beth on...half a dozen

Sun, 24 Jul 2011 11:43:36 -0400

Dear Jane,

Tomorrow, you’ll be six months old. I thought I’d tell you a little about where we are while you are taking a nap (because you do that now, Jane. You take actual, real live naps. Usually two a day! It’s brilliant.).

You are a rolling expert, and sometimes you’ll take off like a little ball across the living room, rolling over and over and over again. You’re also excellent at scooting. Between the scooting and the rolling, if you set your sights on a place, you can get there. More and more, you are planting your palms firmly, lifting your head way up, digging your knees into the ground, and grunting like a tennis pro. You’ll crawl soon enough, but you are impatient about it. You have the vision of crawling and just aren’t quite there. It frustrates you. I relate to that feeling, Jane.

We no longer need television or radio. You’re a constant soundtrack in our house, and we love it. And, we never know what to expect. You’re experimenting with so many sounds. One day, you might hiss through you nose. You scrunch up your entire face when you do this, and I can’t think of anything funnier that I’ve ever seen. Other days you sort of blab, and you stretch octaves with your blabbing. For a few days, you sucked in a bunch of air at a time and sounded like you were choking--but you obviously weren’t choking at all, and I think you enjoyed terrifying us with this sound. And, you laugh and giggle and snort. I can’t talk about how much I love that. It’s too sacred.

Against our better judgment, we bought a gigantic, hideous contraption with a ridiculous name for you to play in. The jumperoo, which, seriously, is the size of a mini-cooper, now permanently occupies a space in our living room. It has enabled you to turn the floor into a trampoline. The resulting squeals are worth ruining any kind of feng shui we might have had going.

Gone are the days of you hanging out with (keeping us up) until the wee hours of the morning. Now, you’re spent by about 6:00 and in bed by 6:30. And instead of being up every two or three hours, you snooze until 3 or 4 a.m., when you have a snack and go right back to sleep until 6:30 or 7. I’ve developed a little bit of a complex about seeing you for so few hours during the week, but I also enjoy getting to eat dinner and actually chewing my food. Sleeping for four or five uninterrupted hours is pretty cool, too.

You’ve solidified your role as a thumb-sucker and expressed a clear preference for Sophie the Giraffe over all other animals. You love it when Lucy licks your face--so much that you now reach out and grab at her to invite her over. One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish appears to be your favorite novel, and you get really excited when your dad lifts you over his head and swings you in the air. We’ve given you a couple tiny bites of banana, and you’ve rolled it around in your mouth while appearing to think deep banana thoughts. You like to go for short walks around the neighborhood, and you continue to be a devoted baseball fan.

I guess I should feel sad that you’re already half a year old, but the truth is, I don’t. Every day, you’re a little more sweet and funny and quirky and interesting than you were the day before. Every day, your smile is brighter and your cries less piercing because you’re learning that things are always going to be just fine. Seeing you do things intentionally makes those things incredible. You fall asleep with your head on my shoulder less frequently than you did a few months ago, but knowing that you are doing it on purpose...it makes my life, Jane.

You’re awesome. And I love you and I love being your mom.

beth on...homeschooling

Thu, 7 Jul 2011 20:08:07 -0400

I’ve been woefully delinquent in posts since going back to work, in part because I’ve been posting other places (here, here, and here). Mostly, though, it’s because I’m going back to school--at home, at night.

Because, as it turns out (since they use “as it turns out” in Apple stores, I’ve decided it’s my new favorite substitute for “unfortunately”--a word that comprises about 60% of my vocabulary, as it turns out. Thanks, Apple!), I know NOTHING. As it turns out, Jane’s little five-month-old body is a complete mystery to me. No, it’s a mystery wrapped in a booby trap wrapped in a landmine wrapped in bacon.

