and then - without the courtesy of an eye rub or a yawn, she's 15lbs of red-eyed screaming, kicking, overly-tired sadness.
And I am prone to taking that personally which is about the most stupid thing a parent could do, isn't it? Unfortunately, issues of sleep don't inspire rationality on the part of, well, anyone. There's a reason one of our favorite forms of accepted torture is leaving the lights on and keeping people awake. Eventually it is physically painful.
I'm not going to complain today, though. That's not why I'm writing today. I'm writing today because I noticed something when that screaming ball of tired took the paci and fell asleep. And it was amazing.
She got lighter. Softer and snuglier, I expected. I did not expect this feeling of lightness - the full trust and faith she has in me - and how her whole body just. . . releases. I can't help but feel as though there's a metaphor for faith in all of this, but today's not the day I'm going to make it. Today I'm just going to feel her lightness and recognize that if I had an easy sleeper she'd be in the crib and not in my arms and all of this would have escaped me.
Monday, February 28, 2011
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Ssssssshhhhhhh. . . I'm hiding in the shower.
Or, rather, I was hiding. From the 3 month old baby. Or,well, not really,I guess I was hiding from life. For just a few minutes. Don't get me wrong, I adore my life, I do. I love teaching and blogging and raising kids. It's unbelieveably awesome.
But my god this to-do list. Holy crap.
First there's the have to do. Then it's the really should do. Also the honestly if you don't do it the place will fall apart. That other sticky note? That's the if you do this the short people will stop screaming at you list.
My to-do list is simply a list of lists. My husband's favorite movie is Inception and I swear to you, our lists are working the same way - except rather than lengthening time each time we uncover a list below a list, we dramatically shorten it. And there's no kick to escape from it all.
But there is the shower. Why do I like the shower? Because in the shower I cannot read the lists, nor can I attempt to do, half-heartedly, stuff from five different lists. I can only shower. Is it any wonder today's was long enough as to be just a tiny bit shameful? Oh the wasted water. And time. Wasting things wasn't on any of my lists today.
Off to find a Sharpie and reorganize my lists. So very much easier than tackling them.
But my god this to-do list. Holy crap.
First there's the have to do. Then it's the really should do. Also the honestly if you don't do it the place will fall apart. That other sticky note? That's the if you do this the short people will stop screaming at you list.
My to-do list is simply a list of lists. My husband's favorite movie is Inception and I swear to you, our lists are working the same way - except rather than lengthening time each time we uncover a list below a list, we dramatically shorten it. And there's no kick to escape from it all.
But there is the shower. Why do I like the shower? Because in the shower I cannot read the lists, nor can I attempt to do, half-heartedly, stuff from five different lists. I can only shower. Is it any wonder today's was long enough as to be just a tiny bit shameful? Oh the wasted water. And time. Wasting things wasn't on any of my lists today.
Off to find a Sharpie and reorganize my lists. So very much easier than tackling them.
Saturday, February 19, 2011
To the woman at Cilantros -
You over there. The one with the quads. I'm certain you get a lot of attention and I'm even more certain that your journey to parenthood was rife with struggle and pain. Perhaps losses. Perhaps infertility. Perhaps both.
Mine was too.
But this isn't about your four children of the same age or my three children 4 years apart in age. This is about your eyes. Rolling. While looking my way. While the entire restaurant shuddered under the deafening tones of the emergency escape alarm that my son set off with his butt.
It is about you judging me.
And it is about karma.
And finally comes this: One day you will not remember this moment as one or two or three or four of your children do something stupid and asinine, something so unbelieveably embarassing you can only do what I was doing when you rolled your eyes at me: stare blankly at the restaurant of people and think to yourself "I cannot wait to post about this on Facebook." When that moment happens, I will know. An excited tickle will crawl up my spine and I will know that you, too, are finally and fully a parent.
God bless you. God bless those beautiful babies. And God bless the moment you discover yourself a teensy tiny bit less judgmental of all parents.
Mine was too.
