Halle's Baby

My parents gave Halle a doll for her first birthday. It's the kind of doll that most little girls swoon over, with shiny auburn hair and thick-lashed eyes that open and close. I think my mother imagined Halle swooping the doll into her arms and snuggling it cheek to chubby cheek, squealing with delight. Instead, Halle picked up the doll and put the smack on it like a midget Hulk Hogan in a cotton singlet. 

Halle's reticence to demonstrate proto-mothering skills (I've been reading Jared Diamond) didn't bother me, but I've been curious about her disinterest in choosing a "lovie;" you know, the blankie/teddy/toy truck a little kid lugs around the house and to the grocery store, and who winds up in your lap at the end of the day, with your sticky-faced kid and a half-drunk bottle of milk. At Halle's age I had my Baba Bear (still a proud member of this household) and Tom had Killy the Whale (also an esteemed tenant), and I'm pretty sure all of my siblings had their own lovies. In a particularly gruesome airport incident, my brother Alex's beloved koala, who had a key on its tummy that could be wound up to play "Kookaburra," was disemboweled by a TSA official looking for (drugs? bombs? contraband binkies?) while my brother screamed, "They're killing Musical Bear! They're killing Musical Bear!" I hope that TSA agent is haunted by nightmares of vengeful koalas. But the point is, I've been waiting to meet Halle's lovie. And the doll didn't seem a likely candidate.

But then it happened.

Halle's Baby. One minute the recipient of repeated body slams, and the next so necessary to bedtime that we had to go downstairs in the middle of a story to retrieve her. Baby snuggled with us on the big chair, and when Halle fell asleep the doll was cradled to her chest. As I write, the two of them are sleeping in the crib, thick lashes resting on two pairs of chubby cheeks.

Look, I don't want to idealize their relationship. I had to rescue Baby from the bathroom garbage and the tub this evening, and Halle's at least as interested in pulling Baby's auburn hair out as she is in cradling her. Who knows if this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship or a casual fling? All I know is that it delights me to no end to see her cradle and bounce her baby the way I've shown her. And to give it kisses and hugs and hold it close. 

I know some of you are thinking that I'm engaging in horrific behavioral gender stamping, and to you I say: Phooey. First of all, I'd encourage a son to be just as nurturing. And secondly, very little children enjoy participating in daily tasks like cooking, cleaning and caring for babies. Besides, like any lovie, maybe Baby will become a source of constancy and comfort for Halle, and that's important when you're little and always being hauled from one place to the next. There's a reason Baba Bear followed me all the way to my marriage bed (where he was promptly exiled by Tom to the bookshelf, despite my efforts to place him and Killy on our pillows), and that's because for a long time Baba was an integral aspect of the way I defined "home." Obviously there's nothing wrong with a child who doesn't choose a lovie. But a lovie is a both a signifier of home and a way for children to practice love. 

For now, Halle has Baby. And we have Halle. Lovies all around.

Writing Time

The rain held off until 5pm today, and when it fell the first drops were fat and warm. Halle and I gathered up the orange ball and the wooden walker toy and stepped into the kitchen. We took off our shoes and looked at the cabinets. Quinoa salad, I decided: carrots, kale, feta, green onion, raisins, almonds. Banana, Halle decided: banana.

It was the perfect quiet close to the best Mother's Day of my life. Last year's was a wash, because Tom was at the theatre all day and both of our families were out of town. I took then 4-month old Halle to the park for a picnic, and it was fun enough, but lonely. I felt conspicuous. Today the men made a huge brunch, which we ate on the wrap-around porch of my parents' new house. Tom left early with Halle to do the cooking, and for the first time since Halle's birth I had two Sunday morning hours to myself. 

I listened to NPR upstairs and downstairs (simultaneously!).

I tidied up, but it was nice to do it alone, without feeling guilty.

I took a long shower, and afterwards I straightened my hair and put on eyeliner and lipstick.

