Today is my birthday! I am 33. To celebrate, I took Rayah for her first-ever doughnut, chocolate-glazed with sprinkles. In our household, sprinkles are REQUIRED on birthdays. That's a little rule I just made up, but which has held true for the past seven years. The doughnuts were a BIG hit, with both of us!
We keep a coin jar high on a shelf in our closet. This morning I got that coin jar down and set it on the bed. Rayah sat next to me while I began counting out quarters for her, and I guess I wasn't going fast enough because she reached in, grabbed a handful of coins, slid off the bed, and then ran, laughing and shrieking toward her room.
She came back several seconds later, pennies and nickels spilling out of her little fist, to check on me. I just sat there, amused, while she slowly approached me. I grabbed her hand, and said: "Rayah, can you give me those coins?" She flung her body on the floor, crying.
"Rayah, Mommy wants to give you more valuable coins. You don't understand it now, but these quarters are worth more than those pennies. AND they're bigger, see?" I showed her one of the quarters.
She looked up at the quarter, looked at me, looked at the quarter, and beat her little fists and feet against the ground in protest. She didn't want the quarters. She wanted the pennies and nickels. And perhaps I should have just given in, perhaps I should have just let her keep those coins. But I couldn't. I'm her Mama. I want to give her so much more than she can comprehend.
So against her will, I opened her fingers and put the coins back in the jar. I scooped up the quarters, opened my hands before her, and offered her my coins instead. Tentatively, she sat up and reached for the bigger, shinier coins.
I hadn't expected to learn so much from my toddler this morning, but the whole situation reminded me of a Bible verse, Matthew 7:11, and how God desires to give us good things, if only we ask. Sometimes we hold onto things that are "good enough," and sometimes those things have to be pried out of our hands while we cry and protest, because we just can't comprehend how much better they can be if only we wait on God.
Rayah's tears dried quickly when she realized I was giving her more coins, and she happily carried them into her room, where we put them in her piggy bank. I'm looking forward to teaching her that she can trust her Mama to give her good things!
A few weeks ago, we found a field of bluebonnets near our home. A massive field of blue bonnets, about the size of ten football fields. In Texas, the Bluebonnet is the state flower. If you have children, it's sort of required that you take pictures of your offspring in such a field. And so we did, happily.
I know I'm biased, but I happen to think this little girl is the most precious, beautiful little girl EVER.
I loved watching her run through the flowers, squatting down to pick a few (Illegal in Texas! Don't tell!), and holding them up to her nose to SNIFF! SNIFF!
I never knew that one tiny little human could bring so much joy and love and FEELING into my life. I hear people say: "I don't remember my life before I had kids." That's not true for me. I remember my life well. I remember flying without a squirmy toddler on my lap, I remember running to the grocery store or to meet up with friends without worrying about nap schedules or whether I'd need to get a babysitter. I remember working an entire day without one single interruption, if I so chose. I remember movie marathons with Roger, just because we could. Life before having a child was a lot more convenient. But it was also a lot less full - I just didn't realize it at the time.
I can remember my life before I had a child, but I don't want to remember my life before Rayah. She is, magnificently, curiously, awesomely, our entire world right now.
For the past many weeks, I’ve been a bit obsessed with Easter. I’ve been reading Rayah Easter-related stories from her Bible for the past month, plus another Easter book that was a gift from a friend, and (dare I admit this?) I’ve been shopping for Easter supplies since the beginning of March. In fact, during one trip to Target, an employee told me: “You know it’s not even St. Patrick’s Day yet, right? We don’t have any Easter products in the store. I think you’re the first customer I’ve ever met who was ready for a holiday before we are!”
Maybe it’s just that I like any excuse to buy my daughter cute things.
Since I’ve been thinking about the holiday for so long, I have come up with tons of Easter basket ideas. (Or this would also be good for stocking stuffers, birthday baskets, or even “everyday I love you” gifts!) I can’t fit them ALL into my daughter’s Easter basket, so I thought I’d share the gift ideas with you – just in case you need fun ideas for kids’ Easter baskets that go beyond the ubiquitous candy and stuffed animals.
These items vary by age, but I’ve organized this list with items appropriate for younger children up top and older children down below. Where I have favorites to recommend, I have.
Sooo…what am I missing on this list? Are there items you’ve included in Easter baskets that I’m totally overlooking? I’d love to know!!
NPR published an article last month that has been haunting me, and this is why: it pretty much said that if I don't speak 2100 words per hour to Rayah, she won't grow up to be a high achiever. She won't be as intelligent as she has the potential to be.