But this isn't about your four children of the same age or my three children 4 years apart in age. This is about your eyes. Rolling. While looking my way. While the entire restaurant shuddered under the deafening tones of the emergency escape alarm that my son set off with his butt.
It is about you judging me.
And it is about karma.
And finally comes this: One day you will not remember this moment as one or two or three or four of your children do something stupid and asinine, something so unbelieveably embarassing you can only do what I was doing when you rolled your eyes at me: stare blankly at the restaurant of people and think to yourself "I cannot wait to post about this on Facebook." When that moment happens, I will know. An excited tickle will crawl up my spine and I will know that you, too, are finally and fully a parent.
God bless you. God bless those beautiful babies. And God bless the moment you discover yourself a teensy tiny bit less judgmental of all parents.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
The Cold Coffee Conundrum
I was just discussing the topic of cold coffee with another mother-artist friend of mine and had to come home and write this. We were talking about multitasking and motherhood and writing and reflected that this is a time in our life when we don't get enough time to sit down to finish a cup of coffee (the baby fusses in the carseat as I write this - which means I won't finish this post either) while it's warm.
And it occurred to me that I've gone one step further. I've gone so far down the rabbit-hole of cold coffee as to actually notice the occasions in which I get to drink it hot and miss the fact that every day is cold coffee day. Times when I drink coffee hot: 1). Church social hour. 2). Waiting rooms when something bad happens. 3). When my husband brings me Starbucks. 4). At 5:45 am to prep for my early morning composition course. And finally 5). When I was in the hospital alone with the newborn and the rest of the family was at home (note the past tense used there: I will not be enjoying this time again, so I look back upon it whistfully, despite or perhaps because of the percocet).
There was a time in my life when I drank my coffee in peace - and hot. At one point, I was a full-on coffee snob with a dedicated ritual of grinding, sniffing, brewing, sniffing some more, and then, at last, drinking my delightful coffee just at the edge of "too hot". I started adding cream and or milk right about then - just to take the fresh-brewed mouth-searing-nature away and replace it with warm (and did you know this: coffee with cream stays warm longer than coffee without cream!), deliciousness. If it got cold - or my guest's coffee got cold, I'd offer a "warm up" or a "top off" to bring back the heat.
I once read that in a study, coffee drinkers can identify the difference in sound between the pouring of hot coffee and the pouring of cold coffee. I was amazed, first of all, that anyone considered researching the distinction -- but secondly that anyone had the time to care, because by the time I read the study, I was a parent.
As a parent, I no longer practice my sweet coffee-shop-snob ritual of coffee brewing. Instead, I rush into the kitchen to the sounds of Can I have another waffle screamed over the baby crying, grab the coffee carafe, with coffee in it from yesterday or the day before that or the day before that, pour it into a pint glass, add a splash of milk (that I've grabbed from behind 3 pumped bottles, a half jar of strawberry jelly that dribbled its contents all over, and a beer that I wish I were drinking but it's before noon so not. quite. yet.) and run to tend other people, my coffee the neglected in this scenario. Or, if I shake the carafe and it's empty (which happens every day or two depending on the sleep I got the night before), I'm running to grab the baby, measuring out Folgers in my right hand while I bounce the baby in the left, saying sssshhhhh, it's okay it's okay it's okay please let mommy get her coffee while counting scoops in my head, and then standing over the pot whispering come on come on come on as it slowly dribbles along, clueless as to my addicted plight.
I guess we've identified a 6th time when I get hot coffee: the moment as it's brewing that I pull the pot out with it's 2 inches of jet fuel in it, pour that into a cup, splash in some milk (leftover, of course, from the kids' breakfast, most likely), and take a gulp which is nearly always followed by the feeling that 1) Folgers is coffee's satanic brother and 2) hot coffee is HOT.
