like a movie scene

Just a little while ago F and I were in the front yard while she pulled the dog around by his leash. I was trying to get her in the stroller for a walk, and she was trying to delay as long as she could. We live on a corner, and a car pulled up to the stop sign across the street. It was an older little sporty thing, a kind of death trap with the SUVs on the road, a car you drop down to get into. A 1970s 240Z or something; white, missing the front bumper, sounding like perhaps it was missing its muffler too. I paused and watched it a moment as it idled there on the corner across from us. Other than the color, it was just like the car my boyfriend had my senior year of high school. His was brown, also missing the front bumper, and smelled always of exhaust, which I came to associate with sweet and good things. As I watched the car I thought sort of nostalgically about my boyfriend and about who I was then, and I waited to see what kind of person was driving this one. The car pulled forward through the stop sign, and drove past us. The driver's window was down and the driver, a younger guy with dark eyes and a hat pulled down over his hair, half smiled at me and lifted his hand in a wave. It was the oddest thing--he looked just like my old boyfriend. Here I was on the lawn of the house I own with my husband, hugely pregnant and puffy, watching my little daughter toddle over the grass and pull a dog twice her size. It's been 18 years since I sat in that exhaust filled car and felt it rumble under me, and I haven't seen him in over 10 years at least. For a moment I stood there sort of stunned, watching the car disappear down the street. I actually wondered if it were my old boyfriend, here in town visiting someone maybe, but that didn't make any sense. I hear about him now and then and he lives far away in another life. But standing on my lawn, for a strange moment there was an overlap, a pause in which my life stretched itself out and sort of folded over. I don't know what these kinds of experiences serve to tell us, but lately I've been thinking I'm not the same person I was then. Yet seeing that car, having the driver smile shyly and wave, reminded me of all the ways in which I am indeed the very same person, the ways the same dreams pass through me now as then.

extremely short update

We got a house! We're under contract... Yippee!

And I'm in some new unfamiliar place of being relaxed in my life. Traveling w/ Frances wasn't stressful, not because it wasn't tiring, but because of my perspective. That, and she was a champ... entertaining everyone and generally being charming.

Excited and relaxed about the move, excited and relaxed about the baby. How did this happen? I like this new place; I hope I can stay here.

changes

We're in Rochester. The streetlights glow up from the snow. Looking at houses tomorrow, looking for the place that will contain our LIVES the next few years. (A container. tupperware? glass? aluminum foil?) Really tired after traveling, though Frances was a dream—well behaved, happy, having a good time. Right now I choose to believe the next babe is going to be the same. I choose not to lean on Murphy's Law, not to believe that just because this one is lovely the next one will be a maniac. I choose to believe that this is the kind of tot we create, though I know she actually has very little to do with me.

More soon.

this present moment

As I write this, I am sitting at the instructor's station in a university classroom while 32 undergraduates earnestly labor over an exam I made up last night. These three hours may be the end of my experience as a professor; for the next while, anyway, I will be a full-time stay at home mom. (I'm sure I'll have plenty to say about that later on. (I don't yet know, for example, how I'm going to feel about my response to the question "What do you do?")) For the moment I am here in this classroom with kids that I find interesting and sometimes insightful and charming either way, and my child is elsewhere with someone who is not me, and there is a space between, a kind of zone in which the air moves freely.

Something I've noticed lately when I've been with Frances: when we go out—to the grocery, for a walk in the stroller, wherever—I approach her with the apprehension that she might be fussy or difficult. I arm myself with snacks, milk, kid music in the car, books for her to look at. But maybe this apprehension alone causes the difficultness I fear. Certainly she can sense my emotional state. And why do I fear this from her? If she's unhappy, I usually come up with something that will distract/satisfy her. My newest approach is to assume that she's going to be fine, and what I've found is that she is; my anxiety, in the end, accomplishes nothing except to make me anxious, which is a terrible way to live.

Sometimes when Mitch watches Frances she says she wants to go for a hike or to the museum, but when it comes time to get in the car (or the kid-carrier), she throws a fit. She doesn't want to. So Mitch simply changes plans: they play in the yard or go to the park instead, where Frances has a very nice time. Perhaps my problem is MY inflexibility. It doesn't occur to me to change plans... I feel that I must convince her to do whatever it is she doesn't want to, for the sake of the task at hand. Of course, there are going to be times when this is necessary. But there are many many more when I can be flexible and simply respond to what happens in that moment.

This is the real issue, I believe: being in the moment. (In fact, nearly every issue I have in my life comes down to this. It's like I keep learning this lesson over and over. (Isn't that the definition of insanity?)) To BE in this very moment, to simply notice it for what it is, to experience it fully, feel the feelings, smell the smells, hear the sounds. If I can just be, and assume that Frances will just be, then going to the grocery store takes on a whole new flavor. If this very moment produces a disgruntled child, then I deal with that when it comes. In the meantime, the child isn't disgruntled, so it's crazy for me to brace myself against that (so far, fictional) possibility.

