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.

Is it a Sin to Like Naptime?

I've been trying to write all day, but Halle keeps waking up from her naplettes crying and then it's back to becoming the Human Bouncey Chair until she's pacified enough to play or eat. She actually just woke up from another impossibly short nap (and to think I foolishly thought: bedtime!), but using my foot to bounce her vibrating chair while I write seems to be working, so let's forge ahead.

You probably think I'm heartless, leaving the little babe in the chair while I write. What I'm actually attempting is to set limits for myself, so that I don't end up breastfeeding every 45 minutes or dancing to Ben Harper with Halle in my arms for two straight hours. (Yes, Ben Harper. Don't judge me.) It's an understatement to say that I love snuggling with Halle, or that her smiles make me feel better than anything else ever has or probably will. But I'm learning (slowly) that sometimes fussing with the baby just makes her fuss harder and longer. For example, a few minutes of vigorous foot bouncing and Halle is sleeping again. Think she'd be snoozing in my lap?

The truth is that these past couple of days have been really hard for me. Tom's back to rehearsing every evening after work, so my days with Halle are long and a little lonely. Halle seems to be entering a really fussy stage, too, so much of the day is spent pacifying a baby who seems over-tired but unable to nap for a sustained period of time. We do a lot of fun things--we take walks and spend a lot of time playing on the floor--but there's a reason nature demands a mom and a dad...it's hard to do it all alone. If nothing else, at least when Tom's around at night I have someone to talk to, or to hold Halle while I get the laundry or run to the gym. At the very least, there's a second adult to hold the cat's head under the faucet when I find her asleep in the bassinet for the 43rd time that day.

(You think me cruel, but I woke up at 3:30am today to find Stella curled up on top of the baby. I almost had a heart attack. And then I sprayed that damn beast within an inch of her stupid, hairball-wretching life.)

I guess I just wasn't prepared for the solitude of new moms, which combined with the anxiety, guilt, fatigue, frustration, and yes, joy, of newbie parenting, makes for a heady cocktail by the end of a 14-hour day. But before I send out invitations to my pity party, let me add that I wouldn't swap these hours of learning how to take care of my daughter for anything. Sure, I don't know what I'm doing--Halle's not on a sleep schedule yet and tonight I accidentally combed her hair into devil's horns--but last night as I rocked her to Ben Harper's "Not Fire Not Ice" set on repeat (look, you have a baby and then judge my musical selection), waiting for Tom to come home and begging her to stop crying and fall asleep, there was a moment of quiet and when I looked down, there she was smiling up at me, right into my eyes. And I thought, Oh. My. God. What a gift.

Let's Do the Time Warp Again

My days with Halle have acquired a lazy sway. We wake up, she nurses, I eat, we listen to NPR, we bathe, she nurses, we clean, she nurses, we cook, she nurses, we take rainy walks, she...you get the idea. Chronic sleep deprivation lends each day the kind of fuzzy picture quality used on old Hollywood starlets--all of the hard edges are softened into a hazy beauty.

The endlessly gray, rainy weather aids in the unreality of these days. It seems like it has always been winter and Halle has always been my baby.

Still, the days are not so identical that I don't notice her already "growing up": she looks around the room now with bright, alert eyes, smiling at what pleases her (Toulouse-Lautrec, hot pink, a purple teddy bear with a breast-like nose, and her bedroom curtains); she enjoys watching the cats; she clearly recognizes me and Tom; she bats at toys; she tries very hard to hold her head up (and sometimes succeeds); and I've had to put away her preemie and newborn clothes, because she's literally doubled in size in 9 weeks.

It's an exciting time because all of the sudden, and yet slowly, all of the love we've poured into Halle over the last two and half months is being reciprocated. And all of the sudden, and yet slowly, we can read her signs. Halle, Tom and I are beginning to work as a unit. Sure, the unit suffers daily organizational and communications failures, and everything we own is covered in breast milk, but nevertheless we're becoming a family.

When I woke up early this morning with a hungry baby in my arms and Tom rolling over to put a comforting hand on my arm I thought, this isn't easy but it is happiness.

Help Wanted

Today I'm going to write about something serious. And embarrassing. Not because I delight in self-exposure or want to incur any kind of sympathy, but because this issue is important.

Today I'm going to write about WIC.

