Category Archives: Dear Elsa

run down times.

Posted on March 16, 2011 | 3 Comments

I’m writing this for catharsis. To get it out and hope that, in the process, it will evaporate. I hate writing about awful times when, in fact, they are not so awful. Japan? Awful. Bodies washing ashore? Awful. Orphans? Awful. Awful. Being a stay at home mom to a very cranky baby? Not so awful. . . Now that I have shown my ability to step back and acknowledge reality, I would like to delve deep into self pity. I need to. I’m sorry.

These past couple of weeks have been awful. I keep making up excuses: teething, sick, new development, your lack of language skills to express yourself, your lack of, even a shred of, emotional self regulation . . . I’m running out of excuses. I just have to keep telling myself, we can not possibly go on like this. This is not you. This is some fleeting stage and my delightful child will return to me. Running. With open arms.

You stumble around the house, approximately two and half minutes between outbursts. Screaming because you fell. Screaming because you are hungry. Screaming because you want to nurse. Screaming at my violent reaction when you bite my nipples and yank with your teeth. Screaming because you are exhausted from NOT SLEEPING. Screaming during the night. Screaming at the library when I foil any of your dangerous, self-injurious plans. Your head on the ground, bent in half, heaving. Screaming. The librarians horrified.

Never napping. Exhausted. All the time.

I am unable to make dinner. Able only to check email, but never reply. Unable to tidy the house. Unable to complete a load of laundry. Unable to even attempt to get within a 20 foot radius of any of the projects I would like to complete for my own sense of self worth.

You are, amazingly, sleeping right now. This is unheard of these days. You do not sleep these days. I no longer feel badly when you are screaming alone in your bed. Those days are over. I would hold you, but you don’t want to be held. I would nurse you, but you don’t want to nurse. I would hug you and sing to you for hours, but you only want boundless freedom. You only want to thrash. Pointing wildly around the room, exhausted, but grunting, “Uh, Uh, Uh, Uh, Uh.” This is your way of communicating, “I want that, now, now, now, THAT, now, now, now.” I can hand you 100 different items. Tell you what they are. Smile weakly and try to make them look exciting. And you bat them away, continuing to point blindly. “Uh, Uh, Uh, Uh.” You have no idea what you want, but you know you want it immediately. You want everything. NOW.

I have nothing left.

I put you down in your bed. You scream. I tell you, “It’s Ok. Here’s your blankie. Time for nigh’ nigh’.” And I walk out of the room. And I approach the computer, hoping that if I can just vomit out all these feelings, they will disappear. We will emerge from this, friends again. We will have a good time again. I will find joy in parenting you again.

I took some pictures of you yesterday, in a brief moment of calm. I am going to look at them and will you to wake up, looking like this:

or this

I’ll take either.

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Getting off the couch

Posted on February 18, 2011 | 1 Comment



Yes. That is some very long drool.

Can I just say, “I like you”? Is that enough? I find you delightful and tricky and sometimes just a little bit horrible – but even at your most horrible, I want to kiss you on the lips. Can you say these things to your daughter? Is it OK?

I’m so incredibly pleased that I love being a mom – I didn’t expect to find such cliched joy. I guess that is the problem with cliches? They are to be expected. One year out and I feel like myself again. 100% me. Georgia. But better. And happier. With more purpose in life. And that sense of purpose is not solely derived from my newfound motherhood – it’s just that becoming a mom seems to have prioritized everything for me. I see where we are going. I see where I’m going – both as your mom and as myself.

I still find myself wanting to wallow. Wanting to spend the day on the couch feeling sorry for myself and thinking sad thoughts. Watching serial episodes of whatever mindless crime drama I can find for free online. Feeling ugly and dirty. Feeling like I could never possibly rise from the couch because the world is too sad and we are all going to die someday so why bother. Sleeping out of sheer exhaustion from my treadmill of thoughts about death and uncertainty and loss. Dwelling.

Something about you though. Such an unexpected antidepressant. Whereas I would have spent the whole day on the couch, now I spend five minutes. I start to wallow – to really dig myself way down – get myself going on a good trajectory of horrible, imagined, disasters that might befall us. Get myself caught up in thoughts of “Why bother?”

. . .But there you are! Right in my face. “MOM! Let’s do some stuff! If you don’t get me out of the house, I’m going to start acting like a jerk! I will make myself unbearable to be around . . SHOW ME SOME AWESOME STUFF OUTSIDE THE HOUSE! The dog! Let’s take the dog! I love her! Look! She is licking my crackers! I LOVE THAT! Come on. Come on. Come on!”