(This morning Mitch said that he believes that I get nervous not only about what might happen, but that I won't be able to handle that thing when it comes, that it will put me over the edge. He suggested I change my perspective and believe that whatever comes I can handle. The question then becomes not "Oh no, what if something happens?" but "Hm, I wonder how I'll solve this...")

This Buddhist present moment stuff is also the key to being a stay at home mom, I suspect. (Well, it's really the key to understanding the entire Universe, but there's not enough space for all of that here.) In order to not go a little nutty when staying home with kids, you have to fully experience what it is you're experiencing. They'll only be small for just a moment, and spending that moment wishing for a bit more space in which to move (or nap or shower quietly or pee alone) is antithetical to the choice to stay home and experience their childhood in the first place.

So this is where I am. My new approach is to make friends with this moment: to focus on it, to feel the air around me, to assume Frances is here and fine in this moment as well. It's funny—when I can do this, she seems calmer. She seems to indeed be along for the ride rather than quietly simmering before a blow. Perhaps she was calm all along and I didn't notice because I was looking for signs of irritation, or perhaps she is indeed calmer because she senses that Mom is more relaxed in the world. She's terribly perceptive; of course she picks up on what I'm feeling. I want to provide a world of calm for her, want her to assume that the world is a safe place. In order to do this I have to be vigilant: it's my nature to slide back into anxious preparedness, always expecting something to struggle against, some impediment, some blow. I could do a whole analysis here about where that came from, but I won't. I'll save that for my counselor's office.

hiatus

Just a note to anyone who is checking for new posts: this month I am teaching a Winter Term class at the university, which means an entire semester's worth of material compressed into 3 weeks, meeting every day. So I'm a little pressed for time. I have this week and next week to go, and then I'll catch up here again.

I will tell you that Frances now sits on the recliner in the living room and puts her baby on the seat beside her, and there she opens and reads books to her baby. It's amazing watching the developmental advancements of a little human.

The baby that I'm carrying around these days is active active active, and he's got the hiccups as I write this.

Cheers~

new year, new world

To celebrate the new year I'm going to attach an email I recently found. It was written (by me) to some mom girlfriends on Dec 31, 2006 and is rather interesting to read here a full year later. I think it is telling of what this last year has been for me. It doesn't seem that long ago in time, but it does feel like I've traveled a great distance from this:

****

Well, ladies, we've just put Miss F down in her own room for the first time. I'm ambivalent about it—she's growing up already!! How does one deal with such enormous mundane everyday dramas? And I'm going back to work on Wednesday. Another thing I feel absolutely ambivalent about. I feel like I'm going to miss her so much, but I know in my head (in my head, not my gut) that it will be good for her, good for me, good for Mitch, good all the way around. I find these days I have this strange reaction to other people's holding her—it's a sort of mix of jealousy and missing holding her myself, nothing as completely formed as either, just an odd longing that I feel is absolutely instinct, the mother instinct I've heard about but didn't understand. Ah, a strange new world it is.

I know A already has the book, but the rest of you should read _Whole Child, Whole Parent_. It's not a parenting guide like we're used to, more of a spiritual book, the spiritual awakening that is having a child. It's rather amazing.

It's the last day of 2006, the year in which our babes were born. I'm not really feeling as sappy as I sound. I want to get together soon, with all of our little ones in the same room. They've been in the same room before, but then they were on the inside of our bodies. We weren't able to hold any of them but our own. I wonder if any of us will be awake to see the new year? Probably only if we're up nursing. :)

holiday luster

Frances let me step out of the baby room at church yesterday for 15 whole minutes and she didn't even cry a little! That was at the end of the time. I'd tried to step out twice before and she fell to pieces. But she got settled with the two girls who keep the babies in there, and she was fine. I'm so pleased about it. It might mean I can actually be able to go back into Worship and leave her. It might mean that, for the next two and a half months, I can sit in the quiet and focus on the spiritual for 45 or so minutes every Sunday. Then the baby will come, and that will be it for a good while. But 2 and 1/2 months—that's 10 whole Sundays! Maybe I shouldn't get my hopes up too much about it. We'll see how it goes next week.

Christmas was wonderful. I had a large number of family here on the 23rd and served my first big holiday meal. It was very nice despite the fact that I "cooked" the ham for 2 hours in an oven that was never turned on. We just got out appetizers and wine. My brother-in-law suggested that it was a tactic—get the folks hungry and give them enough wine and any meal will taste great. It's pretty effective, it turns out.

And Christmas with a kid is a different country. All the excitement comes back. I even had a new take on Christmas lights in front yards—always I've judged these things by aesthetic standards. Meaning, I've never gotten the huge blow up santas, the giant plastic snow globes filled with snowmen, the lit and moving reindeer. It just didn't make any sense to me. But now, seeing the awe on Frances' face, I get it. None of the over-the-top decorating is as comical to me as before—it has taken on a luster I didn't expect.