The WIC program is a food and health care subsidy program for low-income families. Pregnant and breast-feeding women, as well as women with children ages 5 and under, whose families make less than $34,000/year qualify for the WIC program, though not for all of the services. For example, if you make less than 34K but have private insurance, you don't need to use the program's health care services. Or if you're feeding your infant formula instead of breast milk, you receive fewer food vouchers but can still access cheaper health care. The WIC program is not a welfare program; no money is given and the food vouchers are meant to supplement rather than provide a family's monthly groceries. In this way, the program is distinct from food stamps or Medicaid; in fact, very low-income families can use the WIC vouchers and food stamps. And, in addition to qualifying financially for the program, participants must attend alternating classes and check-ups every three months to keep receiving food vouchers. Assistance for breastfeeding moms lasts for a year, but women can reapply on behalf of their children.

WIC is important. For low-income and especially poorly educated or immigrant families WIC provides not only essential food and health aid, but public and personal health information and care designed for women and children. Babies are weighed and measured and monitored for potential abuse or other problems. Mothers have their iron tested and are taught about proper childcare and nutrition; they are also initially screened for drug and alcohol issues and have access to pre- and postnatal advice. A lot of the subjects taught at WIC are second-nature to more educated, middle-class women (for example, don't drink or smoke while pregnant, or 8 oz of milk = 1 serving) but many poor women in America haven't been exposed to these concepts and WIC helps correct their ignorance in order to create safer, healthier homes for at-risk infants and children. It is sad but not surprising that most WIC participants, in Portland anyway, are Black or Latina.

But not everyone who makes under $34K/year fits into this model.

I am white, from an upper-middle-class background, with two post-graduate degrees and full-time employment. (In fact, until Halle's birth, I was over-employed with a full day job and an evening job as an adjunct professor teaching writing and literature.) I am married to a chiropractor and we have a healthy relationship. Our apartment is small but in a nice neighborhood, and I buy mostly organic groceries at a Whole Foods I can walk to. In the summer I buy into a CSA. We have excellent private insurance and two cars and no credit card debt. We even have modest savings and a stock portfolio.

But we're poor.

And there are a lot of families in America like us.

While our politicians are debating God's opinion on contraception, millions of Americans with college degrees and full time jobs are slowly trickling into the working poor. These people, my family included, make enough for rent, groceries and general health care, and so we don't seem poor. But we live carefully on around $31K/year, and spend a lot of time worrying about how we'll pay for Halle's daycare and education, or when we'll be able to stop renting and buy a house. The only reason we aren't living paycheck to paycheck is because we've saved and invested monetary gifts from our grandparents. And the only reason we have the occasional piece of nice furniture and good clothing is because our parents give us presents. These are humbling admissions and they fill me with shame.

But nothing has ever humbled me more than walking into the WIC office on Monday.

Why did I do it? I wasn't going to. I didn't even realize we qualified until a Healthy Start employee visited our hospital room the day after Halle was born, and then it took a while to adjust to the idea that we're poor enough to qualify for a government program. But I spoke with my husband and my mom (who worked as a nutritionist for WIC in the late seventies) and realized a couple of things. One, my taxes help pay for WIC. And two, it's important to show the government that assistance programs aren't just for unemployed minorities with too many children. Remember, WIC covers any family of three making less than $34K/year and I know a lot of privileged white 30-somethings in Portland who fit into that category. They're just not using these programs. And so our politicians don't realize how many Americans need them. Or, to put it another way: our politicians either don't know or don't care that the economy is so fucked that millions of college-educated, fully employed parents with carefully planned small families technically need help to survive.

So I went to WIC out of curiosity.

I was the only white person in the waiting room. I was the only white person period who wasn't a nutritionist. I was the only person in the waiting room with one child. (One nice lady had five.) I was the only first-time mom in her thirties. I was the only person with two W-2 forms and three things about me elicited surprise from the WIC employees: the fact that I breastfeed exclusively; my college and graduate education; and how healthy Halle looked. By the time my nutritionist received a negative answer in response to a question about drug and alcohol use during pregnancy she looked at me wryly and said, "I didn't think so."

But I qualify financially, so they didn't question my need for food vouchers. In fact, the women at WIC and the parents in the waiting room were so kind and non-judgmental that I wanted to cry. You see, I come from a world where this kind of need is synonymous with personal failure. I even hesitated over writing this experience down, and my husband didn't want me to publish it on my blog. But until we start illuminating the extent of need in our country, we'll continue failing to address it. We'll keep spinning rhetoric about how a college degree guarantees you entry into the middle-class. We'll keep pretending that the color of America's poor is always darker than white, and as such, an issue not worth addressing.