So I spend all of my free time at baby body homeschool. I go to work all day and study the law. I come home and read books on baby’s bodies while ordering more books. If Amazon carries it and it has the word “sleep” in the title, I’ve purchased it.
And I google things like “why isn’t she sleeping more?” “how much should she sleep?” “I’m pretty sure I shouldn’t start solids yet. Am I still right?” For things that are especially concerning to me, I google in all caps (“WHY HASN’T SHE POOPED IN SIX DAYS?”). And then my googling gets me all obsessed with unimaginable topics. I can’t tell you how much mental energy I’ve recently devoted to intestinal flora.

Like all homeschooling, mine has required the commitment of my entire family. Poor Jane probably feels like a constant experiment. Maybe if I just change THIS she’ll sleep better or if I just eat THAT she’ll poop more frequently or if we just do this and that and this and this again she’ll be happier and healthier and smarter and....whee! And Chad has to collect the Amazon boxes that arrive daily and walk past the books littering every surface of our house and listen to me discuss intestinal flora. It’s hard on everyone.

There are several people in my life (probably several people reading this post right now) who think I am wasting my time...because all babies are different and expert advice changes all the time and so on. True, true, and so on true. But being a student is the thing I’ve done best in my life. I know how to study. People say, “Beth, just follow your instincts.” Ok. My instinct is to study. I am incredibly uncomfortable with not understanding what’s happening in Jane’s little brain or little gut or little scalp (oh, the cradle cap-why?!?!?!).

And I’m not down with hearing that someone else’s baby also refuses to sleep or poop or whatever and so that’s just common and we shouldn’t worry about it. Lots of things are common that aren’t going to work for me. I want to do my best here. She’s not a plant (thank goodness...I have a long history of negligent homicide with plants) or a pet or a project. She’s this perfect little person who I can only screw up if I don’t know what I’m doing. I can’t wing it.

So, homeschool. Chapters a night. Bleary-eyed research. Tests in the the form of how many times she wakes up and how many diapers she generates and how happy she seems.

As it turns out, no one gives you an A in mom homeschool. But, when I get a looks like these, I know that I am at least scoring my participation grades.

beth on...a little advice

Mon, 16 May 2011 20:33:02 -0400

I wrote this letter a couple of months ago to submit to a contest. It wasn’t selected for publication, and I am having a hard time stringing together a coherent sentence by this time of day--the time when Jane is in her pre-sleep. Pre-sleep, at our house, is a 15-20 minute period during which Jane seems to be completely out, ready to slumber for 6 to 8 uninterrupted hours. Then, she wakes up angry and wants to eat for another 45 minutes or so. And we rock and eat and rock and shush and beg her to go to sleep. Finally, she takes pity on us and goes down for reals.

See? Incoherence. So, I thought I’d publish this here so I’ve published something, anything- lest you think I had died--the victim, perhaps, of a tragic pumping accident, or washed away on the interstate racing from work to the babysitter’s. I will write again sometime. I really, really will.

---------

A Letter to My Daughter

Dear J,

I know! More advice from me...roll your eyes if you must. But I’m going to be succinct this time. I’m going to roll all the advice I have for you into one three-word sentence. A sentence that I want you to live by. A sentence I want you to think about often. A sentence that I might need to tattoo on my own forehead to remind me that I gave you this advice. Here it is, the only thing I think you really need to know: Don’t please me.

That’s it. Don’t spend your life trying to please me. I’d like you not to spend your life trying to please anyone else either, but I’m going to focus on me for now. I’m your mom. I can do that.

The thing is, it will be easy and comfortable for you to try to win my approval. But there will come a time in your life when pleasing me won’t get the job done, so why go down that road? Don’t please me by getting good grades. Make me proud by being intellectually curious. Don’t please me by joining a club that I was in when I was your age. Make me proud by finding your own passions to pursue and pursuing them to your heart’s content. Don’t please me by dressing or decorating as I do. Make me proud by having your own sense of style.

