new world, big kids

So I guess I need to address the very obvious fact that I've been away awhile. Looked like I jumped ship, didn't it? Not entirely true, because I've been writing half posts and never completing them, thinking about writing posts that I don't even begin. And then there's that other blog still percolating. I'm inclined to believe that intention should count for something, somewhere.

And then in that last post I didn't even acknowledge the oh-so-long break in posts. That's because I got moving with the writing and didn't want to stop for explanations.

Let's just pretend that you're already caught up, shall we? I hate coming back after a break because I feel I have to address the absence in a post that isn't really a post but some space filler of explanation that essentially always means the same thing: blah blah blah. Life takes a winding course and except for tragedy it's all mostly the same. I'll let you know if there are any tragedies.

I've moved into a new parenting time slot, did you know? Since I last hung out with you there have been major developmental changes. I heard this truth most loudly at an event for folks with babies and very young children recently. I happened to be there without kids so my attention was not diverted by my perpetual role as referee (oh the bickering drives me craaaazzzyyy). I looked around at the strollers and diaper bags and parents chasing escapee toddlers, and I thought "I don't live in this world anymore." It was a funny realization, especially since it should have been obvious. Those days were so tiring, a hundred hours each, and ran on one after the other without pause. Although intellectually I knew it wouldn't last forever, I never believed it. Suddenly I felt naked without my stroller: a kind of shield, a buttress, and let's face it - so helpful with the schlepping of stuff.

Things changed and I didn't even notice when it happened. I've moved from babiesandpreschoolers to schoolagedkids. The most obvious illustration of this new world is school, but the most important difference is developmental. It has to do with a mental progression, an ability to understand explanations, to not completely lose one's shit when asked to clean up the legos, to control reactions when frustrated hungry tired overwrought. Mostly.

The immediate down side is that the first of school also (evidently) means a soup of germs, which felled us straight away. Looking back on this blog, I want to acknowledge that I have spent a good amount of time enumerating our illnesses, which are many. I've spent a lot of time complaining about being ill, about fevers and stomach flus and many tv filled sick days in preschool. More weight in illness than a blog should carry. So none of that now except to say that because I've done nothing but lie on the couch or take care of sick kids for over 2 weeks now, my house is a DISASTER. Which makes me Crazy Lady. Just so you know the temperature of our spaceship.

So. Kindergarten and First Grade. A brave new world. I no longer have a child in the Waldorf school, which is sad, but it's also kind of exciting for the next thing, for us to be here.

And where is here? It is with a girl turning seven this minute, a girl who is sometimes overcome with so much love that she just has to say it, "I love you so much, Mama."It is here with a boy who is right on the very tip edge of losing the last of his babyness, and he's scared to see it go, scared not to be a baby and feel coddled, scared to have to learn and accomplish things.

It is here. Here where we all put on our shoes and our jackets at 8 am, leash the dog and trek to school 3 blocks away, watching for the trolls under the bridge. Here where Clark often pulls away from my kisses, where Frances is apart from me all day in a climate I know very very little about. It's odd to have her gone away from me so much, to feel so out of touch with her social life. I have to just trust that she will make good decisions, that she will choose the way that is warmed by the light. I know that often when I ask about their days they will not tell me, and I have to be open and present, so that when they do want to talk I am listening. I don't want to miss it.

me the mama, the salve.

For the past week I've been nursing sick kids--quite sick, with high fevers and empty eyes and no appetite. Everybody's been home from school. Today, however, I had one half-sick kid and one nearly-well kid with buckets of energy. Aaaaannd now I've got the fever. The last two days I've been achy and exhausted and completely unable to do anything more than chop cubes of cheese and pour cheerios into a bowl. Since it's February and we live in upstate NY, the temp and wind have been such that the only time I even opened the door today was to let the dog out then back in.

So today when Mitch got home, I collapsed on the couch and begged to be released from bedtime duties. It mostly went well, until the end. I thought the kids would be ready for bed early, both of them still somewhat sick, but I probably didn't factor in the fact that we hadn't left the house since Tuesday. Poor Clark wailed and howled. Mama Mama Mama Mama! I listened from downstairs, wondered if I should let Mitch handle it, thought maybe it would be good for Clark to have someone else comfort him. But since he was specific in his request for me, after a few minutes up I went.