I mean, basically. It might have said more than that. That 2100 words per hour? It scares me a little. I don't know if I think 2100 words per hour. That seems like a lot of words. So for the past month, I've been going out of my way to talk even more to Rayah than I already was. Instead of saying, "Rayah, let's put your shoes in your shoe bin!", I say: "Rayah, let's pick up your brown sneakers with the velcro closures and carry them to your closet, where we can put them into your shoe bin!" See that? I took a simple nine-word sentence and snuck in an extra 17 words. Impressive, right?
Except I don't feel impressive when I'm saying it. I feel like I'm overwhelming my 17-month-old daughter with an instruction that could have been a lot more concise. Now, I'll be the first to admit: I don’t do this with every sentence – my brain just doesn’t work that quickly to remember every time. But I do it often enough to induce a lot of eye-rolling at myself. Rayah has awesome comprehension - she knows exactly what to do when I tell her to take her shoes to her shoe bin...but for all that extra talking, she can't get a word in edge-wise. Which leaves me to wonder if the NPR article was right.
The article was a study conducted over a period of three years, following 40 families -- "rich, poor and in between" -- transcribing EVERY WORD that was said to the children of those families for the first three years of their lives. Every. Word. They analyzed the results, and this is what they found:
"In the end, the finding that most struck people was not about the quality of the speech -- how often rich versus poor parents asked questions or positively affirmed their children -- but about the quantity. According to their research, the average child in a welfare home heard about 600 words an hour while a child in a professional home heard 2,100."
Why does that number matter? The reason this study was conducted in the first place was because they were "trying to teach underprivileged kids how to speak like the children of professors at the University of Kansas." They failed time and time again to expand the vocabularies of the four-year-olds, hoping that if they succeeded, the underprivileged kids might go on to experience similar academic achievements as their wealthier peers. Their report concluded:
"That adds up. [They] estimated that by the age of 4, children of professional parents had heard on average 48 million words addressed to them while children in poor welfare families had heard only 13 million. It was no wonder that the underprivileged children they saw at their preschool could not catch up and often lagged behind once they went to school. They simply weren't getting the experience with language provided to their peers."
As a work-at-home-mom who is also a stay-at-home-mom, I'm the first to say that I don't spend as much time pouring into my daughter as I'd like to. I work during Rayah's naps, which buys me about 4 hours throughout the day. I work while she plays independently, which is another hour or so throughout the day. I work while she watches her Praise Baby video, the only show she's mesmerized by, which buys me another 30-45 minutes. If it's nice outside, she'll play in the backyard while I sit at the patio table, working, for another 30 minutes before I join her. After she goes to bed, I work for another two to four hours, depending on how much is left on my plate, what kind of deadlines I'm up against, and how much I was able to accomplish throughout the day. On days I have childcare (aka my Mom), I'll try to hole up in a room and be as efficient as possible. And then there are the weekends, when I’ll often respond to emails and take care of certain tasks to lighten my load during the week.
Mostly, I just feel like a failure. A failure at work, because I've never reconciled in my brain that it's okay not to work standard 8a-6p hours -- I worked in corporate America for far too long to wholly believe that, and so I intermittently work 8a to 12am or so, trying to balance time with my daughter with my responsibilities at work. A failure at home because there is a laundry pile on our guest bed that needs to be folded, and it is usually about two feet tall; because I am *really* good at making messes - see also: anytime I cook - and not as great at picking them up; because I have a ridiculously long list of Things To Do with Rayah, and either I can't do them because my schedule gets in the way, or I can't do them because her nap schedule gets in the way; because I don't know if I'm talking to her enough, or playing with her enough, but considering the amount of time she plays alone and entertains herself, I'm thinking the answer is a resounding "no." [This is not a commentary on traditional roles in the family, though those do work for my husband and me. He helps tremendously around the house, when he's home. Unfortunately, his work demands regular 70-80 hour weeks, which means he leaves home before we get up in the morning, and usually gets home between 8-10pm, sometimes much later. He is one of the most ethical people I know, and works so very hard to provide for our family.]
Someone has suggested that I just put our daughter in daycare, and every time I hear that, I remember my daycare days from 1987 and become a little bit depressed. I don't want to leave my daughter in a center with germy children who will teach her to hit and bite; with adults who won't care as much as I do whether she eats foods with high fructose corn syrup, or whether she has a quiet place to sleep each morning and afternoon. And I know that daycare has improved a lot in the past 25+ years, but I still believe that the right place for her is home, with me. I am so blessed, so thankful that I am in a position where I get to make that choice, because I know that many parents would love to stay home with their children, to see them all day, every day, and can’t. It's not something I take for granted.