So I'm writing about WIC. And I'm going to share one last thing I learned this week.

Those food vouchers are heavily tied to American agribusiness. That's why I can get 5 gallons of milk and 3 pounds of cheese a month, plus brand name cereal, but I can't buy bulk oats (only single serving packages) or organic eggs (only large white eggs). In fact, the only organic items you can buy are the $10/month of fruits and veggies, a cash amount so low that you really have to buy conventional frozen foods and eat them sparingly to make it stretch. And I know you're thinking, "You spoiled brat. You don't need organic eggs or fresh produce." But isn't it a shame that a program established to help poor people doesn't teach them how to shop in bulk or prepare foods from scratch? That the foods don't support the local economy but are clearly based on lobbyist-generated national surpluses that put small farmers out of business and pollute the environment? Even a nursing mom doesn't need over a gallon of milk a week, and I certainly won't eat a pound of mozzarella. My food vouchers provide nutritious items, sure, but those items come along with pesticides, GMOs, questionable food safety regulations, and working conditions that exploit--yes--the very workers who qualify for WIC.

Joining WIC has given me a little assistance with food costs. But it's given me a lot to think about.

What We've Needed

Like most new parents, we've quickly amassed a pile of baby things all purporting to be the miracle item for getting baby to sleep/stop fussing/become an infant genius of unspeakable proportions. And like most new parents, we're discovering that the majority of it is bunk. (Aside from the genius bit, which is undoubtedly exactly how our daughter will turn out.) Halle hates the miracle blanket. She refuses to sleep in the co-sleeper. And forget about those Velcro swaddling blankets. But you know what does work?

My breasts. Oh, and:
Her moby.

I don't like to endorse products, but the moby wrap may be the best baby-care invention since the papoose (since, to be a bit cynical, the moby is just a papoose for yuppies). For those of you who've never used one, it's basically just a long stretchy piece of fabric that you can wrap around yourself in multitudinous ways to create a carrying pouch for your baby. Halle likes the "Hug Hold" which snuggles her kangaroo-like on my chest and belly. The moby's a little difficult to put on at first, but there are a plethora of you-tube videos and a handy booklet for guidance; and it is well worth the training effort, because once your baby's in the moby, you can cook, clean, write your blog, and even go to the bathroom (sorry, baby). The moby mimics being swaddled in mom or dad's arms, so once installed, your baby will likely either snooze contentedly or look into your face or around the room with interest. I've even been teaching Halle to cook! (It's never too early with geniuses.)

Other than the moby, the only items I've really found useful are the vibrating chair, which our congested baby sleeps in each night, the Swedish NoseFrida snot sucker (parenthood, I'm finding, redefines gross), and this crazy Fisher Price kick and play piano gym which converts for back play, tummy time and later for sitting-up music sessions. Halle's patience for the toy is limited, but she loves staring and batting at the dangling, colorful animals, and I think she likes the music. Actually, aside from a wooden rattle, my little brother's old crib mobile, and a couple of dangling car seat animal chimes, this is the only toy we own. (I was being a bit facetious with the genius bit, above. We own zero baby Einstein or like items. Just loads of totally useless--for us--sleep aids.) I am sure the toy overload comes later, but I do have this fantasy about buying mostly old-fashioned toys like wooden blocks and simple dolls that stimulate, rather than provide, creativity. But more on that later.

In the end I think all new parents have to try a million things in order to discover what works for their unique baby, and that no attempt--whether it be a miracle blanket or a Mozart CD--is silly. Every try is a show of love, and in the end, that's the number one thing a baby needs to develop both physically and intellectually.

That, and a boob. And really, the moby.

Get a Grippe

Last night around 3am I thought up a fantastic opening sentence for this entry. Last night around 4am I forgot said sentence. So suffice it to say that we have had the flu.

If mucus was a dependable financial commodity, like gold, we would be in the money.

I feel like the past five days have been a lesson to me, and to a lesser extent to Tom, to relax. There's a reason everyone tells you to "sleep when the baby's sleeping;" having a newborn is exhausting! But once I'm up, it's really seductive to just tidy up the living room, and then clean that pile of dishes, and oh, while I'm at it I might as well do a load or two of laundry, wipe down the bathroom and bake cookies. In other words, by the time I've cleaned and cooked and nursed and snuggled the sun is setting and another night of light sleep is descending.

