Category Archives: Parenting

Rough morning

Posted on December 14, 2010 | 1 Comment

I feel terrible when I’m angry at Elsa, but this morning I was angry. Pissed. Wanted to hold her by the shoulders and yell, “Get a hold of yourself! It is 5:30 in the morning! You have been awake every freaking 45 minutes ALL freaking night [p.s. you didn't nap yesterday either] and it is now 5:30 and I have brought you in our bed and I have warm soft boobs full of milk, so latch on, close your eyes and LEAVE US ALONE!”

Best I could do was take a deep breath, wrap her in my arms, tell her I’m sorry I’m so angry, and head to the dining room for a banana and cheerios.

Parenting is relentless.

Oh. And best toy for a baby ever? I just picked up one of those sets of plastic drawers designed for keeping small junk organized. In a moment of desperation this morning when she would NOT stop eating dust bunnies, swimming in the dog bowl, playing in the toilet, turning the radio volume UP SO LOUD – in this moment of desperation, I put a couple pieces of [baby safe] junk in the drawers and let her go to town. 20 minutes of bliss as she slowly learned to open the drawers, take out the drawers, throw the drawers across the room. 20 minutes of a baby occupied by safe, quiet activity! Hence the blog posting.

Behold. Occupied baby.

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Tyranny and Wrath

Posted on November 17, 2010 | 2 Comments

Hey Georgia! What’s up with the blog? Aren’t you ever going to write anything?

Oh well, ya know. It’s just that I’m now engaged in an epic struggle against wrath and tyranny.

Woah. Sorry dude. That sucks.

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I worry. I worry that my daughter is a fiery ball of rage and that this is a problem that will follow her into adulthood. Then, I worry that it is actually my worry, in and of itself, that will cause Elsa to have a rage problem. If I just stop worrying about it, it will never exist. “She’s just a baby!” I tell myself. “She doesn’t have an anger problem – she just doesn’t have words yet to communicate so she chooses screaming, teeth gnashing, and fist pounding.” But then I like to worry a little bit more, “What if I don’t recognize this problem now and my laissez faire attitude results in a child with unbridled rage which she wields against her friends and enemies alike!?”

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I love the moment when she realizes I am going to take something away from her – usually a plastic bag. It wasn’t until I had a mobile baby that I realized how many plastic bags we have! She finds them everywhere and she loves them passionately. She especially loves draping them over her face as she sucks on them lovingly. Really, I can’t think of a better place for a plastic bag than over a baby’s face.

So she looks at me approaching and she’s smart. She knows what’s coming . . . or rather, what is about to be taken away. She starts wringing her little hands as she tries to stuff as much crinkly plastic in her mouth as possible. She desperately tears off chunks with her four little teeth, all the while her little hands spinning and writhing. She starts making her signature sound that the untrained ear could mistake for a baby fighting with a very tough poop. EEEEEEEEEENNNNNGGGHHHH. UUUUUUUUNNNNNNNGHHH. She grunts and strains against the unfair universe that will momentarily strip her of her most favorite suffocation device. As the plastic bag is lifted away, she screams and arches her back, throwing her head to the floor behind her. If I catch her before she slams her head into the floor, she screams in fury that I’ve thwarted her plan for more self injury. If I let her throw herself to the floor, she screams that she has now hurt herself and I, her mother, did not prevent such a thing.

I pick her up.

I hold her. Amazed at the fury of this tiny person. This person who only just recently lived inside of my body. This person who made her way into the universe via my vagina. Just yesterday she was a sleeping infant in my arms, peaceful while I sniffed her breath and held her tiny fingers.

I coo. “I know. I know. I know. It’s very hard. It’s very hard when you can’t have the things you want. It’s okay. I’m sorry you feel so bad.”

I show her something funny. Her tearful reflection in the mirror. Our matching hairstyles. Stella sitting on the back of the couch licking herself. A pair of interesting socks.

It’s over. Forgotten. She’s delightful now. Squealing and laughing. Following me around the house, all four limbs thumping against the wood floors. For about twenty minutes. Until the next tempest.

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Feeling obsolete.