I wore a wonderful navy dress with white horses and a deep orange ribbon, from my friend Erin.

And I walked to my parents' house, the grandmothers' gifts on my arm, enjoying the air and the knowledge that I was walking to the place where my family was.

In the late afternoon Tom took Halle on a stroll so that I could play with my new iPad and drink hot coffee by the window. When they returned I took her outside to play. And then it rained, and we had dinner, and I rocked Halle to sleep. 

My laptop's been out of commission for a little while now, but it wasn't until last week that I suddenly realized how much I had been missing writing. It was instructive for me, because I believe it was the first time in my life that I felt an intense need to write; as if, perhaps, there is some part of my destiny tied to writing after all. That sounds very dramatic, but there you are. 

Don't you all have something like that? A tiny, deeply-rooted seed of specific intent: "One day I'm going to do something amazing, which has been inside me all this time, and that thing is..." My problem has always been that I can feel the seed, but I have no idea which plant it's for. Literary criticism? Teaching? Being a mommy? At 32 the searching's getting a little old. I'm not implying that I can or should write professionally, but the realization was a nudge: write, write. And people, the nudge felt good.

Ah, but this blog is supposed to be about a baby, and here I am discussing tiny seeds and nudges and even quinoa, but not the child.

The child is lovely. She picks up new words every day, though much of the time we sound like a bilingual household.

Me: Halle, would you like to read a night-night story?

Halle: Ah da bloog a Hiyee mamamama.

Me: (Grabbing a random book.) Good pick!

She meows, woofs, ba-bas, and roars; two days ago she started asking for the "itshy bitshy" spider, and wiggling her fingers; tonight she ate quinoa and then threw her daddy's underwear into the bathtub. This was a minor improvement over last week's obsession with throwing everything into the toilet, but Tom hasn't seen his soggy shorts yet. We're almost done nursing, which is both sad and a relief.  I love the way she holds my hand as we walk. She's very serious about learning the world, and also fairly naughty. We like her. We love her. 

Being someone's mama is exhausting, and being parents changes a marriage. But what I worried at first was a pulling apart from each other, I realize now are just the growing pains of becoming three. As Halle would say, "Mama, Dada, Ha-yee." And as I aways respond, "Family."

Feeding the Beastie

Oh, you thought I was talking about Halle.

But what I talk about when I talk about beasties is my gaping maw of a nursing mama's belly. People, I can eat. Not even during pregnancy did I feel so unbelievably hungry at least six times a day and once around 4am (though laziness usually wins the war with hunger before dawn). And I've watched myself whittle down to a bony wisp of a woman while Halle grows tall and strong, and I don't resent it at all, but I do miss my breasts. Or whatever I had of those things to begin with.

I know that being skinny is not a popular complaint, and I'm not going to go on about it. But I thought it would be fun to share some of my favorite healthy breakfast / snack-on-the-go recipes with all of you other working mamas who find themselves dashing out the door, diaper bag, breast pump, purse and baby in tow, with a rumbling stomach and what we hope are clean socks on.

As my friends know, I like to cook and bake most of our food from scratch, which is a lot easier now that Halle is eating regular food cut into tiny pieces. My absolute favorite things to eat for breakfast are mildly sweet carbs, which I try to augment with a decent amount of protein and healthy fats, because those are what get you full and keep you going. On frazzled mornings I'll eat peanut butter toast in the car, but I'm much happier when I've found the time--usually on the weekend or after Halle's gone to bed--to make a batch of whole wheat scones with flax and nutritional yeast (long a tool in vegan baking, nutritional yeast adds a cheesy flavor to foods as well as a ton of B vitamins) or a tray of soft peanut butter oatmeal bars filled with dried fruit and a smattering of chocolate chips. Those of treats worth waking up to. That they're wholesome and calorie-dense makes me want to do a happy breakfast dance in my jammies.

Which sounds really shocking and rude, but was meant to convey a very benign image.

