you their seat on the bus. Wednesdays and Thursdays are tricky. Women are more likely to give up their mid-week seat, more likely to stand up during the evening rather than morning commute, and are most likely to offer their seat if they are somewhere between the ages of 25 and 45. Younger women remain engrossed in their cell phones, and even when they look up, they will probably scowl the gross-ness of your condition, and then promptly return to their text message. Pregnant women are the most likely to give up their seat for other, more pregnant women, something that gives us a chance to smile at each other in a "don't other people suck?" kind of way. Most of the time, men aren't interested in giving up their seat. Chivalry is probably dead and apparently labor isn't hard enough. I'm pretty sure they're not remaining seated because they think that no good feminist would want them to stand, but I could be wrong. This is Boston, after all.<br /><br />As a daily commuter, I vow to teach our children how to give up their seat for the elderly, the disabled, the exhausted-looking, the woman with a stroller, and the pregnant. I vow to teach my someday son to be chivalrous, to look up from his ipod (or whatever device) when people get on the train. I have every intention of becoming the woman who asks for a seat during my 10th month of pregnancy when it's snowing outside. But the next time it's raining on a Friday, I will probably drive.Lizzihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06869768127784109678noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4220615497473184544.post-195702538531497112010-11-09T08:52:00.002-05:002010-11-09T08:56:48.271-05:00What 6000 Miles Can MeanFor the past 10 days, Matt has been in Amman, Jordan. The trip is mostly business and partly pleasure, and it marks the longest amount of time that we’ve spent apart since I got pregnant. I spent a few days in Denver around the 16th week of my pregnancy, but there’s something inherently different about Denver and Amman. I think it’s probably the 6,903 miles that separate the two cities, but I could be wrong about that.<br /><br />Matt was a mess before he left. I couldn’t figure out how to help him, how to calm him down, how to make him see that this trip would be an incredible experience, an opportunity that he simply couldn’t pass up, and one that truly couldn’t have come at a better time in my pregnancy (namely, before the baby was born). The night before he left he tossed and turned, anxiety crippling his features in a way that I have never seen in the 11 years we’ve been together. It was almost too much to bear, and I complained to Julie that I wish he’d just LEAVE already, because it was too hard to not understand what he was going through and not have any power to help him.<br /><br />But I was talking to an old and dear friend about it over the weekend, and she was so insightful. “Being there for you is pretty much the only thing that Matt can DO at this point,” she said. “When he’s not there, then it’s almost like he’s not part of it, because he’s not growing that little person, not feeling the aches and pains, not going through the changes that you’re actually going through.” And all of a sudden Matt’s anxiety made sense. The one thing that he can do to usher us safely through this pregnancy is to help usher me safely through this pregnancy. It’s awfully hard to usher when you’re 6,000 miles away.<br /><br />But the strangest thing about Matt being gone is that it’s forced me to spend some time alone with my own thoughts about pregnancy and motherhood. A few weeks ago, this would have been a very bad thing. I would have thought about all of the ways that I was already a terrible mother, because I was likely doing something terribly wrong to hurt our little bean. But now, a few good appointments under my belt, regular movement in my tummy, and the occasional visible-from-the-outside kick near my belly button, the thoughts aren’t all anxiety-laden. Even as I sit here licking the remnants of a Milky Way from my fingertips, I know that I’m not (yet) a bad mother.<br /><br />But what I realized the other night was just as shocking to me as if the bean had screamed “I hate you!” from inside my uterus. I realized that I was okay. Rather, I realized that even with Matt not there, I was doing alright, and that the bean and I are a new lumpy little unit.<br /><br />I can’t explain why this realization was so jarring to me, except to say that I will look back on it as the first time that I realized that I am actually going to be somebody’s mother. The mother to somebody who will need me for most moments of their first few months, somebody who will expect me to calm their fears, exalt their accomplishments, and be present for the little and big moments of their life. Someone who will have every right to expect my unconditional love, and who will someday shout at me for smothering them. It was both a terrible and an amazing realization, because it made me feel wonderful to feel so needed at the exact same time that it made me feel terrible for needing Matt a little less.