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."