Mitch was working on his laptop outside Clark's room, and as I passed him he said, "Are you sure Clark's ready for bed?" The minute I appeared Clark got quiet and wiped his wet face with his palms. Poor guy. It's true that he seemed awake. Not strung-out-and-over-tired awake, just awake. He talked about his stuffed pony. He told me about the cricket on his shirt. I wondered if I should just bring him back downstairs and try again later. I thought I'd sing to him first, however. 

There are two songs I recently reintroduced into our nighttime playlist, both tunes that I sang to him when he was a baby, when I walked the floor to get him to sleep. It's been interesting: one of the two he wants over and over now, every night, and the other makes his eyes heavy in the first few notes. It's like a muscle memory. So tonight, though he seemed so very awake, I started the first song, assuming he would break in with a request for different lighting or some pretzels. 

You can guess where this is going. I wasn't halfway through the first song when his eyes started to droop. By the end of the second round he was so asleep that his thumb had already fallen from his mouth. It took all of three minutes. 

When I emerged from the room Mitch said, "He needed his mama. I wasn't going to do, that's for sure." Apparently Mitch had tried to comfort him, tried to hold him; Clark wouldn't even look at his daddy, just pushed him away. And Clark is crazy about his daddy. 

He's in a mommy stage, there's no question. I knew that already. (So is Frances, by the way, and the two of them together can sometimes be a little more love than I can handle.) But it's interesting to me that he calmed so quickly when I arrived, that he gave in to the deep rest of sleep so immediately. It's true; he needed me. I don't know why, but it seems odd to me that these little creatures need me so deeply, and not just for the safety and regularity of routine (I get that. I am the one home with him all the time, the one making meals and bandaiding scrapes, the one helping him navigate conflicts with his sister and his fear of the monster upstairs), but for something more intrinsic.

I'm not explaining well. I guess I mean that I'm so focused on providing the physical stuff-- cooking, and keeping the house straight, and organizing craft activities, and ushering folks into snowpants and the minivan--that I don't realize how much emotional stuff I provide too. Yet as I'm writing this I'm aware that much of the physical stuff is the emotional stuff. I keep them on regular sleep schedules and pack snacks and watch for overtiredness. I try to protect them from the bombardment of the world, while also show them what that world is. It shouldn't surprise me that he needs just me the way he does, should it? I could see it more easily if I were the only caregiver, if his daddy weren't such an amazing father... Am I still shortchanging my role in this? Do I not see with perspective who I am to my son? I think I don't. 

Frances has lately taken to calling me the "best mama in the world." Every time she does it I hear a little disclaimer in my head. But then, the other day I flipped open the book The Emotional Life of the Toddler to a random page and read that, though the parent's job is to protect the child from emotional stress, no parent can do this all the time because the perfect parent doesn't exist. And it's important to remember that children are resilient enough that they bounce back from emotional strain pretty well. 

Why can't I remember that the perfect parent doesn't exist? Why do I (and so many of the women I know) pressure ourselves to be the perfect parent? Feel we've failed when we fall short of perfection? (Why do I hear in my head, when my sweet daughter tells me I'm the best mama in the world, that no, I'm not. Why don't I just hear the love?) Why is perfection, rather than very good solid parenting, the yardstick?


Can't be. Doesn't exist. 

I feel like I'm rambling, like I'm circling the core of the thing. Like, if I could say it right, this post would be half as long.

Okay, jumping ship. We'll attribute the ramblingness of this post to the fever, whadayasay? I've got to get some sleep. 

grouchy #2

I'm so grumpy I can hardly stand myself. At this very minute both kids are in super needy mommy stages and no one else seems to be able to do anything for them. Things like wash their hair or read bedtime books or hand them their sippy cups off the counter although dad is standing right beside the cups and I am all the way across the room.

Today when Frances was trying to get me to play with her and I was being a stickinthemud about it, I said, "You'll be glad when Katie (her sitter) gets here, won't you? She's a better player than I am."

"No, you're a better player, Mommy."

"Why?" I asked. "How am I a better player?"

"Because I love you, Mommy," she said.