<br /><br />I haven’t shared any of this with Matt yet, so when he reads this post he’ll probably feel sad. It flies in the face of what it is that he probably feels like he can do to make this pregnancy easier for me. If I don’t feel like I need him when he’s gone, then what can he give me while he’s here?<br /><br />The truth of the matter is that by leaving for Jordan, he gave me something he couldn’t have given me if he stayed. He gave me confidence. He reminded me that I’m strong enough to weather a long-distance relationship, that missing someone (for a little while) can be a good thing, that I can be the type of partner who recognizes a great opportunity for her husband when she sees one. But more than that, by leaving, he made me realize that I will be the kind of mother I want to be, the kind that fails (by her own standards) many many times, but succeeds many times too. I already know exactly what kind of father Matt is going to be, because he will be the man that I married, the man who loves me and our someday-bean unconditionally and feels anxious at the thought of not being able to be there for us. I am starting to realize that together, we’re going to make a pretty good team.<br /><br />Matt will be home in 2 more days, just in time to celebrate my 32nd birthday. I can't wait for him to come home, can't wait to hug him and kiss him and see his face as he marvels at how much my belly has grown in the 12 days he was gone. I have no intention of being apart from him for the rest of this pregnancy; I AM better off when he's around. But in the interest of donning a pair of rose-colored glasses, of looking on the bright side (finally), I think that this trip was a good thing for all of us, for me, and even for our growing little bean.Lizzihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06869768127784109678noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4220615497473184544.post-24627863328226006382010-10-28T18:00:00.000-04:002010-10-29T10:56:50.930-04:00Over Halfway ThereI am 21 weeks pregnant today. As I write this, I can feel the bean doing a somersault. Maybe he’s excited and wants to come out in 18 weeks! Maybe she likes her cozy home and wants to stay there for another 20. Either way, the calendars tell me that I’m over halfway there.<br /><br />“Happy halfway there!” read Elissa’s email from last Thursday. And I read it and thought, “oh my god.”<br /><br />That night on the way home I turned to Matt with a panicked look in my eyes. “What?!,” he asked, “what is it?” I put my hand on his arm to steady myself. “Matt,” I said, “it has to come OUT.” He laughed. He can do that, you see, because he doesn’t have a vagina.<br /><br />But in reality, I’m not scared about labor. I’m too naive to know what to be afraid of. I have conveniently skipped the “Labor and Delivery” chapter in my books. My “birth plan” is to be admitted to the hospital while pregnant and to be discharged from the hospital holding a baby. What happens in between admission and discharge is up to me, Matt, the bean, and my doctor, not in that order.<br /><br />What I am scared about is actually being someone’s mother, and doing so sooner rather than later. It has to come OUT, as in, it has to come into the world, it has to exist in our apartment, it has to ride safely in our car. It has to be clothed and fed. It has to have toys and books, blankets and black-out curtains. But more than the things that it has to have, more than the mountains of necessary and not-so-necessary baby stuff that is certain to accumulate in our apartment overnight, the bean has to exist in the world as a baby. The bean has to become a person in the world.<br /><br />And what a scary world it is.<br /><br />I’m not talking about the world of wars and climate change and Republicans (though lord knows that I could). I’m talking about my world, the world where Matt and I are pretty young and have no idea how to be parents. I’m talking about the world where my genetically-related family lives miles and miles away. I’m talking about the world where daycare is expensive and people ask me questions about how much I care about infant CPR. I’m talking about the world where we still get wrapped around the axle (every day!) about work and bosses and dry cleaning.<br /><br />Everyone says that our world will shift. These soothsayers explain it all calmly, with a wave of their hand. Sometimes the shift will seem gradual, they say, and you’ll wake up sometime in June and realize that the lens through which you view the universe is different than the lens you were using in December. Dry cleaning and bosses will seem silly in comparison. And sometimes the shift will be immediate, they warn, and the day after the baby is born you will find yourselves un-self-consciously referring to your breasts as the “moo-makers.”