Just in the past month, it occurred to me that if I put the coffee in the carafe while it's still warm - it might stay warm, and I've begun doing so - even heating the carafe up ahead of time with a fill-up of piping hot water. This keeps my carafed coffee hot for well over 24 hours (good carafe, Walmart. Thank you!) and yet does nothing for the cup - which will be poured and lost on any variety of flat surfaces while I chase the children around (children who seem to wake up with the energy it takes 6 cups for me to have. I swear, is there a LaMarzocco in their bathroom? And if there is, why the frak did we give it to CHILDREN?).
As I write this, I spy three cups - most likely filled with some version of lukewarm to ice-cold coffee. My father wonders why I drink iced-coffee in the summer. Silly man. Meanwhile, my friend today proved her genius: she explained that she only drinks coffee out of thermos cups, as they keep it warm until she needs it. A working solution to the cold coffee conundrum.
I could kiss her.
And it occurred to me that I've gone one step further. I've gone so far down the rabbit-hole of cold coffee as to actually notice the occasions in which I get to drink it hot and miss the fact that every day is cold coffee day. Times when I drink coffee hot: 1). Church social hour. 2). Waiting rooms when something bad happens. 3). When my husband brings me Starbucks. 4). At 5:45 am to prep for my early morning composition course. And finally 5). When I was in the hospital alone with the newborn and the rest of the family was at home (note the past tense used there: I will not be enjoying this time again, so I look back upon it whistfully, despite or perhaps because of the percocet).
There was a time in my life when I drank my coffee in peace - and hot. At one point, I was a full-on coffee snob with a dedicated ritual of grinding, sniffing, brewing, sniffing some more, and then, at last, drinking my delightful coffee just at the edge of "too hot". I started adding cream and or milk right about then - just to take the fresh-brewed mouth-searing-nature away and replace it with warm (and did you know this: coffee with cream stays warm longer than coffee without cream!), deliciousness. If it got cold - or my guest's coffee got cold, I'd offer a "warm up" or a "top off" to bring back the heat.
I once read that in a study, coffee drinkers can identify the difference in sound between the pouring of hot coffee and the pouring of cold coffee. I was amazed, first of all, that anyone considered researching the distinction -- but secondly that anyone had the time to care, because by the time I read the study, I was a parent.
As a parent, I no longer practice my sweet coffee-shop-snob ritual of coffee brewing. Instead, I rush into the kitchen to the sounds of Can I have another waffle screamed over the baby crying, grab the coffee carafe, with coffee in it from yesterday or the day before that or the day before that, pour it into a pint glass, add a splash of milk (that I've grabbed from behind 3 pumped bottles, a half jar of strawberry jelly that dribbled its contents all over, and a beer that I wish I were drinking but it's before noon so not. quite. yet.) and run to tend other people, my coffee the neglected in this scenario. Or, if I shake the carafe and it's empty (which happens every day or two depending on the sleep I got the night before), I'm running to grab the baby, measuring out Folgers in my right hand while I bounce the baby in the left, saying sssshhhhh, it's okay it's okay it's okay please let mommy get her coffee while counting scoops in my head, and then standing over the pot whispering come on come on come on as it slowly dribbles along, clueless as to my addicted plight.
I guess we've identified a 6th time when I get hot coffee: the moment as it's brewing that I pull the pot out with it's 2 inches of jet fuel in it, pour that into a cup, splash in some milk (leftover, of course, from the kids' breakfast, most likely), and take a gulp which is nearly always followed by the feeling that 1) Folgers is coffee's satanic brother and 2) hot coffee is HOT.
Just in the past month, it occurred to me that if I put the coffee in the carafe while it's still warm - it might stay warm, and I've begun doing so - even heating the carafe up ahead of time with a fill-up of piping hot water. This keeps my carafed coffee hot for well over 24 hours (good carafe, Walmart. Thank you!) and yet does nothing for the cup - which will be poured and lost on any variety of flat surfaces while I chase the children around (children who seem to wake up with the energy it takes 6 cups for me to have. I swear, is there a LaMarzocco in their bathroom? And if there is, why the frak did we give it to CHILDREN?).