Awww.

But still.

And we've seriously got to get Clark's screaming thing under control. I am that parent in the grocery store parking lot, the one you shake your head at, whether from disdain or sympathy it's hard to say. He's old enough now (2 plus 3 months) that he can understand it's not okay (though I say that very thing a hundred times a day... apparently I need a different approach). The screaming really gets to me and contributes heavily to the grumpiness. It feels so invasive, almost as intrusive as when he climbs me like a jungle gym (which is often). Plus, he's getting really willful. Mitch pointed out that Frances used to say NO a lot, to which you can at least respond, "yes you will". But Clark just acts like I haven't spoken, doesn't turn his head when I call his name, walks off doing the thing I'm hollering for him to stop. To which you can only say, "dammit Clark!"

I'm touched out. I just want to sit by myself in our little woods in back of the yard and have no one touch me. Multiple times a day I find myself carrying them both because neither one agreed it was enough to just hold my hand. "Hold hold!" Clark says. "Uppy!" Sometimes I've got Clark on my hip and Frances in a piggy back and I just hope I don't slip as I'm coming down the stairs.

PLUS, as I mentioned before, Clark's climbing out of his bed and staying up until all hours of the night. It won't be like this forever. One day I'll have time to myself again. This is my mantra.

mother love

My son is in love with me. It's one of those Mommy Infatuation stages that I have the gall to hope will go on forever. He cradles my face in his hands, kisses me on the mouth, says "Love. You." When I pick him up from the kid area at the gym (where he's happily waved goodbye to me only an hour ago), he runs to me, hollers Mommy!, literally leaps into my arms. He squeezes my neck as tightly as he's able, then puts his hands on my cheeks, says, "Missed. You." He gazes at me and smiles, a smile so sweet, so complete, it seems as if there is nothing else at all in his world. He's totally present.

He wants me all to himself. Last week Frances was having a hard time one evening, was mad at her Dad because he was at that moment the one holding the line, so I sat her on my lap and let her tell me why she was so upset. And Clark couldn't take it--fell apart apart apart, his heart breaking because I wouldn't let him climb on my lap between Frances and me. Finally he agreed to settle beside us, snuggled down with his blanket and his thumb, tucked under my arm.

Sometimes I look at his full lips and think that someday a girl (or a guy, I suppose) is going to kiss those very lips, will gaze into his blue eyes, and she/he will feel something related to what I feel now--she will feel enamored. But for now he's all mine.

success

Success so far! On Friday, after Clark's nap, we took the pacifiers over to our friends with the new baby and Frances was completely unsentimental in handing them over. Then we went to the grocery where we bought a cookie cake with frosting balloons and her name, as well as a pink foil princess balloon for Frances and a blue balloon for Clark. At home we sang "Happy Big Girl to You" and she opened the Cinderella Barbie I fought with myself to buy for her. (The Cinderella wasn't quite the overwhelming hit I expected, though she does like her... It's almost like she has these Big Desires for Things, but when she gets them they sort of lose luster.) We let her stay up and watch movies (it turns out she's not ready for movies. We had to turn off Nemo within the first 15 minutes and reverted to School House Rock.) until it was pretty much our bedtime and she was exhausted. She slept the entire night through.

Yesterday morning she got a little whiny and said something to the effect that she hadn't given the pacifiers away forever. I said, in fact, that's exactly what she had done and that was why we had the big celebration and why her dad and I were so proud of her. The whining continued.

At bedtime last night, exhausted, (giving up the pacifier permanently means we're giving up the nap completely too), she whined, "paci, paci" and then "I'm not going to bed until Daddy goes to bed." After much ado and exhausting her father's patience (which is vast), I lay down with her and talked to her about giving things up, how we're sad and we cry and then let them go. She brought up my favorite green sweater which is falling apart and we talked about how I'll eventually have to put it in the trash and that will make me sad too. Finally I sang to her. The first seven or so songs were rejected with more whining. It was Edelweiss she eventually let me sing; only three times through and she was asleep.

At 11:30 and then again at 2 she stood by our bed, half asleep, saying "paci paci." But she let me lead her back to bed and climbed right in.