<br /><br />To say that I’m excited about it doesn’t really explain what I’m feeling. Excited is how you feel about your birthday, or a vacation. Excitement for me always implies a known component; I generally know what I am excited about. This time, while I am excited to see our little bean live and in-person, I am also apprehensive. I am uncertain, confused, nervous, tentative. I am guarding the world that we currently live in, struggling to balance day-to-day life with the ways that day-to-day life is already 100% different, all while totally unable to comprehend how it will change even more than it has since that day in July when I found out that I was pregnant.<br /><br />You see, the bean has to come OUT. I will have moo-makers and new lenses in a matter of weeks. WEEKS! That’s what it means to be over halfway there, there where the world is different, where the ground has shifted, where the population of the world (our world) has increased so fundamentally, so dramatically, that it’s like we’re making space for a bean farm, not a bean.<br /><br />So in the next 18, 19, 20 weeks, I have things to do. I have to store up on fertilizer and dirt, rakes and tractors. I have to get ready for the bean invasion, the bean explosion, the magnificent mountain of bean. In plain English this means that I have things to buy, pictures to finally frame, dinner dates to squeeze in. But more than that it means that I have to do exactly what I’m already doing. I have to stand at the precipice of my existing world and peer over the edge, holding Matt’s hand and wondering what’s out there. And then, when the time is right, the bean will help us all jump, the first of many things it will do to take us to a new and different world.Lizzihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06869768127784109678noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4220615497473184544.post-63812076257717058172010-10-20T17:45:00.000-04:002010-10-20T17:45:00.438-04:00A Universe Unto ItselfI remember exactly where I was sitting the day that J called to tell me that Charlotte was born. I was at our kitchen table in our small apartment in Pittsburgh. I had spent the day planning for our trip, trying to nail down our precise route and figure out how we could fit all of the places that we wanted to see into just 100+ days (we couldn't). I wasn't working at the law firm anymore, so I spent my days at that kitchen table, listening to music and feeling happily unemployed for the first time in a long time.<br /><br />When my phone rang, it startled me because I'd been by myself all day. But when I saw that it was Jason, my heart stopped for a split second, because I knew what he was going to tell me.<br /><br />"It's a giiiirrrrrl," he said. "Her name is Charlotte and mom and baby are doing great." He went through the play-by-play of Cris's labor, and Charlotte's height, weight, and baby statistics. I know that my memory is accurate, because I wrote down everything that he said on a recipe card that I keep in the front of my recipe box, along with all of the songs that Matt and I heard in the bar that night <a href="http://populationtwo.blogspot.com/2007_10_01_archive.html">when we went out to get a beer and celebrate Charlotte's existence</a>.<br /><br />Charlotte was the first baby that really changed my world. It's a hard thing to put into words, but the short version is that after Charlotte was born, I thought about her and before she was born, I didn't. <br /><br />I thought about what she was doing, how she was growing, how her parents were adjusting, what she would be like in 3, 5, 15, or 20 years. Before Charlotte was born, there was no space for her in my head because she simply didn't exist. And then after she was born, either I found some untapped space, or I shoved over some other thoughts that weren't relevant in order to make room for her. Either way, she was in my head.<br /><br />Since Charlotte, other babies have made their way into my brain space, eliciting boundless affection and a world of enrichment. My beautiful and perfect nephew, our dear friends' son who lives in Philadelphia with all of that delicious curly hair, Charlotte's adorable brother, my high school best friend's smiley sweet boy. These babies, (especially the nephew who makes my heart hurt, I miss him so much) are the opposite of how life often works. In my world, things are here today, gone tomorrow. But these children weren't here yesterday and today make up an entire universe.<br /><br />It was something that I didn't totally understand before Charlotte was born, that a baby can take up an entire galaxy, that even when your life is complete, when you want and are ready for a child, it can make your life more complete somehow. Even when you are so happy about the path you have chosen, a baby can take you down a path you didn't even know existed.<br /><br />The funny thing is that I know that I don't even totally understand this now, because I've watched other people go through it, rather than been inside of it myself. But as with many things on which I stand on the outside looking in, I have a sense of how much bigger my world will be after the bean is more than a bean.