As I write this, I spy three cups - most likely filled with some version of lukewarm to ice-cold coffee. My father wonders why I drink iced-coffee in the summer. Silly man. Meanwhile, my friend today proved her genius: she explained that she only drinks coffee out of thermos cups, as they keep it warm until she needs it. A working solution to the cold coffee conundrum.
I could kiss her.
Sunday, February 13, 2011
In this dream,
I have lost you. Somehow, in the midst of taking care of the older two in the park by the river, you've gone missing. It is winter - bright white and snowy and the water in the river courses around small islands of ice. And I return home, empty-armed. Then suddenly, it is spring and I'm enjoying the sunshine with the older two - but there at the bank of the river, there you are, face-down in the water and lost forever.
This was my second terrible nightmare in as many weeks. The first is too terrible to recount. Both were woven with my fears and inadequacies as a parent - and are nightmares which I feel I could not survive. I don't know what to do with them - I can't get them out of my head - these images that are now tacked on to the vague fears I have as a parent. Over these past three years of wanting - then seeking - then getting our third child, I've been wracked with guilt and fear and an underlying feeling that we weren't getting pregnant with a healthy third child because I was not a worthy mother. And even more so, because I didn't deserve another child.
In fact, I was fairly certain at one point that I didn't deserve the two children I had, let alone another. Everything I did was wrong somehow - snapping at the kids, not playing long or hard enough, not eating enough good, organic foods or doing enough hands-on projects with each other. I wasn't hacking it as a mom and it was clear that the Universe was telling me as much.
In these past few years, though, I've come to the place as a mother where I realize that the act of parenting carries with it a series of feelings of inadequacy - whether that is true or not. In fact, I wonder if, among the best parents, there's a high population of those who feel like they didn't do enough, didn't deserve the amazing miracles that are their children, and, perhaps, could have done better. I don't know, I really don't. I do know that even now - to his well-adjusted thirty-something daughter, my father will occasionally apologize for ills and injustices that, to be honest, I've not ever spent much time resenting.
So I've come to the point now where, nightmares be damned, I feel like I am a great mom. Or maybe just a good mom. Or maybe just okay.
But I'll tell you what -- my kids are fantastic.
They are witty and smart and rambunctious. They have no fear - or few fears. They are creative and energetic. They are fairly well-behaved in public. They have deep friendships and they want to be with me. If I've gotten all of that out of less-than-spectacular parenting -- just think of what's ahead of us.
This was my second terrible nightmare in as many weeks. The first is too terrible to recount. Both were woven with my fears and inadequacies as a parent - and are nightmares which I feel I could not survive. I don't know what to do with them - I can't get them out of my head - these images that are now tacked on to the vague fears I have as a parent. Over these past three years of wanting - then seeking - then getting our third child, I've been wracked with guilt and fear and an underlying feeling that we weren't getting pregnant with a healthy third child because I was not a worthy mother. And even more so, because I didn't deserve another child.
In fact, I was fairly certain at one point that I didn't deserve the two children I had, let alone another. Everything I did was wrong somehow - snapping at the kids, not playing long or hard enough, not eating enough good, organic foods or doing enough hands-on projects with each other. I wasn't hacking it as a mom and it was clear that the Universe was telling me as much.
In these past few years, though, I've come to the place as a mother where I realize that the act of parenting carries with it a series of feelings of inadequacy - whether that is true or not. In fact, I wonder if, among the best parents, there's a high population of those who feel like they didn't do enough, didn't deserve the amazing miracles that are their children, and, perhaps, could have done better. I don't know, I really don't. I do know that even now - to his well-adjusted thirty-something daughter, my father will occasionally apologize for ills and injustices that, to be honest, I've not ever spent much time resenting.
So I've come to the point now where, nightmares be damned, I feel like I am a great mom. Or maybe just a good mom. Or maybe just okay.
But I'll tell you what -- my kids are fantastic.
They are witty and smart and rambunctious. They have no fear - or few fears. They are creative and energetic. They are fairly well-behaved in public. They have deep friendships and they want to be with me. If I've gotten all of that out of less-than-spectacular parenting -- just think of what's ahead of us.
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