Getting sick has made me rethink the logic of productivity (for the moment, anyway). I don't really like to nap, but starting yesterday I make an effort to share Halle's afternoon nap, or at least spend the time supine, resting. And starting this past weekend, I leave a bottle of breast milk in the fridge so that Tom can do the last nighttime feeding around 4 or 5 am. In some ways it's hard to relinquish my quiet time for afternoon walks or chores, and it's surprisingly emotional to let someone else feed Halle, but these little changes are important. First of all, I want to beat this terrible cold and that means grabbing a little sleep when I can. And secondly, I need to look my type A face in the mirror and admit that a little disorder isn't the end of the world. Besides, if I get a little more rest maybe I won't be quite so mean to the cats when they climb into the crib for the umpteenth time or somehow drag litter all over the house. But those dirty bastards are fodder for another post.

Who Needs Sleep? (Well, You're Never Gonna Get It.)

Forgive the fact that I just quoted from a Barenaked Ladies song. It's been running through my head since about 4am this morning when I finally woke my husband to take our angelically sleeping babe from my aching arms.

It was a dark and stormy night. I listened to the rain and wind lashing against the nursery windows while I gazed into my daughter's slumbering face, half entranced by her cuteness and half terrified by her almost supernatural ability to go from deep sleep to fussy wakefulness the moment I put her down. Because the minute you put a deeply asleep but secretly fussy baby down, she will wake up, need a diaper change (again), by that time be fully awake (again), and then need to be fed (again), burped, and coaxed back into sleep, in your arms, in the nursery chair, in the dead of night much to your bleary-eyed distress. While your generally much beloved but temporarily reviled husband snores the night away in the next room.

In general Halle is a wonderful baby. She rarely cries, even at night. She is not terribly fussy, and during the day I can put her in the Boppy bouncer or the Moses basket and she'll snooze for an hour or two between feedings. But something happens at night, some sort of dark baby voodoo that turns our mellow babe who will sleep anywhere into a persnickety infant who can not only stay awake for several hours, but can also nurse for several hours and refuse to sleep on her back anywhere but in Mommy's arms. And as the Mommy in question, part of me is delighted to cradle her because she's so beautiful. But the part of me that needs sleep spends most nights close to tears in the nursery chair, dozing on and off and developing one hell of a neck crick.

Now, it's easy to relegate all of my comments to the "Mommy is Kvetching, What Did She Expect" folder (he would never admit to it, but I bet that's exactly what my husband was thinking at 4am this morning when I shoved him until he sat up), but moms need sleep. First of all, we need to rest in order to produce breast milk, and secondly there are links between fatigue and postpartum depression. I asked our pediatrician for help and he suggested a vibrating chair, so we're off to Toys R Us today to add to the growing pile of baby paraphernalia in the apartment. We now have a Moby wrap, an ergo baby carrier, a Boppy manual bouncer, a Moses basket, a co-sleeper (ha ha ha) and a handful of different swaddling blankets. It's a little ridiculous, but I think normal for new parents. You think each new product will make life easy...but the truth of it is, and this is starting to sink in, that we just need to get to know Halle's needs and likes, and then most of our baby gear will be irrelevant. Still, I have hopes for the vibrating chair. Perhaps tonight I will sleep between feedings while Halle, Mommy and Daddy snooze against a soundscape of light buzzing and soothing music.

Well, it's important to dream...waking or sleeping.

When It Gets Stressful

So, Halle is 3-weeks old as of last night and already we need to worry about daycare waiting lists. I had hoped this kind of scrambling was isolated to places like Manhattan, where your child's preschool dictates her elementary, middle and high school placement and toddlers are forced to interview for positions, but alas, even Portland has its upper and lower echelons of daycare quality. And what kind of parent doesn't want the best for her child? That's the rub. Admit to wanting the best, and you sound like a Tiger Mother. Do anything less, and feel like a real jerk.

