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.