Posted on October 17, 2010 | 1 Comment

First order of business: Someone stole my baby. They replaced her with a perfectly fine baby. A baby that looks and smells exactly like my baby. But, this is definitely not my baby. This baby lays down in her bed at night, wide awake, turns on her side and quietly drifts off to sleep by herself. No more 2 hour nursing sessions before bedtime. Just a pat on the back, a song, and Zzzzzz. This baby sleeps for 8-10 hours at night. This baby takes 3 hour morning naps! This baby is magnificent.

And yet. Somehow. Somehow I miss my old baby. I miss feeling needed in the middle of the night. I miss plugging her in and watching her settle before we both drift off to sleep in our favorite [and only] LaZboy. I miss having an excuse for being so exhausted during the day . . . because I am still exhausted . . . what is my excuse now?

I realize that this new baby is a sign. A sign of things to come. A sign of a child who is slowly differentiating herself from her mother. She exited my womb on January 29th, 2011, but until now, she has very much been a part of my body still. But, she exists now. Not as a part of me anymore: a latched-on sweet-smelling parasite. She exists as an Elsa. A person who makes decisions to lick wall sockets. Makes decisions to shake the dog’s cage violently. Makes decisions to first examine the dust bunny, then hold it over her head, and then eat the dust bunny. Makes decisions that she desperately does NOT WANT TO BE PICKED UP by her ever-loving mother. She is busy doing other things. Makes decisions to fall asleep peacefully in her own little bed – I do not need you anymore, thank you very much mom.

Obviously, I am thrilled that sleep is on the horizon for me. And I am thrilled that I no longer have to battle a raging infant as she thrashes in my arm for hours, fighting sleep. Thrilled that her father can put her to sleep now, sometimes even more easily than I can. Thrilled that I am not a 24 hour a day milk truck. Thrilled that she is healthy and growing and experiencing life. And just a little melancholy (because I wouldn’t be me if I wasn’t a little melancholy) about the whole growing-up thing.

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Morning bed thoughts

Posted on September 15, 2010 | 4 Comments

We’ve been having some difficulties with the whole sleep thing. As usual. So while I was lying in bed this morning – trying to induce some semblance of nap time – with my boob being perpetually snuggled, sucked and flailed at, I had a few thoughts:

1. Babies are scarily stupid for this brief period of time between 6 months and . . . whenever they learn the cause and effect principles of bodily harm. For example: If I climb up the rungs of this chair and then suddenly decide to switch directions and let go: I will impale my face on said rung of chair – resulting in screaming and black eyes. Or, if I climb on top of the slate fireplace and then try and climb off said slate fireplace, I will most likely smash my face into the floor – resulting in screaming and black eyes. Every ten minutes in this house is now punctuated with screaming and black eyes as Elsa learns how to navigate various household obstacles.

Desperately searching for a sharp corner or electrical socket.


Which leads me to another thought: What I would like most in the world is to wrap Elsa entirely in a thick protective foam suit, hold her in my arms and smother her with kisses and warmth and love. . . for all time. Or at the very least, I would like to lock her in some sort of enclosed space, devoid of all black-eye-giving obstacles and electrical sockets, and ensure that she is always safe from harm.

Instead, I take a deep breath, stand back, and let her try and pull herself up on the couch. Let her crawl all over the kitchen. Let her wrestle with cabinet doors and dining room chairs and bookshelves. Let her lick every surface in the house (including . . . occasionally . . . the dog . . . pretend I didn’t say that). Let her chew on most things as long as they are not electrical or overtly poisonous. Let her bang her head on pretty much everything in the process of finding new, exciting things to lick. And I will have to continue to let her roam and explore – even though she will probably continue to get hurt.

These big lessons in parenting are all starting earlier than I expected.

Thought #2: I wish I had extendable boobs. I would press a button and my breast would start to elongate until it reached Elsa two feet away in her little bed. I would roll over when I hear her rustling in her crib at night – before the wailing begins – press the button – and my breast would slowly snake it’s way to her. I suppose it would be programmed to recognize her sounds and smell . . . hopefully not snaking over to John and feeding him throughout the night.

I would never again have to leave my bed at night. Not once. Not 8 times, like last night. We would all sleep soundly.

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