There are two major impediments to high quality daycare: cost and availability. A well-regarded, certified Montessori program (our favorite, for educational and philosophical reasons) runs around $15,000/year for a day that ends at 2:45pm. Even of you can afford that kind of tuition (and I'm really not sure we can), the waiting lists are miles long. But before you object to the price tag, it's worth knowing that every recommended facility I've looked into costs over $1000/month for infant care. Then there are the mock Montessori programs, ones that use the label but aren't certified (the educational equivalent of "all natural" food items). I interviewed at some of those places after graduate school and turned down the jobs because the teaching was so abysmal. In one place, I watched a teacher pass around photos of her son in Iraq, holding a machine gun, to a class of preschoolers, all the while explaining that the dark people in the photos were our enemies and her son was keeping us all safe. Jesus H. Christ. And finally you have the family daycare in people's houses and the corporate daycare facilities. I don't like either of those options. I'm really frustrated that I have to work full-time but instead of making and saving money, I'll be spending pretty much everything I earn so that other people can raise my child. It might be time to look for a better job...

 Well, the babe is waking so I have to sign off. It's almost lunch time and I haven't showered or brushed my teeth or done laundry or even gone the three blocks to Les Schwab to have my tire pressure checked out. I'm so sleepy it hurts...but man, I can't complain too much; this beats my day job. I mean, whenever Tom or I get frustrated we look at this face:

How could we resist such kisses?

The Foundation Myth

Tuesday, January 24th, 2012. 7:22pm. Enter Halle Rose.

My water broke at work four weeks before Halle's due date. Soaked in amniotic fluid, I breathlessly went through all of the bureaucratic procedures to leave work early; texted my husband ("Emergency. Don't panic, but call me."); and drove myself to the hospital.

I wasn't having any labor pains yet, so the idea of driving myself to the hospital wasn't as obscene as it sounds. I was able to calmly squish myself up to the fifth floor Women's Pavilion and check in for delivery. I was almost giddy with the unreality of the situation. Who has a first baby four weeks early?

By the time my goggle-eyed husband arrived at the hospital a half hour later, I was gowned and being monitored, still deliciously without any major pain, and thinking, "This is kind of fun." Thirty minutes after that I was having the worst cramps of my life and rethinking my natural childbirth fantasies. Ten minutes after that I was fully dilated and pushing. For two hours.

Halle wanted to be born early. She wanted to be born quickly. She was just a little hesitant about actually leaving the womb.

Because my labor progressed so quickly, there was no time for pain medication. (This is a fact I mused over quite a lot during the quieter moments of the pushing stage.) According to my mother, I was pretty stoic but kept repeating, "I want this baby OUT of me!" And it's true: you really do want that baby out of the goddamned birth canal and into your arms. Pushing is the hardest physical feat I have ever accomplished and the only thing that got me through it was the knowledge that it (a) had to happen, and (b) ended in a baby. The nicest thing I can say about labor pain is that it has a definitive purpose and a definitive end. As soon as that baby pops into the doctors arms, the cramping ends and your world changes. You have a sticky, exhausted infant in your arms, a terrified new dad by your side, and about ten people bustling around your gaping vagina. The nurses bare your breasts to the world (and any visitors--my dad rushed in as soon as the baby appeared, which is something I am truly grateful to have been too exhausted to notice, especially since I wasn't just topless but bottomless, being stitched up after an episiotomy), and they put your naked newborn onto your chest.

Which is miraculous. Did you know that the mother's body thermo-regulates the baby's temperature? Your little baby gets as much warmth from you as she needs, and the two of you can lie there together stunned by the magnitude of birth. I barely remember it, but I know in my bones that it was the best thing that has ever happened to me.

I had Halle three weeks ago today, and each day has been a sleepy wonder. I've been peed and pooped on, spit up on, and I find none of it disgusting. I'm running on 3-5 hours of sleep in a 24-hour period, but I'm not crazy yet. I nurse an average of every 2 hours and feel like a dairy cow (my daughter can't really focus on my face yet, but she can smell my boobs from a foot away), and the minute I think about nursing my milk leaks everywhere. I've never done so much laundry in my life (we don't own a washer-dryer) and we've gone through something like 180 diapers. At night I peer over the bassinet watching her breathe, making sure she's breathing, holding my own breath in a ridiculous, unconscious attempt to give her as much oxygen as possible.

Being a mom, and being a wife to a dad, are two new jobs that are hard to describe, and I'm going to use this blog as a place to parse out my feelings, both when they're joyous and when they're fearful, or fearsome. I'm not writing this for an audience, but if you stumble upon my blog and take some comfort in it, or laugh with (at) me as I fumble through motherhood, I'll appreciate the company.

And of course, I'll post pictures.