There's more whining today, though not about the pacifier directly, and I suspect I'd whine too if one of my two primary comforts was taken from me. The dentist said it all would last only two or three days; given her personality I estimate it will be double that--four to six--which means only a few more to go. Not so bad.

And it hasn't been bad. She's been a pretty good trooper and I would think of this parenting moment as suspiciously easy if it weren't for Clark's unending screaming about everything. All I can think, nearly all the time, is he certainly is two. (Even random people in parking lots ask, "Is he two?" and smirk at the thrashing fit.)

So now I'm off to the massage my sweet husband scheduled for me for mother's day. What better?

Happy Mother's Day to all you reading moms too!

to school or not to school

Yesterday was the first day back at school since spring break. We got dressed and ready without much problem, and our neighbor came over for a ride to school with us. All three kids were playing nicely, and then it was time to go and Frances resisted. At first she wanted to play school here at the house rather than go, then she didn't want to wear those shoes, then she wanted to ride in the very back of the van where there's no car seat, then she needed me to go back in and get her Dora, then everything was tragic and horrible. I asked her if she wanted to stay home rather than go to school and she said no--she wanted to go, but she still couldn't get it together. I finally just buckled her in and backed out of the driveway. She probably would have wailed all the way to school, but Clark held out his hand for her to hold and that quieted her. So sweet. They held hands all the way to school, and Clark said, "Better." He was so happy that he could help her.

When we got to school she pouted and sulked and clung to me, but didn't cry. I had a feeling the moment I left she'd be just fine, and from emailing with her teacher later that was indeed the case. But when she came home she melted again... complete fall out. She has a hard time with transitions and she had been home with me for what seemed like a month. I've thought before that it would be easier for her to go to preschool several days in a row, and then have several at home rather than go every other day, adjusting back and forth, back and forth. Anyway.

My most recent conviction about preschool next year is that I want to keep her home all together, while Clark goes two mornings. This is a complete turn around from the beginning of last week when I decided that I was totally and conclusively onboard with her going all five days. (I even emailed the school and told them to go ahead and put the payment through, and then emailed again and asked them to wait... I'm sure they love dealing with me.) So the fact I've made this decision means very little, I have to admit. I could come to another radically different place tomorrow.

I've been obsessing about this so much for the past week that I've been suffering from one ongoing migraine.

The truth of the matter is that things are more pleasant around here when there's no school. Frances is calmer. She and I get along better. There's no getting dressed and hustling little people along in order to rush out the door. We have the morning to explore the yard or the neighborhood or the attic. We go to the post office, the grocery, the library, music class. We cook and paint and build things. I don't know precisely why it's different, why she's easier to get along with, but I have some guesses.

One is what I mentioned before--that she can't deal with transitions, and transitioning from me to school and back to me is stressful for her (even though she's in love with school), and I simply get the worst of her. Another, similar to the first, is that the more we're around each other the more we sort of settle into each others' company. It's also a teensy bit possible that I just enjoy the day more when we can go at our own pace and I am therefore easier to get along with. Yesterday morning I didn't slow down enough to realize that the reason she was delaying was because she was anxious. If I had realized, I could have talked to her about what to expect from school, about who she was going to see there and what songs she'd sing. I hate when I miss the cues.

On one hand I think she would do fabulously in school five days a week. I think she would get into a rhythm of the every day and it would be easier for her than what she's got now. I think she would absolutely love it. I know that I can't teach her as much as school does, can't provide that kind of stimulation, and I certainly can't offer her the same social interaction. But is that what she needs? At three and a half? She'll get all that the following year... Would it be better for her to be home with me, to focus inward to the house and the quiet and her mom? Is sending her to school five days just reiterating what society already tells us: that we have to always be busy, stimulated, entertained?

Although this may seem dramatic, I see next year as my only opportunity to really be with her. I was with her full time for the four weeks before Clark was born, and I loved it. But before that I was working, and since she was 17 months old I've been taking care of a baby (and then a screaming maniac of a toddler), only focusing on her for small bits of time. Mitch says I can be with her plenty, even with preschool. Which is true. But the morning is the best time for these little people, and I don't want someone else to have it. She and I have a hard enough time already.