I'm also a big fan of homemade granola and Greek yogurt, baked oatmeal and coconut milk pancakes. And yes, I often eat all of these things twice, once with Halle at 7am and again for Elevensies. (Halle usually has oat cereal with bananas, milk and cinnamon, but she's a huge fan of the scones. I like to bake tiny ones for her and then we "do tea" together.)

Today I thought I'd share two recipes, for the peanut butter oatmeal bars and a little something I like to call French Toasties, though that's a gussied up name for what is really a pan of barely sweetened bread pudding made up of the previous week's bread-ends. (Honestly, would you rather eat Bread-Ends-In-Custard or French Toasties?) The best part about these recipes is that you can bake them on a Sunday afternoon, and once they're cool, portion them out and package them up in sandwich bags for breakfasts or snacks on the go for the rest of the work week.

Peanut Butter Oat Bars

Preheat your oven to 350 degrees.
Lightly grease a 9-inch square pan (I use a deep glass one, but you can use a larger pan for thinner bars--just adjust the baking time accordingly).

Into a large bowl, dump and mix:
1 C natural peanut butter (unsweetened)
1 C whole wheat flour
1 C rolled oats (not instant)
1/4 C ground flaxseed (optional)
1/2 C milk or non-dairy option (I use whole milk because we always have it around)
1 tsp baking powder
1/2 C light agave syrup (I use this because of its low glycemic index, but you can use maple syrup, honey or regular brown sugar)
1/2 tsp cinnamon
1 tsp vanilla
1/4 tsp salt (omit if you use salted peanut butter, as I do)
1/2 C each of any or all of the following: dried cranberries, raisins, dried cherries, unsweetened coconut, chocolate chips, nuts. I love cranberries, coconut and chocolate chips. (optional, but adds flair)

Spread into the baking dish and smooth the top. Bake for 17-20 minutes until golden brown. Cool (it will be hard to wait!) and cut into 8 (or more) bars. These will keep in the fridge for at least one week and are very tasty chilled.

French Toasties

Preheat your oven to 350 degrees.

Put a pat of butter into a square dish (pick the dish size based on the amount of bread you have, but I usually have between 8-12 slices and use a deep 9-in square pan) and place the pan in the preheating oven to melt the butter. When the butter has melted, take the pan out of the oven and set it aside.

Slice 8-12 pieces of stale bread into rough cubes. I use homemade whole wheat bread and leave the crust on, but any bread will do and the truly genteel chef will remove the crusts. I bet challah is delicious in this, but obviously the stodgier whole wheat is healthier. Toss the cubes in the pan with the melted butter. (Frugal note: when you buy bread and have the heels leftover or part of the loaf goes stale, wrap it and toss it into the freezer. When you have accumulated enough freezer bread, make French Toasties.)

In a bowl, vigorously whisk together:
4 large eggs
3 C milk (I'll often do 2 C whole milk & 1 C water)
1 tsp vanilla
1/4 C agave light syrup (feel free to go up to a 1/2 C if you like things on the sweeter side, and as always, honey, maple syrup or regular sugar is an option)
1 tsp cinnamon
1/4 tsp nutmeg
pinch of salt

Pour the milk mixture over the bread and leave to soak for at least 30 minutes and up to an hour.

Bake the pudding for about 40 minutes, or until the custard is set. Cool and cut into generous squares. Store in the fridge for up to a week, but I recommend warming them before eating.

Note: These are good warmed up with a drizzle of maple syrup, or a dollop of good jam.

The Weaning

When I thought of this post two nights ago, it was about the sadness of weaning a baby. Losing the intimacy of lips to breast, and the c-curl of a child in your arms.

But then yesterday happened. And "weaning" seemed like a much darker word, describing a void that opens up when children and parents lose each other. Because although I have no literal understanding of it, that is what this kind of death seems like to me: a thinning and reaching of the cord that binds parent to child; a never-breaking but increasingly fragile thread that passes into the distance, or dips into memory.