And that means I go out of my way to make her days active and fun, even if it means I go to bed later than my body would prefer. I talk with her about everything in her world, from her shoes to the airplanes overhead to the color of leaves and why some don't fall from the trees in winter. I'm paranoid about pulling extra books to read to her, to make sure we hit that lofty 2100 words per hour hanging over my head, and I've gone so far as to count the number of words in her favorites (including titles, not including anything we discuss in the book, etc):
Goodnight Moon: 128
In My Nest: 36
I Love You, Good Night: 97
The Little Mouse, The Red Ripe Strawberry and The Big Hungry Bear: 158
That’s Not My…(Bunny, Dinosaur, etc.): 48
All together, that’s 467 words if I were to read all five of those books to her once EACH HOUR. That alone doesn’t even get me to the 600 minimum. I talk to Rayah a great deal throughout the day, but I’m convinced it’s not nearly enough. So now I’m REALLY wondering how some parents speak 2100 words PER HOUR to their infants/toddlers. (Not 2100 words spoken within their earshot – the words must be spoken TO the children.) Is that even possible? What do you think? Do you hit that 2100 mark, easy, or are you going to be just as haunted by this as I am?
[This post? Just over 1,400 words. STILL NOT ENOUGH. Also: if you have favorite children's books, I'd love to know what they are!]
I woke up this morning to fog. Lots and lots of fog, and behind that fog I have a pretty amazing view of San Diego's skyline and waterfront. I mean, I'm assuming it's amazing. I only saw it late last night, with the city twinkling around me and hundreds of yachts docked below. I'm in San Diego for work - BlogHer '11 will be held here this August (Are you coming? Please tell me you'll be here, and that we'll get to meet up!) - and this is only the second time I've been away from my baby.
The first time, last September, I was only gone for about 36 hours, but those were 36 hours filled with anxiety. And maybe a few tears. Maybe more than a few tears. I probably wasn't ready to leave her quite yet, even if Roger's parents did happen to be in town and she was in very good hands. When I found out I would be traveling, I was still nursing four times a day. I cut down to three by the time I left town, and had just enough of a frozen supply at home to cover the trip. That also meant I had to take my pump with me to San Francisco.
Now, let's digress: Breastfeeding moms, have you ever had to use an electric pump while also traveling? It is not easy. I needed to pump in the airport, but couldn't find any nursing rooms, and there were no electrical outlets in the bathroom - or in any individual stalls. I actually checked every single stall that was available. I decided to wait, drive to my hotel, and pump there - but then I got lost, called the office, and decided to head straight to the restaurant where everyone was meeting. I checked the bathrooms at the restaurant - no electrical supply, other than in the open area of the bathroom, and I was almost desperate enough to use that outlet (despite how awkward it might be for anyone who walked into the restroom while I was ... occupied). I found the hostess and asked if there was anywhere else I could pump, before settling into the bathroom. She led me upstairs, to an unused part of the restaurant. And there I sat, out in the open loft, at a dining table tucked away behind the stairs, thankful that I was wearing a scarf. For modesty. Don't even get me started when my flight home was delayed and I needed to pump in the airport, without anywhere (or any way) to do it.
(For everyone who has not breastfed, I will explain it this way: Imagine you drank 64 ounces of water an hour ago, your bladder is about to burst, and there are no restrooms, and no way to relieve yourself, so you remain in discomfort trying to figure out where you can go to take care of business. Your bladder starts cramping, you think you might actually DIE from not peeing, and you start eyeing that plant in the corner very conspicuously. THAT is sort of what it's like, except you don't have to plug your bladder into a wall to make it do something useful.)
Fast forward to today. My daughter is totally weaned. She is, again, in good hands (thank you, Mom!). I'm gone for a little longer this time - though not by much - and I'm completely worry-free. It makes a difference, I think. Despite the short trip, I still miss her little laugh. I miss how she squeals and buries herself in pillows, how she talks and mischievously explores my bedside table while we're getting ready in the mornings. I miss her when I think about how much she would love all the windows in this room, standing on her tippy-toes trying to get a better look outside. But I'll see her Friday morning, and it will be so much fun to wrap my arms around her and lift her out of her crib, give her an enormous hug, and watch as she flings herself into all the pillows on our bed.
One thing -- maybe the only thing -- that I love about winter is snow. I love how clean and pristine it is, how the sun and the moon reflect off of it, how everything seems brighter and new. I love standing on my sidewalk and looking down the street at all the snow-covered lawns. I love looking around me at all the snow-covered rooftops. Everything is just prettier covered in (clean) snow.
And now I have a new reason for loving snow! Bundling up my baby and taking her outside to enjoy it. Here is Rayah about a year ago (at five months), when Dallas had a major snow storm (well, major for Dallas, anyway):
And here is Rayah this weekend (at 16 months):
Quite the difference! At five months, she actually fell asleep all bundled up in the snow. And this year, she loved stomping through it, picking up handfuls and squishing it through her fingers, and tasting it! Brrrrr...cold!