<br /><br />It is a funny thing to credit a three-year-old with opening your eyes to a world that's a different place, but so it goes. Someday I'll explain this to her and I bet she'll do that thing where she crinkles up her eyes and nose just like her dad while smiling just like her mom. She will probably think I'm just being sentimental, OLD even. And that's fine. She will be well on her way to seeing new worlds of her own.<br /><br />Happy birthday, Little C. I hope you help to water this baby for the rest of your lives together.<br /><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_mkXD8SFV9Qk/TL9MeraQXrI/AAAAAAAAATg/3Az4q_fd898/s1600/Watering+the+Baby.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_mkXD8SFV9Qk/TL9MeraQXrI/AAAAAAAAATg/3Az4q_fd898/s200/Watering+the+Baby.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5530222957366894258" border="0" /></a>Lizzihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06869768127784109678noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4220615497473184544.post-31805407238447697262010-10-13T17:30:00.002-04:002010-10-13T17:30:00.270-04:00Lonely But Not AloneThis is not the first time I have experienced something huge without my mother. For some reason, I just didn’t think it would be this hard. I would like to say that I just didn’t think about it, but that isn’t true. I thought about it a lot, but I truly believed that I would weather it differently.<br /><br />These are the times I have missed her: when I look at bassinets online, when I think about where I will store the furniture we need to buy, when my dearest friends offer me hand-me-downs, when my brother says he wants to buy me something, when I have to buy maternity clothes, when my boobs are suddenly the size of grapefruits.<br /><br />I am standing there, bra in hand, marveling at the fact that my breasts have morphed into something I don’t recognize, and suddenly I am weeping in the dressing room.<br /><br />I am going through the book about baby bargains at the kitchen table, thinking to myself that the selection of bassinets are basically the ugliest things I have ever seen and then I realize that I am feeling bereft that there won’t be one waiting at my mother’s house ready to come to Boston when she gets the news about the bean.<br /><br />I am trudging through department stores with Matt, irritated that most maternity clothes make me look like a pregnant orka, and I am furious that she isn’t there with me, that she can’t just go online and surprise me with some clothes that at least make me look like an animal that is cute while pregnant.<br /><br />I am 14 again, buying bras without her. I am 17 again, trying to decide on a college. I am 24 again, picking out bridesmaid dresses with Matt. Except that I am 31, I am pregnant with my first child, and this, finally, I cannot do alone and without her.<br /><br />“You’re NOT alone,” Julie says. And I know what she means. I have her, I have Andy and Elissa and my dad and Matt’s brother, wife, and parents. I have the people around whom I have chosen to expand our family, raise our child, here in Boston. I have Matt, Matt who has gone through these lonely-for-my-mom times with me as an adult and trooped alongside me through a surgical breast biopsy, to pick out bridesmaid dresses, to buy maternity clothes.<br /><br />But I AM alone. I am alone because I have an abundance of love and support and I still feel lonely for my mom. I am alone because I wish<br />that it was different.<br /><br />I hate that last paragraph. I hate that I sound so ungrateful, that I am taking all of this support for granted. I am not ungrateful, I don’t take it for granted. When I think about these people, when I think about how lucky I am, how lucky this baby is because it is already so loved, I feel like I am overflowing with good fortune. But I am overflowing with good fortune and my mom is still dead.<br /><br />This is how it ends: I do get through this and I am not alone. I pick out a bassinet and a crib and a changing table, I ask if I can store it in a friend’s basement, and I hope he understands what this means to me; I tick through the list of offered hand-me-downs and I truly think, “thank god Cris saved all of this stuff!”; I avoid my brother’s request to buy me something; I buy maternity clothes that don’t make me look like an orka; I find bras that fit.<br /><br />And if all goes well, in 21 weeks we bring home a live and squirming bean who is so loved that it brings some people to tears to hold him for the first time, who has her grandmother’s cheeks or her uncle’s mouth. I bring home a baby that my mother will never meet, but who I believe she will know somehow, through and through. I become the mother that my mother will never meet. And sometimes I will miss her like I miss her right now, through and through.Lizzihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06869768127784109678noreply@blogger.com3