I don't think that's a very clear description, but I can't explain it any better. Or do this: imagine outer space. It's dark and big. It's very far away. Now tie whomever you love the most to a never-ending string and toss them into the abyss.

That is weaning.

When I was pregnant with Halle I had a bad day. I worried about the ethics of bringing yet another baby into an overpopulated world. Into a country with increasingly hapless politicians. Into a dying environment with dwindling natural resources. But when I spoke these fears out loud to my mother (who thinks babies are the solution to every problem), she said this:

"Having a baby is an act of hope."

I don't always agree with my mom's baby fixation, but I understand what she meant. When you have a baby, you are saying to the world, Yes, you're broken, but I still believe in your beauty.

And then you become a parent and without thinking about it you start working to remake the world into your vision of beautiful.

Today, I'm angry that Halle will grow up in a country where mass shootings are so prevalent that the local paper had an article yesterday on what to do if you find yourself in the middle of one. I'm angry that despite endless gun violence we still don't have a good regulatory system in place for gun control. And I'm angry because children are so good and our society seems to think that goodness is reserved for children, and must be replaced with irony and cynicism and wariness as we grow up.

How many popular fictional heroes in comics, movies and video games function from a goodness unadulterated by violence? Or put another way, when did we decide that good actions, the best, the bravest come from deep reservoirs of hurt? Our culture's favorite heroes blaze a bloody path to redemption, and we cheer them on like none of our children are watching this and taking note.

Don't get me wrong. I don't believe that popular culture is solely, or even primarily responsible for mass shootings. But these young men are dressing up like Rambo. They buy army fatigues and body armor and assault weapons. They're unaccountably angry and in tremendous pain and they decide, monstrously, that what they want most in the world before they go is something they've seen idolized for their entire lives, and that is the power of the man behind the gun.

Somehow I've veered off-track.

This morning, as I watch Halle zoom around the living room, making little "hmm-ing" noises, reading books, eating the cheerios that get everywhere, I'm painfully grateful that she is here.

I don't have to tell you to hug your kids, or to whisper I love you as you nuzzle their hair, their sleepy forms heavy on your shoulders. I don't have to tell you anything. But I'd like to make a request.

We do need to work on gun control. And we desperately need a better functioning mental health system in the U.S. But those are political issues and I'll write about them another time, when my heart feels less hollow and afraid. Today, all I ask is for us adults to try very hard to be as good as our children.

Let's smile at strangers in the checkout line.
Let's open each day with a joyful smile.
Let's stretch out our arms to each other when we need comfort.

We owe it to those children and their families to bring more love into the world today than left it on Friday.

Before Work

Playing in the shade.

This is my new favorite photograph of Halle. I love the light in her eyes and the two dimples above her mouth. I love her little-chick tufts of fine brown hair interspersed with gold.

Today we're up early. It's always hard at first to meet the day before sunrise (even with a roly-poly smile machine for company) but by 5:45, coffee percolating and breakfast close behind, I'm grateful for the early wake-up calls. For one thing, my breakfasts have improved: homemade granola with yogurt and roasted blackberries, whole wheat waffles with blueberries, peanut butter and syrup. But it also affords me a little extra time with Halle before I go to work--and she goes back to sleep--and, if I play my cards right, time to do this. Write. Think. Do projects. Starting next Tuesday Tom and I will get up at 5am at least twice a week to go for family walk/jogs, followed by family breakfasts. Morning is such a beautiful, quiet, empty time. Time to fill it up with pleasure.

Some serious reading.

 Halle has changed a great deal since my last posting in May. She has a throaty giggle. She rolls over (to the left). She often sleeps on her side, one leg flung over the co-sleeper onto our bed. She grabs toys and drinks water from our cups. She eats bananas, brown rice cereal, mashed potatoes, and beets, with varying degrees of preference and interest. This Sunday I'll make applesauce and we'll try that. We've discovered that Halle loves nature: trees, flowers, shadows, birds, cats, dogs, light. She tentatively runs chubby fingers through the grass before plunging her face into it. Last Sunday she met two llamas, who were far less delighted than she to make acquaintance. Perhaps my favorite new habit of Halle's is the way she opens her mouth really wide when excited, like she's going to eat your nose or the nearest available toy. In fact, yesterday she put my whole nose in her mouth. Which if you've seen my nose is quite a feat.

