You are currently browsing the tag archive for the ‘babies’ tag.
It’s almost my birthday and I am thinking a lot, as one does when a birthday approaches, about everything. Asking a lot of questions.
I am thinking about why every book I read seems to contain a subtle but unmistakable link to the previous book I read, like a scene set in New Haven, Connecticut, or a young character hospitalized with a serious illness, or a political protest. Why are books about witches and witch trials so popular right now? Perhaps, or probably, because most men (and some women) have always been threatened by women who are strong and independent and powerful, and they still are. I have read a lot of books about the persecution of witches and they never fail to enrage me. Maybe I just want to be a witch. I also want to have to a Scottish accent. Or listen to Scottish accents. All day.
Books consume me these days. Reading always has, but lately novels are my means to escape from our ceaselessly corrosive culture. I can hardly stomach our society and the way it treats people–people of color, women, LGBTQIA+ individuals, people with disabilities. Basically anyone who isn’t Mitch McConnell or similar. Even though books I read have bad guys and characters have bad days and there is trauma and suffering there is also so much joy and redemption and humor and empathy and fascinating and strange and delightful people with whom I can immerse myself. Of course that good stuff exists in my real life too, but it’s not as reliably accessible. Reading is my vice and my virtue. The novels I read also help me understand why people can be such schmucks. But it doesn’t make their cruelty any easier to take.
I am thinking about earwax, and where it comes from, and where those teeny tiny flies that emerge from the drainage holes in the back of our bathroom sink come from. And how you wouldn’t want those flies to encounter your earwax. Why do the flies only appear in that bathroom? Do they have a purpose in life? If so, I am quashing that purpose. Sorry, little guys. Apparently as my birthday approaches, I am inclined to tie together loose threads. Sometimes they come unraveled again.
I am pretty sure I believe that people can change, but how much I am not sure. At the age I’m about to be tomorrow, I feel like what’s left for me to master is infinite and what I don’t understand is vast. Certainly there is plenty for me still to learn. But what’s my capacity to learn it? I played soccer last night, the second game in my 12th (?) season of playing in the Arlington Women’s Soccer League. I am fairly confident I’m never going to get any better at soccer. I would say I’m probably better than most people who have never played the game. But I am not as good as most of the women who play on my team or in our league. Admittedly, I do not practice outside of our games and I have not put time or energy into improving except for the simple fact that I am showing up and doing my best. And after all these years, I still have to remind myself every single Monday that showing up is enough.
Yesterday I was the guest speaker for a class in the school of public affairs at American University. My co-worker and friend teaches the class and invited me to talk about nonprofit communications. I love talking with students about writing and communicating, whether it’s elementary school kids at career day or college students. The crux of the conversation was that communication is all about choices. When you interview someone, you choose what to ask and how to ask it. When you write about the interview, you choose what facts to focus on and what to leave out. Your choices have immense power to influence the reader and their perception of the subject. When you’re doing nonprofit communications, you choose your audiences, and how you’re going to reach them, and what you want them to do. You can’t control what they do, but your choices can push them in one direction or another, if you make good ones. I told the class that usually the choices aren’t right or wrong, but they always matter.
In recent weeks I’ve visited a lot of college campuses. In addition to the class visit at AU, we spent our spring break touring colleges so my high school sophomore daughter can start thinking about what’s possible for her after she graduates. More choices. Big ones. Complicated choices. Seeing these colleges is exciting and also startling. I cannot quite comprehend that it’s been more than 25 years since I was one of those kids, at a point in my life when so many choices lay ahead of me–lavish, abundant possibilities. Even though I am only middle-aged now, I feel like there are so many choices behind me, so many doors closed, that I am unsure about what’s left. I have chosen my husband and we chose to have two children and we chose how to raise them. We chose where to live, and what jobs to have, and even though some of the small details may change, it feels like we’re pretty locked in to our current circumstances, for better or for worse. This is primarily because of bad choices, most of which are around money. My brain does not like to keep track of money, or calculate things, or hold onto numbers of any kind. I can’t even remember my license plate number. I think I have dyscalculia, although I’ve never been diagnosed, and people have made fun of me when I’ve brought it up.
Some part of me has always hoped that my financial foibles would be graciously overlooked because of my decency and tendency toward kindness. That I would be excused from my mistakes by virtue of my virtue. I don’t think it actually works that way.
When I was talking to the AU students, all of whom were taking notes (I hope, and not doing something else entirely) on their laptops, I kept thinking how I had to take notes by hand in college. And I went to college before ordinary people even had the internet! Not that it’s a good thing or a bad thing. It’s just a thing. Making choices was a whole different ball of wax before the Internet. I don’t know that we make any better choices now, we just make choices while information floods our brains. What did my brain used to be full of? Song lyrics? Hormones? Possibilities? Questions, for sure. That hasn’t changed.