I don’t mean that you should live your life selfishly or without standards. I’m asking you to have standards that are reasoned, that you have developed after serious consideration. Of course, for a time, your dad and I will set those standards. But when you are mature enough, you should decide what your standards are by reference to what you’ve learned from people you respect (I hope to be on that list) and to your own life experience. It will mean more to me to see you to have faith on your own terms, marry the person you love (or don’t), have the career that satisfies you, and raise your children in the way that you believe is best.

And I don’t mean that you will never receive accolades from me. Just like I cheer for your poop and your smiles and your sleep now, I will celebrate your spelling tests or recitals or graduation. Enjoy my excitement, bask in it--but don’t allow it to be necessary or sufficient.

I think living on your terms is the key to your happiness. To be candid with you (I will always do my best to be candid with you), if you set out to please me, you will fail. I’m a person, and people, although capable of unbelievable love and kindness, are fickle. They will feel cheated if you emulate them and slighted if you don’t. They will set you down one course only to be disappointed in the natural consequences of that course.

You will have better relationships in your life if you don’t try to please. If you don’t spend your life looking to every parent, friend, lover, or boss for an “A,” you’ll stop grading them, too. If you don’t care about the judgment of others, you will be freeing them from your judgment (making you deserving of the “A” to the people who are still keeping score). If you make a mistake, you can forgive yourself and move on rather than wondering if someone else has also let it go. If you find that you don’t like the circumstances of your life, you can acknowledge that without blaming someone else and change that without asking permission.

When you were born, seven short weeks ago, I felt strongly that you knew how to arrive on earth better than me or any obstetrician. I trusted you in utero, and I’m going to trust you in your life. So, don’t please me. Make me proud by just being who you want to be.

With great love,
Mom

beth on...a changed tune

Fri, 15 Apr 2011 19:08:04 -0400

Last night, I couldn’t go to sleep. My legs were screaming. I’m surprised you didn’t hear them from the comfort of your home. It was that bring-tears-to-your-eyes, active, alive pain that just happens sometimes with fibromyalgia. And so I was awake and talking to myself.

First, I said, “Self, you really should feel grateful. It’s been a long time since you’ve felt this bad.”

And then, I said, “WHATEVES. I’m glad it’s been a while, but it still sucks, capital s.”

From there, I had a little chat about how I really brought this on myself. I’m having some anxiety about going back to work. Nothing abnormal, but, you know, just enough worry to motivate me to do things like pump around the clock and organize what I’m going to wear every day next week, and do math about how many diapers Jane goes through in a four-day span. The thing is, I think even this very typical stress throws me into problem territory. I have to be zen. My body demands it. So my legs are screaming, and it’s my fault.

(I just want to point out, for the maybe three people who read this blog and don’t really know me, that I absolutely do not blame myself for having fibromyalgia, nor do I blame anyone else who has any kind of physiological issue for that issue. I blame myself when I don’t manage it properly. At this point, I know that if I have any variety of freak-out, I’m going to feel like crap. That’s all.).

Then I thought about how knowing that it’s my fault isn’t particularly helpful in this moment--this rare, lovely moment when Jane is sleeping and I could be, too.

I tried to quiet my mind, breathe, visualize, stretch--do all the non-pharmaceutically based pain management things I’ve learned. But in the frustration of feeling that I was missing a golden sleeping opportunity, I said to myself and to the Universe, “I hate my body.”

This sentence...I’ve said it a thousand times. And meant it. I have.

But this time, I heard myself saying it. And I thought about it.

And then I said, “No. I do not hate my body. In fact, my body is awesome. My body was a house for Jane for ten months. It grew a person and then pushed that little person into the world. And now it’s feeding that little person. It’s literally making and providing everything that little person needs, in addition to being a house for me. So, I don’t hate it. I honor it. I appreciate it. I accept it.”

And I closed my eyes and took some deep breaths, just sitting with my legs. I would like to tell you that the pain magically disappeared. It didn’t. But, with my changed tune, I closed my eyes and eventually drifted off to sleep.

I knew having a baby would “change everything.” I didn’t know that it would change everything.