So I bat away the fog. Forget about the facts that I’m going to die someday and you’re going to die someday and John is going to die someday and I don’t know when or how. I guess there is nothing we can do about it and apparently you don’t care. And I like you! And you seem to like me! What better could we ask from the day? So let’s go hang out. Let’s get out of the house. I can’t stay on the couch all day, right? Right.

As a mom, I have much less time to myself – which, as it turns out, is a good thing.

We're booooored!

I’m so lucky. Gross. Cliches. Blech.

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Dear Elsa: The Birthday Edition

Posted on February 4, 2011 | 1 Comment

Dear Elsa,

A few days ago, we sat on the couch together – me reclined and you on my stomach, patting my chest and poking my eyes. You caught a hold of my bra strap and, as I do these days, I repeatedly told you, “That’s my bra. My B-R-A. That’s Mommy’s b r aaaaaaa. Someday you’ll wear a bra. . .” At that point, I paused and repeated, “Someday you’ll wear a bra.”

With that statement, there on the couch, our lives turned into stop motion animation. I watched you growing, leaving for school, chatting with your best friend, texting at the dinner table, doing your homework. I saw you impossibly 5 years old and 10 years old and 15 years old and then, having your own babies. I saw myself, done with my baby nursing days, never again to have a baby grow in my belly or a soft little one nestled by my breasts, warm and still. I saw your dad and I laying in bed. Fatter than we’d like to be and wrinkled in places we never expected. Spooning like we did when we were 18, in the hopes that the other one will stay. Just stay. Don’t grow any older.

I already miss having your sweet little body pressed against mine and your tiny arms around my neck. I miss your smell. I missed wrapping my entire hand around your calves, squeezing your miniature muscles and examining the little mole that appeared months after you were born. I miss your terrible little fingernails, scraping against my skin, digging in my mouth and eyes. I miss your smell – even as it turns into the sour stinkiness of a toddler – I can’t help but sniff you constantly. I miss everything that hasn’t even left me yet. I miss you while you are right here with me.

Love, Your mom.

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Dear Elsa . . .

Posted on August 24, 2010 | Leave a comment

We had a day of major overstim: An hour long drive for a walking tour of your Auntie’s college. A 45 minute wait in line at a hot-spot restaurant (who takes a baby to a restaurant with a wait!?). Another 40 minute wait for our food. An hour-long lunch sitting in the high chair, destroying anything within reaching distance. And all the while, your grammy, grammy’s boyfriend, auntie, and auntie’s boyfriend all screeching your name, making faces, passing you from person to person. The whole day was super Elsa-focused with a four hour stream of baby name-calling, rasberry-blowing, face-kissing, high-pitch-squealing (from them, not you), and table banging (again, just as much from the adults as from you). It was exhausting for your 90-year-old mom and dad who got in the car at the end of the day and breathed enormous sighs of relief that we could now just sit in silence. Glorious silence.

And you were amazing. Better than any almost-seven month old could possible be. You made it through the whole day, taking all the attention in stride. I imagine the day was like a constant fun house of faces passing before you – squealing and calling your name – distorted and wild. New sounds and textures and tastes. A bevy of new, delicious, filthy chew toys: the table, a napkin, your high chair straps. You handled it better than your mom and dad, who require moments of quiet and calm amid such chaos.

When we got in the car to go home, you were asleep in seconds.

Only tonight, did you show the effects of such a crazy day. Cranky and wild, I brought you to our nursing chair for some quiet nursing time- which almost never fails to settle both of our spirits. But tonight, you would have none of it. At first, I tried to nurse you while I played with your dad’s new iTouch, but you kept trying to sit up, throwing your weight around in an effort to destroy any nearby electronics. I put down the distraction and focused on you, watching you thrashing from side to side, hitting me, yelling – a tiny Baptist preacher in my arms.

Unable to help you, the only thing I could do was watch and wait. I let you blow off steam and finally . . . slowly . . . your head started to rest on my chest. At first, only for a few seconds before you flung yourself backwards for another round of lunacy. Finally, you rested your head down on my bare chest and your breathing slowed. Your hands relaxed. I too closed my eyes and marveled at how big you are. How when you lie on my chest, your body stretches the length of my torso and your knees rest on the rocking chair. I thought about the unfathomable future when you will be a toddler and then a child and then a teenager . . . And I will think back to when you really needed me. Needed my body to fall asleep. . . my bare skin. And how that was the nicest time – the nicest memory I have.

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