What do I want from the rest of my life? More chocolate cake? Bigger muscles? The chance to hold more babies. Last week I interviewed four young women for a project for work. When I asked one of them–Patrese–to sign a consent form acknowledging that our interview would be recorded and excerpts from it posted online, she asked me to hold her baby. I was glad to. I hoisted the little girl onto my hip and talked with her about what her mom was doing. She played with the laminated card on which interview questions were printed and listened to the noise it made when she moved it around. She dropped it. I picked it up and handed it back to her. Several times. I continued to hold the little girl, who was wearing a denim jumper over her diaper, while we set up the camera and the lights and got Patrese set up with her mic. I bounced the baby while I interviewed her mom about how the pandemic affected her life and what she’s had to do as a result. I held her baby while I asked her about safety, and family, and the kind of world she would like to see her baby grow up in. By the time we finished talking, that little girl was fast asleep on my chest. I wondered if Patrese was going to take her back or if she was simply too relieved to have someone else holding her baby for a little while. I would’ve kept holding her too. But I handed her back, trying not to wake her up. I was thinking about all the ways the pandemic changed my life, which were different, but not entirely, from Patrese’s. I don’t know if those feelings– isolation and uncertainty, and that sense of being in survival mode–will ever truly go away, even when we’re surrounded by people and things are theoretically ok. Maybe it’s the uncertainty that haunts me the most. The constant grinding in my brain of questions that have no answers. Choices that may not be right or wrong but simply are. Maybe all I can ask for in the rest of my life is patience and the ability to take a few deep breaths and let the questions float away.
Share this:
1. Strong pelvic floor muscles
2. A bespoke suit. Or a bespoke dress. Or a bespoke outfit or any sort. The word bespoke is really cool to say and I love the idea of someone taking my measurements and making something that’s just for me.
3. Never having to enter a password or retrieve a password or reset a password ever again. Ever.
4. Migraine meds that always work. Asking for an end to migraines would be too greedy, obviously.
5. Insurance companies that always cover everything without first denying your claim or pretending you don’t have coverage that you know you do or deciding they know more about your health than you and your doctor do. Excellent health insurance for everyone. That includes vision and dental because eyes and teeth are actually parts of your body.
6. One remote that enables you to find and watch all of the shows you have access to through any device or streaming service, which you can operate entirely on your own without asking your kids or husband for help. And the remote never gets lost. If it falls between the sofa cushions, some mechanism ejects it automatically and returns it to the coffee table.
7. 500 more square feet of house. I know it would be too much to ask to have a new house, but I would love just a bit more space so I could have a room of my own in which to work or read or meditate or hide. A room with a door. That no one else claims as their own. Or leaves their crap in. Ha! Even if I had such a room other people’s stuff would inevitably end up there. That is the way of the world.
8. Bras whose hooks never get bent or stab you, and are always easy to take on and off, and that fit well and are flattering. And that you don’t have to shop for! Bespoke bras.
9. Moisturizer that is appropriate for my skin type. That I don’t have to shop for. Bespoke moisturizer!
10. A family pet whose species my family can agree on adopting. And who comes with free food and meds and fully paid vet bills for at least the first year. A pet that everyone will love to snuggle. Although I would prefer to snuggle babies from time to time. But I’m pretty sure the family will not agree to adopt any babies.
People keep asking what I want for Christmas. This is probably too much to ask, especially with Christmas the day after tomorrow. So I’d be happy with some soft, warm socks. Or chocolate chip cookies. Or a hug. I’m easy to please.
Share this:
For her imminent eighth birthday, Zoe has asked for sparring gear (so she can participate in the sparring class at Evolve All, where she takes mar
tial arts), a Jedi robe (in part so she can be Luke Skywalker for Halloween, after having been Princess Leia this past Halloween), action figures from Big Hero 6; and Legos. Oh, and to get her nails done with me.
I don’t know what exactly this means, but she is a far cry from the fairy princess she used to pretend to be. Her favorite books right now are a series about clans of cats that fight each other to establish dominance. When she asked her grandfather to guess what she planned to be for Halloween this year and he said Princess Leia, I reminded him that she had already been Princess Leia, but that he was close. I meant close as in someone else from Star Wars, but he thought I meant another princess, so he said, “someone from Frozen?” Zoe scoffed. She does like Frozen, and we watched it again just last week, but not as much as she loves Star Wars, and she said, “I would never be a princess from Frozen.”
Certainly Zoe still loves her American Girl dolls, and has taught her brother how to properly brush their hair, because he wants to get in on the grooming action. He loves to take care of her babies (and the baby–Sam–that he received for Christmas this past year) and is often stuffing pretend food into their mouths. But Zoe also has her American Girl dolls teach her baby dolls how to do tae kwan do. I think her dad is relieved that the days are over when Zoe wants to play mommy-having-a-baby or be a princess with Randy acting as prince.