I don't know don't know don't know. But I think I've stopped stressing about it so much. Right now I'm sort of letting it stew. I know the questions, the issues, and I'm waiting to see what floats to the top.

Interesting turn of events for the I-want-my-baby-back blues

Clark got sick. Seriously seriously ill. Monday when he woke up from his nap he cried at first but then sounded through the monitor like he was playing in his crib, so I let him. Now and then he'd cry for a moment and then go back to awake baby sounds and after about 30 minutes I went to get him. What I found was that he'd thrown up everywhere (really--everywhere) and I suppose that's what he'd been playing in. Frances was hollering in her own crib by this time so I started the bath and ran in to tell her Clark was sick and she was just going to have to hang out and wait for a while. I stripped Clark and put him in the bath, piled up his clothes and sheet and blanket and stuffed bear for the wash, got Frances out of her bed and parked her on the sofa in front of the TV, and charged back upstairs to be sure Clark was not drowning in the tub. I was certain he'd throw up again as soon as I had him dressed so I kept him in the tub a long time and kept warming the water for him.

That was around 3. The rest of the afternoon he didn't want to be put down so I carried him in the sling while I got Frances her dinner and straightened up around the house. He snuggled down against me with his thumb in his mouth and it really was a sort of salve for the mourning I'd been doing. Oh, sweet baby needing his mama. He was still throwing up every once in a while and I'd just go to the sink and lean him over--because he was up against me I could feel his stomach heave and tell it was coming.

The next morning I gave him a tiny bit of applesauce with rice cereal and he kept that down, then he went to sleep. He was sleeping so hard but near noon it was time for me to get Frances from school so I woke him. I tried to give him a little more applesauce but he turned away, though he drank some watered down juice. I was literally getting him in his jacket to walk out the door when he threw up all over me. It was 10 minutes before I was supposed to pick up F and I was momentarily struck immobile. What to do? I thought of calling a neighbor but I couldn't ask someone to come watch a vomiting baby while I ran to school. I called my friend whose daughter is in Frances' class. I had to call the school to authorize her to bring Frances home, then she had to come get the carseat and rush over to the school. These people charge you if you're late.

Anyway, all that is more information than you want. By that afternoon Clark had a fever of 103 and all we did was sit in the rocker. When he'd get very fussy I'd put on Baby Einstein (which is oh so soothing) and we'd rock. When Frances woke from her nap she pulled her little rocker up next to mine and rocked her baby too while we all watched TV. I was thrown up on a couple more times and did more loads of laundry and of course having a sick baby is the pits, but it also was wonderful. I carried him and held him and rocked him and he snuggled. Frances is amazingly patient about Clark--if I tell her "I can't now, honey, I have to take care of Clark," she does not protest. She's always been that way about him.

Then Tuesday night I was up half the night experiencing the joy first hand. Of course Mitch had a presentation to the faculty at noon on Wednesday plus his class from 6-9 so couldn't stay home to help. Usually I have a sitter here Wednesday evenings but I called her to cancel like a decent human being. It was a rough day: Clark's fever still above 101, my upset stomach and fever and general achy-ness (plus my period, let's not forget), everyone in their pjs all day, but Frances was oddly cooperative and entertained herself pretty well. There was also a lot of TV. She'd say "sure!" when I asked her to bring me the remote or the thermometer. At one point I was dozing in the tent (which is beside the play kitchen in the dining room, filled with blankets and pillows and stuffed animals) and now and then felt a spoon on my lips as she fed me something she'd cooked on her little stove.

Today is Thursday and I'm aware this is much more detail than anyone needs about my life but somehow I'm compelled to write it all. It was a full experience for me, a going into a different kind of space for awhile, a little vacation from my regular life. It was time just sitting with my children, no chores (except for several loads of laundry at the outset), no errands, no one around but us. Us alone, together, in full physical contact. There was an unexpected joy in it all, though yesterday was really hard.