I like to say that I begin my New Year's Resolutions on my birthday, but the truth is that by the time my birthday rolls around (in July), I've usually forgotten my intentions. The years I have succumbed to peer pressure and made resolutions on January 1st, my resolve has usually waned by January 5th...so you see, I'm not really any good at New Year's Resolutions.
I *am* good at To Do Lists though, which is why I liked Jenny's idea (she was inspired by another local Jennie) of making a To Do List for 2011. So here's my list, and I hope you'll help me stay accountable to it:
1. Healthy pregnancy. Roger and I are *not* currently pregnant, but we'd like to be sometime this year.
2. Lose weight. Over the past seven years, Roger and I have each gained about 40 pounds. We're both unhappy about it. I've started tracking my calories, and hope to lose some weight before getting pregnant, and the rest afterward. I'm pretty sure that piece of fudge I ate as a mid-morning snack won't help me reach my goals.
3. Blog more. I started this little blog back in 2004, and over the past couple years it has slowly been pushed to the back burner. There are several reasons for this, and I'd like to reignite this little hobby of mine. I especially want to be able to look back over the years and read stories about things Rayah has been doing - stories that even a year from now I'll have already forgotten.
4. Stay on track financially. With Roger going back to school this semester, us trying to get pregnant, us both working full time, needing to hire a regular nanny and still wanting to pay down debt/invest in our retirement/build our savings/build our remodeling fund, we've got a lot of competing financial demands. This month, I'd like to create a realistic budget for us...and then stick to it.
5. Find a toddler playgroup. I'd really, really, really like to find a weekly toddler playgroup for Rayah. She needs some little friends!
6. Plan meals. I enjoy cooking and planning, but don't always make the time for the planning I need to do. If I make weekly (or even monthly) menus, I think our family could save both time and money.
7. Write a Cook Book. A long time ago, I told a friend I'd put all my recipes together in a book for her. I still haven't done that, and I'd like to start that project. Some of the recipes are my own, others are my family's, and a few are recipes I've tried and loved from cookbooks and magazines.
8. Commit to Vertical. Our church has a yearly Bible reading program called Vertical, and this year's program focuses on Paul's letters and missionary journeys. It takes just five minutes a day, if you want to follow along with me: Vertical Devotion.
Updated to add...
9. More outings with Rayah. We have unused memberships to museums, zoos, arboretums, not to mention fabulous parks in our neighborhood, amazing indoor (and free!) play gyms at local churches, free nearby splash parks, unexplored play areas at malls, and a Daddy who'd love lunch dates with his little girl. At least once each week, I'd like to get out and explore with Rayah.
10. Home Remodel. This is more for Roger than me, but I'd like door trim and baseboards this year. We're almost finished with our remodel, except bathrooms and the kitchen, and every time I look at a doorway I get a little excited thinking about what it will look like when the trim is up.
11. Build my craft. I love to do creative, crafty things, from designing cute party themes to creating fun little projects for Rayah and I to work on. I've got a folder full of URLs to inspire me, but I've not made the time to pursue any of them. I'd like to do that this year, and get a sewing machine to help me with some of my more complex projects.
It seemed fitting to have 11 items on my to-do list for '11. Do you have any New Year's Resolutions or To-Do Lists? Link them below - I'd love to read what you're up to, and get more ideas for myself!
Rounded corners? Check! Flags sewn on with embroidery string? Check! Several weeks ago, I made and mailed invitations for Rayah's first birthday party. And then all of a sudden, her birthday was here. My baby turned ONE!
I sent Roger to the store for a few bunches of balloons, and nearly cried when he walked in the door. There were balloons, and balloons, and balloons, even more than I had hoped for, in all the exact shades I had envisioned. Proud daddies are THE BEST for going overboard with balloons! The birthday balloon flying high above our mailbox was just for fun, since nearly everyone had been to our house before -- on multiple occasions.
We scheduled the party to start after Rayah's nap, so she'd be fully rested and ready for the big day...but she knew something was going on, and forced herself to stay awake for an hour and a half past her naptime. She finally crashed for about half an hour, and was fashionably late to her own party. I tend to be late nearly everywhere I go, so I'm hoping she isn't taking after Mama at such an early age.
From her room, she could hear the music and the voices, and kept looking toward the door expectantly. It was so cute to watch her as she anticipated what was out the door. Just before we opened the door to the living room, she hugged me tightly, like she wasn't sure whether to say "thank you!" or "hold me!" When we finally emerged, SO! MANY! PEOPLE! Rayah clung to me, not sure what to make of it all. We walked around to each grouping of people, and she slowly began to realize "Hey! I know these people!" She'd never seen all her family together at once before - we always get together in small groups - so it took a while to get warmed up. Rayah played with a friend that she had invited, Emma, who is nearly her same age. I think having a little solo time in familiar areas (like her play mat) helped ease her transition.
