Too sexy for my shirt

Perspective, III

This week has been a bit rough for me as I’ve entered a new phase of being a parent. The first phase (which we shall call “panic” for simplicity) started when we brought our baby daughter home from the NICU, and was characterized by a constant anxiousness over her well being. I scrutinized her feedings, monitored her breathing, took every SIDS-prevention precaution known to man, examined her for signs of overstimulation, and told her I loved her fifty to seventy times a day.

And now… I still do all those things.

But I’m much more relaxed about it.

As in, I feel myself letting go of some of the anxiety that something awful could happen at any moment. My girl eats voraciously and is deliciously chubby, lets me know she’s alive by sucking noisily at her binky all day and all night, smiles and coos almost constantly while she’s awake, and seems to think her life is at least bearable.

With this not-unwelcome relaxation, and perhaps coincident with my return to work, I have begun to vaguely recall my life before parenthood. I used to sleep – sometimes for nine or ten gluttonous hours; I used to go out – often several times a week; I used to exercise – get this – whenever I wanted to. I would bike along cliffs, hike through chest-deep rivers, skinnydip by moonlight, climb 200-foot-tall rocks, sleep in the desert, eat with two hands, go to concerts and shows, stay up late, eat extremely spicy food with garlic, and… sigh… you get the gist.

Now, I consider it an exciting day if I get a chance to go to Speedy’s and eat a ginormous hotdog (thanks, Erin). This week in particular I’ve felt overwhelmed by the daily rigamorales of reproductive labor (the never-shrinking piles of laundry, the never-prepared homemade meals, the never-ending diaper changing); I’ve felt discouraged by my altered social life (“Wow, it sounds like you had an awesome spur-of-the-moment weekend kite-surfing in Barbados… did I tell you that Amelia alternates among three different colors of Poop? It’s totally wild…”); I’ve felt tired and sleep-deprived like I never knew was possible; I’ve felt angry that my body is strange and asymmetrical and neither my maternity nor pre-pregnancy wardrobes fit.

This afternoon I packed up my baby and my angst and went to the grocery store with Tim. As I was comparing cost-per-ounce labels with Amelia strapped in a Baby Bjorn, several persons approached me to see the smiling baby. This is something I’ve become used to on the East Coast (“God love ya, she’s absolutely beautiful!”), where babies aren’t as common as they are back home (“Is this your fifth or sixth?”). I usually smile and chat with such people, but today I was packing some angst (as previously mentioned), so I nodded politely at passerbyes and baby coo-ers and kept shopping.

I was ready to go home and go to bed when I spotted yet another woman approaching me. But not just any woman; this one had clearly been walking this earth for nearly a century – maybe more. Her skin was leathery and brown with spots, her hair was thin and white, her nose was bejeweled with warts, and her eyes were glossy and turbid. She walked slowly and deliberately – one foot after another – and reached out for shelves and floor freezers for balance. When she arrived, she opened her mouth to speak. It took several moments for words to form, and her head shook with the effort of concentration. When she finally spoke, her voice shook as well. “H-h-h-ow old?” she asked.

I said, “Four months.”

She nodded repeatedly as she looked over the baby, taking in every ounce. One of her wobbly hands reached out to give Ameli'as foot the slightest wiggle. She finally looked back up at me and said, “You must be…” Her voice cracked and tears appeared in the corners of her eyes. She regained composure and said, “You must be just… just dizzy… with delight.” I looked at the old lady, looked at my baby, and somehow time froze in the same way it did after my daughter was born. “Yes,” I said.

I did come home, but I didn’t go straight to bed. I held my daughter; rocked her for an hour after she fell asleep, and breathed in her baby perfume, which is a special combination of baby lotion, baby sweat, regurgitated breastmilk, and Desitin. Amelia sucked contentedly on her fingers, and threw in an occasional snort for good measure.

Who needs kite-surfing?

A week ago today, I did what I've been dreading almost constantly for the past 11 months: I returned to work.

Before I had a baby, I thought it would be an easy transition. Ha ha ha. I adore my baby more than the moon (and that's saying a lot), and it has taken a huge amount of trust, anguish, and surrendering of control to get to the point where it has been possible to say goodbye to Miss Squiggles for even a few hours.