I don't think Clark even touched the ground until this morning. He still hasn't walked--doesn't have the energy--and crawls slowly when he wants to go somewhere. Mostly he just sits and watches with his tired eyes. I'm still using tylenol to keep his fever down, but he'll get his energy back soon and be a toddler again. I think I'll be more okay with it now.

holiday madness

Well, we left early--between storms--for our crazy christmas travel chaos. Over 14" on the ground and snow coming down as we pulled out. I know my neighbors probably think I'm nuts to say this, but I'm sort of sad to miss all the piles of snow. I'm told there will be more. Now we're in NC and I've been without wireless for a few days so haven't blogged though I've been wanting to.

The kids have been troopers. Several nights running we've had them up hours after their bedtimes and mostly they've done well. The night we opened presents in Virginia at my dad's was kind of traumatic--Clark had gone down for the night before we even sat down for dinner since he missed his afternoon nap, but we kept Frances up for presents. We thought she'd be all right, but it was too too much. She had a full melt down complete with floor kicking, taking swings at mom, trying to rip her clothes off, refusing to put on pjs. We had to pin her down and forcibly dress her. It was exasperating, but, again, not emotionally hard for me, even with the possible embarrassment of having other family members to witness such excesses. I wasn't embarrassed, just felt bad that they were having to listen to it.

Two nights later she was up late again--this time in NC at my Aunt Judith's house--and she did really well. We put her pjs on her before we loaded up in the car to go home and as we dressed her she said, "I not upset. At Peepaws I upset." It was so interesting to me that she remembered and made the connection--that perhaps she chose not to throw a fit. (Not that she chose to throw one at my dad's--I feel certain she was completely out of control and didn't choose much of anything at the time...) In any case, she felt proud of herself for holding it together.

She really is cute.

Another interesting tidbit: we went for a walk at my dad's house and she brought her stuffed puppy with her. At one point there was a loud barking dog that frightened her and as we moved past the yard she said to her stuffed puppy, "It's okay, puppy. Don't be afraid." She was able to soothe herself by using the puppy as a stand-in. I love watching this developmental stuff.

And Clark--Clark is attached. I think I've said that before, but it's become apparent in a new way. He didn't do quite as well at my aunt's house; poor guy was tired when we got there, before dinner even started. He wouldn't fall asleep though I tried to put him down in the crib in the back room, and as he got more and more sleepy he didn't want anyone but me to hold him. He'd holler and holler, not crying, just complaining loudly, and when I finally took him he'd pop his thumb into his mouth and snuggle down on my chest. Yesterday at the moravian love feast service he was the same way. I was the only thing he wanted... Mitch tried to relieve me for a bit but Clark was having nothing to do with that idea. "I have to go get your brother," I say to Frances, "Do you hear him hollering?" and she nods like she understands and relinquishes me.

This is all new, a new level. Generally he'll go to anyone and smile big jolly smiles at them, at least for a bit. It's overwhelming to have him want only me, but it's also sweet to have him be so snuggly. It's a stage I know. Frances never went through it which was a surprise to me, but then I wasn't her only caretaker. She had Mitch 3 mornings a week and her sitter C 3 afternoons. For Clark I'm always around and have always been.

So we've done 4 christmases and tonight we're done. We've already told everyone that we're not traveling next year; all are welcome to come see us if they'd like. I wish I had some pictures to post but I haven't downloaded them from the camera yet... Maybe soon.

bitch and moan

I'm here to complain. I understand fully if you don't want to hear the moaning of someone who is so fortunate in so many ways and won't be offended if you stop reading now.

I'm exhausted. Having little kids is exhausting. We've been talking about getting pregnant again soon, but I can't. I simply can't do it right now. I can't have another baby this close together. I can't stay in this little-kid-no-time-to-myself universe for another 3 years. I've decided we'll wait until June--Clark will be about 15 months--and we can rethink it then.

But my real issue right now is my migraines. I don't know how much I've written on this blog about my headaches in the past, but I've had them all my life. Sometimes they're better, sometimes worse, and right now I'm stuck in a cycle that's knocking me down. It's been almost 3 weeks and I simply can't kick them. The anxiety I was struggling with has lifted but now I find I'm depressed, but last night it occurred to me that it's simply the headaches. (well, not SIMPLY the headaches... also the exasperation, the exhaustion, the frustration of my life w/ two tiny kids, but these things would only tire me out, not depress me if it weren't for the headaches.) It shouldn't surprise me that I'm depressed after this run of chronic pain--who wouldn't be depressed?