I took on a little sewing project, making bunting flags to match the invitations - you can see them in the background in our breakfast area, and I also hung them over the couch in the living room. (I followed the tutorial at JoyfulAbode.com.)
I made vanilla/vanilla cupcakes using the recipe from Magnolia Bakery in New York City -- this is my favorite frosting recipe; it's really rich, and sweet, and indulgent, which honestly - if you're going to make frosting, especially frosting on delightfully moist cupcakes, it better be indulgent -- each topped with a red licorice ribbon and colorful candy bunting flags. (I flattened Starburst candies and cut them into triangles for these, but you could use any kind of chewy candy - caramels, Laffy Taffy, fruit roll-ups, etc.) Rayah's cake was topped with a sugar cookie "1", which was frosted with hot pink polka dots. Yummy!
And it was!
Today, Rayah is one year old. It seems unfair how fast the time has flown. It's hard to imagine that the tiny, fragile little girl (in the photo above, just a couple hours after she was born) went from total immobility and dependence on me for everything to the rambunctious, happy, curious little girl she is today. All in a year.
Undoubtedly, this has been the most challenging year of my life - personally, professionally, emotionally. Selfishly, I've felt somewhat robbed of my time with her - time that I'll never get back. How do the hours and days and weeks and months pass so quickly? I worry that Rayah will grow up watching me work on my computer, believing that I choose my career over her. I worry about about how it will impact her self-worth, or if it's only impacting my own. I worry about things that I imagine all working moms think about. I try to be purposeful with our time together, working while she sleeps or while she plays independently or while she is being taken care of by others.
I never knew how fascinated I would be by my own child. From the moment my doctor first laid her on my chest, I've not been able to take my eyes off her. I love everything about her, from her hair to her dimples to her birthmarks to her toes. I could just stare at her for hours. Often, late at night, I sneak into her room and just watch her sleep. Or if I don't turn the light on, I'll just stand there in the dark, inhaling deeply. I love how she smells. It's somehow comforting to me, just knowing she is there.
I love to watch her discover each room in our home - she can make a toy out of anything, from a canning lid to a shoelace to a hanger to a drawer knob. She loves to play peek-a-boo, which primarily involves her staying in the living room - she usually stands against the hearth, cruising back and forth - while I tip-toe in circles around our house, popping out from different directions and different doorways, enchanted by each squeal, or each belly laugh, or just by the expression of delight across her face.
I love to watch as she unearths new tastes - Rayah will try just about anything, and she usually likes it. This year I've made all her food, which I love because I know exactly what she's eating. Peas are green, instead of brownish, blueberries are purple, instead of brownish, apple sauce is the color of the white of an apple, instead of -- you guessed it! -- brownish. We've had fun auditioning more complex foods, like pearl barley and mushrooms, or Greek-style grilled eggplant, or mango rice pudding with coconut milk. I made a promise to myself that I wouldn't serve Rayah anything that I wouldn't want to eat...and I've made good on that promise. I know this because I've gained four pounds since Rayah started eating solid foods. Somehow rolls don't look as cute on me as they do on her.
I love to watch as she explore outdoors. A year ago, Rayah was content to lie on my belly and stare up at the trees in our backyard. She was fascinated by the leaves blowing, so much that she would lie and stare at them for 30, sometimes 45 minutes. In the lifetime of a newborn, that might as well be a few hours! Now she wants to crawl around and put those leaves in her mouth. When I took her on walks this time last year, she would stare up at the sky, and then fall asleep within the first three minutes of our stroll. Now she looks around, talks to the ducks who gather to eat our pieces of bread, whips her head around to watch as a car approaches and passes.
She laughs when I cry, not knowing the difference between the two. She crawls to me and tugs on my pants, or steamrolls my laptop, when she wants my attention. She loves to give hugs, wrapping her arms tightly around my neck and holding -- just holding like she never wants to let go -- and I hold her closer, hug her tighter, letting her squeeze as long as she wants, because I never want her to let go.
Yes, year one passed much, much too quickly.
Tonight Rayah woke up screaming. SCUH-REAAAMMMIINNNGGGGGGG. I went in to check on her, and realized that Daddy was weed-eating outsider her room. I guess it startled her awake, that big whirring noise. It seemed silly to ask him to stop, since I knew he wouldn't be out there for long, though she didn't realize that. So instead, I capitalized on the moment.