She also loves to play board games and word games and sometimes she beats us at Othello and Trivial Pursuit. She loves to draw and she has created a cartoon superhero named Pet Girl, who takes care of lots of animals. She still draws lots of rainbows that say “I love you Mommy.”
She is stubborn and argumentative and has already mastered the teenage glare although she’s still five years away from adolescence. She loses things and doesn’t pay attention and asks over and over for things she know she can’t do or have. But she is also the sweetest big sister who deeply adores her little brother, even though she does get annoyed when he gets into her stuff, which happens all the time. She is thoughtful and compassionate and curious. I love the person she is and the way she is learning to see the world and her place in it. I love that she would rather look in the boys section at Old Navy for Star Wars or soccer t-shirts instead of the girls’ section for Hello Kitty. Although she did wear a sequined panda shirt today that she recently picked out. I love that she wants to wear matching clothes with her brother and take baths with him. And she wants to be elegant and beautiful and go to royal balls and tea parties and try on makeup. I don’t love the makeup. But I get it.
Part of me cringes at the thought of her sparring, and I wouldn’t let her do it if it weren’t part of the instruction at the martial arts school we love so 
much where they teach you that the black belt attitude is about caring, responsibility, respect, determination, and patience. It’s not about fighting. I imagine the sparring will help build her strength and confidence, which is a good thing for any kid. And you won’t be able to see her manicure underneath the sparring gloves, but her nails will definitely be lovely.
Share this:
I often think about the parents I know who have a bunch of kids. Three or more is what I consider a bunch. I know a few families with five or six or eight. I don’t think this is good or bad, I just don’t understand how it works. As someone who was an only child until the age of seven, and then a proud big sister of one, and as a mom of an only child for nearly six years eagerly anticipating a baby, having so many children seems like an impenetrable mystery to me.
As it is, I’m having a hard enough time dealing with the transition from one to two even though number two won’t be born for a couple more months. And in case you didn’t know, number two was and is extraordinarily wanted. There is no question about that. And even number one has articulated her desire for a younger sibling for several years. She’s wanted it as much as we have. And even now she hugs and kisses my belly (and her brother) good night every evening. She talks to him and feels him kick and helps pick out clothes and toys for him. You couldn’t ask for a more devoted big sister-to-be.
But what’s proving difficult for both of us is–as much as the size of my belly increases daily–there seems to be less and less of me available to her. It’s nearly impossible for her to sit on my lap, which makes both of us sad. It is sometimes excruciatingly painful for me to sit on the floor with her. Even snuggling with her at bedtime is a challenge. I take up too much room in the bed and it’s difficult and painful for me to get up and down so I am less willing to rearrange, hand her the cup of water, or generally comply with what used to be routine requests.
I have been told by more than one person–both medical professionals and compassionate friends and family members–that she just has to deal. This is just a preview of what’s to come in terms of her having to share me and my attention with her brother. Of course I understand this is true. But that doesn’t make it easy. This is the child to whom I have given my whole heart and my whole self for several years. It seems cruel and selfish to feel like I’m holding out on her. Yes, I understand I’m not actually being cruel or acting selfishly, but that’s how it feels. Do you get that?
I know it will all be worth it and that the joy and adventure of having a sibling will be fantastic for her, and our new family composition and dynamic will be wonderful, however it plays out. But it’s a big freaking change.
Friends keep asking me if I’ve wrapped my head around the idea of having a boy. This is something I was previously worried about, which now seems very silly to me. Now what I’m trying to comprehend is just how different this baby’s existence will be than Zoe’s. Not better or worse, but different. We’ve been invited to participate in a loose group of new and expectant parents, most of whom are first-time parents. There was a lot of discussion about when to have an initial meeting, and several couples said they couldn’t meet until after a certain date when their kids had received shots, or after a certain number of weeks, because they weren’t supposed to be out of the house, or around people. I just had to laugh. Maybe we were the exact same way when Zoe was born. Truthfully, I don’t remember. But this time around, probably when he’s a week or two old, I will be taking this boy with me to pick up Zoe from school, to take her to tae kwan do, and basically anywhere else Zoe needs to go, and just hoping no one sneezes on him. This is reality. And clearly zillions of other parents do this all the time. Most parents in the world don’t have the luxury of cocooning themselves and their babies in germ-free isolation until a specified date. And I’m not asking for that. But just envisioning how much the baby’s schedule will revolve around Zoe’s, perhaps until he’s old enough to have his own schedule, is hard to absorb. I know it will be fine. I know we’ll figure it out. But we are spoiled by what we’ve dealt with for the past several years in just one child. And that’s been complicated enough.
We will probably buy a mini-van. Someday, hopefully not in the too far distant future, we’ll move from our townhouse to a slightly larger single family home. But in the meantime, our kids will share a room. Life will change. And we will adjust. I know there’s plenty of love in my heart to go around. I just wish sometimes that there was more lap.
You Ask a Lot of Questions 