And Frances is really sick. Clark's already on antibiotics for the crud he had a week or more ago, so at least he's feeling good. Frances doesn't have any symptoms except fever, but it's pretty high--she won't eat, and we're having trouble getting her even to drink anything. She clearly feels horrible. What this means, of course, is that she wants me all the time. Wants me to "hold..." Wants me. Wants only me. Yesterday morning I left Mitch here with the kids and went to the grocery and as I was checking out he called me on my cell to ask when I was going to be home; Frances had been having a full tantrum for 30 minutes because she wanted Mommy Mommy Mommy. She only stopped screaming at the very top of her lungs when she saw the car pull into the driveway.

Clark wants Mommy too, but that's because he's 9 months old and very firmly attached. I just want to lie in the bathtub for an extended period of time. I feel like I haven't had a break of any kind in weeks, which could be true and not just my skewed perception. Because Clark is so attached and Frances is so needy, having my regular sitters here isn't the same kind of help as usual; the kids don't want the sitters when I'm in the house too. Ugh ugh ugh.

I understand now why folks w/ little kids move near their own parents. I fantasize about the kind of relief it would be to have family near who could help out. But that's not my situation, and it won't be. Gotta make use of what I can. At least we can afford sitters...! I don't know how on this good earth single working parents do this without completely losing their minds. Really.

hormonal emotions, emotional hormones

I'm so emotional these days, which is two parts comical and one part traumatic seeing as I'm not emotional enough in my non-pregnant state. Mitch is feeling a lot of pressure right now in trying to get things done on the dissertation, since in March he's not going to get anything done for a while aside from diaper changes and late night burpings. This morning he grouched at me just the tiniest bit and I dissolved into tears. I couldn't pull myself together for hours. Later, the kids did a christmas pageant at church and just afterward a 12-year-old came up and handed me this index card with two stick figures holding hands on it. It said, "I wish you a friend when you need one," and I almost started crying again right there. I thought maybe it was some kind of omen or divine guidance, and then I realized the kids were handing them out to everyone. I left it on a table in the fellowship room. 

I don't know why I'm so emotional. I mean, of course it's because I'm pregnant and wacky with hormones, but that's not all. Two weeks ago the hormones were just as plentiful and I didn't cry every time someone smiled at me then. The only thing that's different, really, is that I'm not working. School is out. Which means I'm home all the time with Frances. My patience is not as thin as I expected it to be but I wonder if it's more trying for me than I realize. She's in this complete mommy stage where she not only wants me to hold her all the time, but she runs her hands in my hair and kisses and hugs me and puts her fingers in my mouth and ears. Penelope Leach (child expert author) says that for the toddler this stage is like the infatuation of early love; you just can't get enough of the other person. I suppose if I think of it that way I'm somewhat flattered and more sympathetic to her plight than my general reaction which is that I simply can't breathe. 

She is cute when she kisses me. 

stages of Frances

Mitch has been out of town for 5 days and I am not a fan of being a single parent. Especially being as sick as I am, constantly. Today I was desperate and called several of my neighbors until I found someone who would come over for an hour and play with my daughter while I hung out around the toilet. Such joy. When she said she would, I cried.

AND we’re going to France on Friday for 2 weeks. Mitch and I had talked about this trip before, had talked about not getting pregnant until afterwards so I wouldn’t be sick while we are there. At the time I thought, “Oh, it wouldn’t be that big of a deal if I were sick…” I don’t know what I was thinking. I’m rather sad about it all, because I won’t enjoy it nearly as much, I’m sure, as I would if I were feeling better. I don’t enjoy much of anything right now.

My girl is climbing. It happened rather quickly—she’s had quite a leap in abilities in the last 2 weeks. She now walks while only holding onto one of my hands, and the climbing thing. We have this armchair with an ottoman and both of them are lower than other furniture. Yesterday she was standing at the ottoman and I turned to do something, and when I looked back she was SITTING in the chair. I said, “How did you get up there?” but she didn’t tell me. It’s pretty neat to watch her learn these things, to SEE her make the connections. Oh my she’s turning into a big person. While it requires a different set of skills from me to keep her out of things now that she’s mobile, I find it’s easier on me overall. She can entertain herself; can follow me around the house rather than my having to carry her with me. Clearly we need to childproof some areas in which she before showed no interest, but she’s also learning the word no. (As well as learning to say it—she shakes her head no now, mostly when I’m trying to get her to eat a little more of her dinner.)