I picked Rayah up and settled into the glider, quietly whisper-singing one of my favorite hymns, listening to the sound of the engine outside. As I was singing she quieted down, and fell asleep again on my shoulder. Oh, the countless times I've held her exactly the same way, though back then she was so much smaller. It's been a long time since I've held Rayah when the rest of the house was quiet. Often I miss those newborn days, the late nights and early mornings of cuddling with my daughter.
I tried to memorize how her head felt warm against my cheek. I breathed in her sweet baby scent. I thought about how she's so much bigger now than she was nine-and-one-half months ago, but that my hand, with fingers splayed out, still covers her entire back. I held her securely against my chest, clutching her, not wanting that moment to end.
It did end, but I can still feel her against my cheek. And I'm treasuring that memory, not wanting it to fade away.
I've been thinking a lot about what moms really want for Mother's Day (this Sunday!). And I've been wondering if working moms and stay at home moms want the same things. (Note: By "working moms," I mean mothers who are employed by a company, since I know that stay at home moms also work, just in a different way.)
Lately I've been struggling with balance. (Lately equals the last eight months.) (Coincidentally, my sweet daughter is eight months old.) (I'm pretty certain these two are related.) My life is overflowing with busyness. I'm a full-time mom, and a full-time employee. And I don't mean that I leave the house to go to a full-time job, while someone cares for my daughter. I mean that I stay home and care for her, and that I'm also a remote employee for a company I love. So I work 40+ hours a week at home, while also *attempting* to spend that time with my little girl. Hiring a nanny is out of the question right now, because of the way this economy has affected our family's finances. Which makes for early mornings, and late nights, and busy days. Add to that meals, and grocery shopping, and cleaning the house, and laundry, and I'm willing to bet you can guess which of those slide. (Answer: that entire last sentence.) But I get to spend the entire day with our daughter, and for that I am thankful. She's pretty awesome.
Roger, on the other hand, usually leaves for work before Rayah's up in the morning, and comes home after she's gone to bed. He walks into her room several times a night, just to watch her sleep. And just thinking about that makes me depressed. To love someone so much, but not be able to hold her or read her books or even to listen to her "talk" about her day. To only to get to spend two days each week with her. And even then, it's a weekend filled with busyness, trying to do all the things that the weekdays denied us.
So I've been thinking about Mother's Day. I've been thinking that, sure, perfume or flowers or spa certificates are nice. A thoughtful card is nice. But what do I really want? I want time. I want time with my husband and daughter, without the added stress of everything else that needs to be done. I want a carefree day. A family picnic at the park in our neighborhood. Reading books together in Rayah's reading corner. I want a day to re-connect as a family, a day to take pictures, a day to remember.
But I realize not everyone wants the same things that I do - so I'm curious. What do you want for Mother's Day?
A couple weeks ago, our little family visited the Dallas Arboretum to get a few pics of Rayah. We picnicked on a grassy lawn, shared our cookies with two adorable little girls who were running around, and worked to keep Rayah from eating dirt. (Literally, I mean. It's not like she was face-planting or anything.)
Roger is usually behind the camera, so I was excited to snap a few pics of him having deep and meaningful conversations with Rayah.
And I think this is my new favorite picture of me and my sweet little girl - we love to lie down and play SuperBaby! while I get in a little arm exercise. :)
Family and friends regularly ask me how I'm liking cloth diapering, and this is what I have to say: I love it. I love, love, love it. What we're doing is great for our daughter, great for our budget, and great for the environment. And that's what is important to me, in that order. While we haven't always cloth diapered, we did always intend to.
As a brand new mom, I asked myself three questions anytime Rayah cried:
-is she hungry?
-is she tired?
-is she wet?
That is all my brain could muster on two hours of sleep. And really, I didn't even have to ask the third one because Pampers took care of it for me. How smart are they?! When Rayah was a newborn, the hospital gave us several packs of Pampers Swaddlers Sensitive with a WETNESS INDICATOR. Which was awesome, because anytime we wondered whether her diaper was wet or dirty, there was a little line that turned from yellow to blue. We didn't even have to take her diaper off to know its status. And anytime we saw a blue line, we were all over changing that diaper. In the first week or two of her life, Rayah went through about 20 diapers each day. (I'll admit, we might be a little OCD. Mah bebe with a wet diaper? NEVER!) Even with all the hospital gave us, we spent a lot of money on diapers those first many weeks. True story.
But we had our cloth diapers waiting in the wings. While I was still pregnant, I researched cloth diaper types, and finally settled on what I thought would be the best for our family: Bum Genius one-sizes (it turned out we were right - I love this diaper!). Basically, it's a diaper you buy once and it grows with the baby, from seven to 35 pounds. (Though see for yourself: I have photographic evidence that they threatened to swallow Rayah whole until she was about 10-12 pounds.) They have little snaps that adjust to fit (shown here on the smallest setting), and come in a variety of colors (though I do wish there were more, like red and teal and purple, or maybe fun prints).