Being silly in Boston.

 Working and being a mom is difficult, but I think I'm gaining some sort of stride and balance. At least I'm not collapsing in tears each night under a pile of dirty laundry and strained beets (though I did scrape a sizable amount of dried rice cereal off of my neck last night, and my feelings about being peed on are becoming, shall we say, laissez-faire). This past month has been especially nice because Tom's been home most evenings and on the weekends. Since we're about to launch into the next 10-month theatre season, I've been soaking up--and attempting to take advantage of--his presence in the house. Guess who's making dinner buying pizza tonight?

Spending a chill Father's Day at the beach.

I don't want to make life sound idyllic, because it's not. But it's just been so much brighter these last six months. And that's something to get up for.

To Be.

Uncle Lukas and Halle

When you're pregnant people like to tell you that life will never be the same.

"Your life will never be the same!," winked the grandmas in our neighborhood, blissed out with the grand-kids on Sunday strolls.

"Your life will never be the same!," huffed the dads at the store, Bjorns askew and eyes wild.

"Your life will never be the same!," yawned the moms everywhere, late night fatigue etched into the folds of their clothes.

It's like a mantra, half-warning, half-welcoming to the club of relinquishing all personal freedom for the care of a very little, incredibly demanding human. I don't know if these people are trying to scare the bejeezus out of the very pregnant (it's a little too late, folks), let out steam, or just be friendly, but the comment isn't very useful.

It is, however, very true.

Before we have children we assume that its truth lies in the technicalities of parenthood. No more movies until your child is toilet-trained. No restaurants between the ages of 2-5. Romance...(close your eyes and imagine my riotous laughter). These are big changes, but they aren't terrifying or even very life-altering.

No.

The real way in which a parent's life is never the same is love.

Love is not the same when all sanity is tied to the imperceptible breathing of a newborn. And then her smiles. And the way she leans herself into you like you are the safest place in the world to be. Because when you are a parent, you are a harbour, and it requires a whole new level of bravery to defend your little ship from everything in the world that scares you; and, to let her sail even when you are afraid for the return voyage.

On Monday I start work again and it's hard. Sometimes I feel like my love for Halle is going to drown me; sometimes Tom and I lay awake at night and whisper to each other, "I love her so much."
It's corny and it's banal and that's only because there are no right words to describe what it is to be a mom or a dad.

Your love will never be the same.

Mother's Day Picnic, 2012

Spring Awakening

I'm savoring these days like they're the last few drops of water on a parched plain.

Spring comes slowly to Oregon. It's more like winter starts to dress itself for a party--putting on the shocking pinks and purples of dogwood, splashing on daphne perfume--and by the time it's ready, we're all so drunk on its splendor that we feel warm. In the last few weeks I've had the time to watch this transformation, taking Halle on long walks past old houses and blooming magnolias. It's been nice. I'm going to miss having this time with her.

This week's been pretty mellow, which feels good after our whirlwind weekend trip to Maryland to see the great-grandparents. Halle and I have spent the last two days cleaning a little, baking a little, reading a lot (she especially enjoys Peek A Who, but I've been reading adult poetry to her, too), and enjoying the dry weather. Today it's raining and I think we'll clean the bathroom, do laundry and go to Mom and Me. I know, our days are dull. But for Halle every activity, no matter how menial, is a chance to experience new sounds, smells and sights. That's one of the awesome things about babies--they have no context for judgement, so cleaning the toilet can become an exciting activity. Maybe not as fun as wiggling (Halle's favorite), but we make plenty of time for that, too.