She’s still extremely social and likes seeing new things and people. She’s afraid of almost nothing—just curious about the world. This also makes things much easier on me. When I was traveling with her, for example, she went to other people very easily, helpful people who volunteered to hold her while I collapsed the stroller or put our bags in the overhead bin. This weekend at a baby shower she let nearly everyone there hold her who wanted to. When she goes to someone new she studies their face with this completely earnest expression. If I’m holding her, she smiles at everyone with this little blink, a flirtatious squeeze of her eyes that is quite charming. Yet she’s also becoming attached to me—but it’s not showing up in fear of strangers or anxiety when I leave her with a sitter (a friend or my mom usually. In fact, when I leave her and say goodbye at the door, she smiles big and waves.) It shows up in the house in that she doesn’t want me to put her down. She’ll play on her own nicely, but if I pick her up for whatever reason, she doesn’t want to get back on the floor and will often cry and hold up her arms when I put her down anyway.

I read about this stage recently—this attachment stage that is similar to the possessive infatuation of a lover. It makes sense. She uses my body like she wants to OWN it—climbs on me, puts her fingers up my nose, in my mouth to check my teeth, pulls my hair. The hair pulling is funny: she grabs big handfuls and is so pleased about it that she squeals and laughs and jumps up and down. I have to control myself not to laugh back at her but rather keep a straight face while I tell her, “No, Frances. Be gentle.” She also tries to bite me. This one took me awhile to figure out. I know it’s partially about wanting to use her teeth, which she loves, but there’s also something more. She’ll bite me on the leg, or the shoulder, or the stomach. She broke skin not long ago. When I hold her away from me to keep her from doing it, she completely falls apart. It’s this reaction that makes me think it’s part of this possessiveness; that, and the fact that she doesn’t do it to her dad or anyone else but me.

When we get back from France I go back to work almost immediately so it will be interesting to see how this developmental stage plays out when I’m not around as much. I have to say that I’m rather looking forward to the quiet of my commute, time to listen to music or NPR or talk on the phone, or just to watch the clouds above the interstate and think about what my girl is doing.

apartness

Feeling sick all the time is really taking a toll… Mitch and Frances and I went to West Virginia weekend before last for Mitch’s family reunion, and feeling the way I do while traveling, plus taking care of Frances, really started to wear me down. On the way home we stopped at my mom’s in Winston-Salem to get the dog (where we’d left him for the weekend) and while there I asked my mom if she’d be willing to take Frances a night that week. In the end it was decided we should just leave her there. We already had the pack-n-play and her clothes in the car. I ran to the grocery for some food and formula and diapers and then Mitch, the dog, and I got in the car and came home. It was an amazing feeling. We stopped to pick up a pizza and then realized we could EAT IT AT THE RESTAURANT. Wow. I told Mom to call as often as she needed, so we talked on the phone all the time. It turned out that my mom had more fun than she expected (and than I expected) with having Frances there. They took walks. They played in the yard and visited my aunt and my cousin and a friend down the street. They went shopping. In the end, because they were having so much fun, Frances stayed 3 nights. Three whole nights. It was amazing. I'd only been away from her one night before--when she was 5 months old and Mitch's parents kept her overnight. Then I felt an anxious pull to be near her, an oddness in my gut that was the missing of her. This time I didn't feel that. I lay on the sofa and felt sick and watched DVDs. In theory I wanted to do laundry and clean the bathroom, but I felt too horrible for those things. DVDs were much more helpful. And I have to admit, I didn’t miss her. I just felt relief. I don’t know what I would have felt if I weren’t feeling so sick, if I’d have felt more conflicted or longing, but as it was I was only relieved. Though, when I first saw her when she came home, I got choked up. Frances, apparently, had no trouble at all. She never once had a meltdown, never fussed, never cried except when she fell and hit her head in the kitchen. She’s rather comfortable in the world, and for this I feel enormous success.