Each week I would put one of her cloth diapers on her to see if they fit yet. By eight weeks, her thighs had finally chunked up enough for the leg casings to fit properly without worrying about any leakage. For nearly five months now, she's been wearing cloth diapers. At this point, the cloth diapers have more than paid for themselves. We're probably even making money off of them.
I know myself well enough to know that I wouldn't want to wash diapers every day, or even every other day. I am a full time mom AND I work full time. I just don't have time for loads and loads of laundry. So we bought more than average and wash them every three or four days. (Uhhh, this may change as Rayah eats more solids. I am aware of that. I am also afraid of that.) Rayah and I do the laundry together, pulling the diapers apart and throwing them in the washing machine. (She LOVES watching clothes tumble around in the washer and dryer!) And now that the weather is warming up, she's helping me lay them out in the sun to dry, too. Such a good little helper!
I know it's not for everyone, but I love cloth diapering. The mom in me loves that Rayah has natural fibers against her skin. The fashionista in me loves color-coordinating her diapers with her outfits. The budgeter in me loves that I'm saving hundreds (in the long-term: thousands) of dollars by not purchasing disposables. The greenie in me is proud that I'm not dumping a ton (literally: each disposable-diapered baby contributes one ton worth of diapers) in our already maxed-out landfills. I'd say it's a win-win all around!
Roger and I were on a walk with Rayah this evening when we came upon a father kneeled down with his child. At first it appeared as though the child was hurt, and he was consoling her. As we came closer, we heard her crying and pleading with him - whatever it was, she made sure he knew she wasn't going to do it again. Then he started yelling at her. Screaming. SCREAMING.
My neck coiled and my eyebrows shot up. As we were (slowly) walking past, I turned around to look at them. He had his daughter -- she was maybe three years old -- pinned to the ground, in a sort of headlock, while he hovered over her and screamed at her about cars driving down the road. (This was on a walking path in our neighborhood park, bordered on one side by a residential street and on the other side by a creek.) The child's mother stood there, cross-armed, observing. The little girl's face was red and marked with tears. And this father - this father was so oblivious to anything around him, and screaming at her so forcefully, that it seemed abusive to me. He was frightening. The situation was so disturbing that *I* started crying. You guys! I started crying.
Now, full disclosure: I didn't understand the context of the discipline. Had she gotten too near the street (about six feet away) when a car was driving by? Had she been disobedient the first couple times her father asked her to move away from the street? I don't know. But I do know that this man was scary. And angry. He was belittling and intimidating his daughter. I have no patience for that. I wanted to rescue that little girl!
Roger and I quietly discussed whether we should do anything. We stopped and (covertly) watched, waiting to see if he would harm his daughter. We wondered at what point it would be appropriate to step in. In the end, we only watched them. I dried my eyes. The father eventually stopped, they marched past us on their way home, the little girl clinging to her mother's side, as far from her father as she could get. I turned to Roger and said, "I never want to treat our children like that." He had her pinned to the ground in a headlock. She was THREE.
And now I can't get that scene out of my mind - the dad hunkered down, trumpeting his temper; the mom passively standing by; the little girl, back arched, bawling, twisting her wet face from her father's.
I get that every parent has different discipline styles. I understand that I don't know the full story. But I also know that something isn't sitting right in my heart, and even though that family is long-gone, I'm curious: At what point do you step in? Or do you? How do you know when? And what should that look like?
This morning I received an email from my sister-in-law, Rosalyn, professing her love for spring: "...the daffodils are bursting open, the forsythia (one of my very favoritest signs of spring) is turning into solid rays of sunshine as the blooms appear, and all of the flowering trees are vying to get in on the act! I'm so grateful for spring!"
I couldn't have said it better. The past few days it has been 70 degrees in Dallas, and I've been chomping at the bit to get outside. Rayah and I try to take walks every day. We love watching the ducks swim in the creek by our house, watching the little baby muskrats leap into the water when we come near. The daffodils are blooming in Dallas, also, and last week Rayah and I watched a toddler squeal with delight as he ran through them toward his Daddy. The birds are chirping, and blue jays are fluttering around our neighborhood. The Bradford Pear trees are thick with white blooms - I love watching Rayah's face as she stares up at tree branches - and I'm looking forward to seeing my favorite shade of green as trees begin to bud.
I've always thought that spring is my favorite season - I love the life that begins to emerge. I love that sunlight is beginning to stretch the day. I love the bright, bold colors. I love the warm days and deep blue skies. For me, it's the promise of something more to come, the promise of life and growth and beauty. And I guess that's not surprising, coming out of a dark and cold winter.