So...I went out on the 28th and bought a 6-foot silver tinsel tree at half price for next year. Silver! And I got some light blue balls to go on it. Our little shiny green tinsel one is cute and all, but it's not going to do when there are twice as many enchanted kids in the house. M won't agree to a pink tree ever, but somehow I got him to say he could handle silver. I'm so excited about it I almost want to put it up now, but I'll hold off. It will be our new exciting tree in our new house in a new city. (Is it too melodramatic to say it will be a new life?) It's the next phase, anyway: the two kid, gainfully employed, snowy winter, silver tree phase. Have I said lately that I'm no longer panicked? Our futures come to us filled with uncertainty and these days that's exciting to me.

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. 

the hard stuff

Frances' fever spiked Monday night. (Again these things going awry in the night! Why not 3 pm??) She felt so crummy that she couldn't do anything but cry for ages and ages. We took her pjs off and put her in the bath and tried to cool her down, but it wasn't until the tylenol kicked in about an hour later that she was able to be at all calm. We both were up with her and after awhile it was sort of like in the early days of baby when there's nothing to do but be up and accept it. We watched tv; we talked; we felt what the middle of the night feels like. It's not so bad. 

The next day she was very fussy and still feverish. After her 10 minute nap (seriously) she was especially a mess and for a while was completely inconsolable. I felt so helpless; I wanted to be able to comfort her, but she was just so miserable. Some of the time she didn't even want me to hold her, or she couldn't accept my comfort, or something. She wanted me near, and I think she actually wanted to be held, but she wouldn't let me touch her; she would just stand in front of me stamping her feet and crying. When I'd reach for her, she'd push me away. The thought to smack her actually crossed my mind; I haven't had that thought since she was very small and would cry for hours. It startled me, and I just put my hands over my face and cried myself. It wasn't that I was angry—it was more like wanting to shake her out of it. I was just helpless. I sobbed, big racking sobs, and this, interestingly, actually quieted her for a moment. I'm sure it was funny to see Mom cry like this. It felt like an appropriate thing to do with those feelings. 

That was 2 days ago. Yesterday her sitter, whom she loves more than anyone else in the whole world, called me in the afternoon to say she was inconsolable again. For her to be fussy with C means something is really wrong. So we took her to Urgent Care last night, where they told us what we suspected: ear infection. What I didn't know was that it was both ears. Last night she had her first dose of antibiotic and today is a much better day. 

It doesn't disturb me now that I thought to hit her, but it did then. It's so clear that having a kid puts you right in the middle of it and you're forced to face your stuff. So much of it is an exercise in BEING, in feeling what you're feeling, in sitting through the boredom and frustration and powerlessness and worry and the certainty that we don't have a clue. It's all very spiritual, this experience, and it's not surprising that I sometimes want to escape. I have a hard time being present for my life as it is, even without the difficulty of caring for another human. Certainly doing it well (being a good parent) means accepting that you can't always do it well, that sometimes you'll have thoughts you don't like, that sometimes you'll respond in ways you wish you hadn't. Thankfully all I did yesterday was cry.

aching

My child has a rash. She woke up with it Sunday morning, welts the size of a dime, a quarter, a pack of cigarettes on her stomach and thighs. Then it was under her arms, the whole area completely red and alarming, some of it puffy, some just flat and angry. By midday it spread down her side and onto her back. When she went down for her nap one cheek was pink and when she woke up it was the other. And it had spread up onto her neck while she slept. This morning her entire torso was one huge red splotch, though it hasn't taken over her lower legs, her arms, or her face. Because it's winter and she's clothed in the house, you actually can't see much of it with her clothes on. But every time I change her diaper I'm alarmed all over again.

And it's hot. Everywhere that's red is hot to the touch. Tylenol helps some, but not entirely. She's got a bit of a fever and is, as you can imagine, quite unhappy about the setup.

Yesterday when I called the after-hours nurse she said it didn't sound like anything serious but that I should keep her away from other folks, especially pregnant people. Well, that's helpful.

M took her to the doctor this morning (while I explained to drowsy 18-year-olds how to prepare for an in-class essay exam) and the doctor said, "I don't know what it is but it will probably go away in a few days. If it doesn't, bring her back." Ah, yes. I suppose I should be relieved it's not rubella or meningitis, and I am of course, but not knowing is troubling. We can't for the life of us think of anything to which it could be a reaction—and it's probably just a virus, like they said, that will pass. I understand that it's common for kids to get rashes when they get colds or regular viruses. Since when? I don't remember anything about that from my childhood. So if it's a regular thing—okay; still, it's so startling to see.

And this is one of those situations (I know there will be many many many) where I feel my heart on the outside of my chest. It's just hanging out there, exposed, raw. And every time I look at those welts my raw exposed tender heart aches.