Thankfully, my boss has been really great and is letting me work from home a couple days a week for the next couple months. More importantly, my mother-in-law has volunteered to take care of the baby while I'm away. I deliberately use the term, "take care of," because she adores the child and looks after with the same amount of concern I do. She sings to her, reads her stories, takes her for walks, rocks her to sleep, and comforts her when she cries (which is pretty rare, thankfully). And happily, my baby adores both her grandmothers.* It is such a relief to know that I don't have to worry about my baby while I'm away - when I come home, I find her smiling with her Nana.

We took advantage of Nana's generosity today again for three hours and had some "Laura and Tim" time. We rode our bikes along the south shore past Cohassett's mansions. It was over 90 degrees outside, but we had a great time and it was so nice to get out.
(Tim loves posing for photos so much.)

After the ride, we stopped at a little lobster shack at Nantasket beach.

The place was a bit of a dive, but it was the best lobster roll I've ever had, with only lemon and dill as condiments.

Hopefully we'll be able to get out and ride more often this summer; my bicycle is my second-favorite baby.

*My own mother has baby-hypnotizing powers - I've never seen Squiggles smile and laugh as much as with my mom.

Happy birthday, Jilly-bean.

Meet Jill (she's in red):

I like her a lot.

Today is her birthday. I'm not sure how old she is, but I'm pretty sure she's a couple years older than I am, so probably in her late twenties or so.

Jill, I wish I was there to go on a birthday Bridal Veil Falls ride (I know that would be your top pick for celebrational festivities)! I love you, and I'm glad that my romantic slideshow worked and that you and Michael got yourselves married to each other so you could be my sister-in-law.

Dirty nerdy gal turns thirty... at Kimball Farms.

Dirty: Cami is not afraid to get her hands in the mud. She plays a mean (really, hurts people) game of soccer, and loves mountain biking, skiing, running, hiking, camping, and desert dwelling.

Nerdy: Cami's IQ is higher than mine, yours, or anybody any of us knows. She has an advanced degree in super-cali-fragi-nerdy theoretical mathematics, and puts Freedom Trail and Smithsonian tour guides to shame with her historical knowledge.

She chose to spend her memorial-day birthday at Kimball Farms, where you can get fresh ice cream and participate in myriad fun activies. First we hit the bumper boats. Cami and I pretended this was for the kids' sakes, but we had just as much fun as they did:

Calvin squealed with joy every time we ran into him or vice versa. Especially if we got wet.

Bryn was an excellent driver, and enjoyed going around and around and around and around in circles. She let out a loud, uninhibited war cry every time we charged another boat.

Next, we got our Jason Bay on at the batting cages.

Ivy hits a mean line drive.

Lazy Squiggles slept through most of the day,

But woke up to cheer me on when I was at bat. I can't make this picture rotate.

The children had as much fun playing with rocks (free) as they did riding the bumper boats (not-so-free).

Ivy smiled and squealed every time she saw the baby,

so we told her to watch her carefully while we hit the bar.

Just kidding.

After a lovely afternoon in the hot sun, we ate ice cream.

Peter shared with Ivy,

And Tim shared with... d'oh!!!

Tut tut.. and asymmetry

Point: The computer machine said there was a 25% chance of rain, based on statistics.
Counterpoint: My husband said there was a 100% chance of rain, based on the cloud cover.

I talked him into a visit to the arboretum anyway, and ... it rained... sheets of water. We took shelter under a tree for a spell, but finally decided to embrace the rain. We were both soaked but had a nice time anyway even though our nature walk turned into a wet tee-shirt contest.

The arboretum was beautiful - it's a lovely getaway without actually leaving the city. Mom, I will take you here for your morning walk - there are hours of good, hilly walking paths.

Don't worry - the squishy little baby stayed dry under the stroller canopy.

Perspective

During the past 12 weeks, I have found myself weeping occasionally as I've tried to adjust to post-pregnancy hormones, a shocking lack-of sleep, and a complete revamping of my life.

A couple days ago, I was having such a spell and Tim asked me what was the matter. I explained that I felt a little overwhelmed by the fact that I was responsible for keeping Baby Squiggles alive. Forget worrying about ways to create a loving and stimulating environment in which she will thrive and reach her full physical, emotional, intellectual and spiritual potential - I must first and foremost keep the child alive.

I ended my tearful speech by exclaiming that I didn't know how I was going to care for the child when I couldn't even keep most of my plants alive. Tim nodded in concession. He looked thoughtful for a moment, and said, "But... look on the bright side - your fake plants look fantastic!"

I've decided to take comfort in this.