If you (a) have kiddos or are pregnant and (b) are in the Dallas/Fort Worth area this month, I have a special treat for you today! Twice each year, HUGE consignment sales crop up in the metroplex. Forget church garage sales or Craigslist - these are more like warehouse events, with every toy, activity equipment, stroller system, brand of clothing (and sizes to match!) on the market -- and more! And the prices? Well, those are generally pretty awesome.
Whether you're shopping for fill-and-spill toys, boppy pillows, summer frocks, sweet purses, cargo shorts and graphic shirts, an extra stroller, books, more crib sheets, exersaucers, kid-sized activity tables (or nearly anything else), these consignment sales are THE place to go for gently used, inexpensive items.
And I've got all the info for you...
Yesterday Rayah turned six months old.
*faints*
Six months! And as a little birthday present, Rayah taught herself how to roll from her tummy to her back.
Today we also had an appointment with her pediatrician, and it seems Rayah had a bit of a growth spurt! In the past two months, she's grown TWO inches! Here's her stats:
Weight: 16 pounds, 5 ounces (55%)
Height: 26 1/4" (75%)
Head: 16 1/2" (30%)
My little baby is growing up!
For the past several weeks, Rayah has been watching me very closely as I eat. I began sharing (pretend) "bites" with her on her own spoon of whatever I was eating: soup...cereal...ice cream (most likely). Then, over the weekend, we gave Rayah her first bite of solid food.
It was a winning success!
I am trying to make all of my own baby food, using the Cooking for Baby cookbook. The recipes are really simple and the book has tons of info on storing, freezing, reheating, cooking ahead, etc.
Rayah was born with a head full of hair, so I've had fun over the last several months buying bows of all colors and coordinating them with her outfits. Since I was traveling to Nashville with Rayah, my mother-in-law flew in town to hang out and spend a little time with her newest granddaughter, too. While we were dressing her for the first day, Mom turned to Rayah and said, "I think your Mommy thinks you're a doll!"
Which, yes. Yes I do. She's a total doll, and I love dressing her up in sweet clothes with accessories to match. Baby clothes are just too much fun! One of the bloggers I met at the conference, Lindsey of The Pleated Poppy, gave Rayah the precious headband pictured above. Isn't it cute on her? Rayah only has a couple other headbands, and somehow neither are pink (one of the colors she wears most often, besides blues, purples and reds), so we're particularly thrilled with this newest addition to her hair accessories wardrobe.
Doll, indeed.
Last night I arrived home from attending Blissdom, entirely worn out from a fun-filled weekend of learning and networking with other bloggers. I attended BlogHer last year as an enormously pregnant woman, so this was my first time to attend a conference with baby in tow. And while it was a little extra effort, it was the most awesome experience ever.
Most of the the first day, I wore Rayah in my Moby sling - an 18-foot long piece of fabric that wraps Rayah securely against me. And until now, it's been my favorite sling. But this is the problem: since giving birth, my internal thermostat has heated up. I've changed from a woman who curls up in a blanket mid-summer (in Texas!) to someone who wears t-shirts in 60-degree weather. So having an 18-foot piece of fabric wrapped around (and around, and around) me gets kind of...hot.
That, and Rayah really dislikes being in a sling of any kind if I'm sitting down. (Does anyone else have this issue? Is it just Rayah?) When I was sitting during one of the sessions, Rayah was usually sitting on my lap playing or lying on a blanket, playing (I mean, as much as five-month-olds play. This mostly involved dropping her toy and looking around her). If she got fussy, we'd step out into the hallway for a minute until she calmed down. The third time I stepped out into the hallway, a MomBlogger I'd been talking to earlier in the day followed me out. I was Having Issues, and she was there to help.
See, Jessie also works for DittanyBaby.com, a company that makes and sells the Mei Tai sling. She followed me into the hallway, sling in hand. While I held Rayah, Jessie showed me how to wear the sling. And then? Then she told me to that I could HAVE the sling. You guys! This sling is magical!
First: it is not hot, because it has simple straps that hold it in place, not 18 feet of fabric.
Second: Two minutes later, Rayah was asleep. And she STAYED asleep for the rest of her naptime. And then everyone commented on the magicalness of a baby who slept. EVEN AFTER I SAT DOWN. (!)
I wore the sling the rest of the conference, and have been wearing it again since I've been home. Jessie, you're an angel, and I'm an official Mei Tai convert. Thank you so, so much for all your help throughout the weekend!
As for all of the other amazing women I met over the weekend, I'll be linking them here soon. I love having new additions in my feed reader!
The other day a friend said: "I remember when I stayed up all night on purpose…now it's just painful." And I couldn't sum up my experience as a new mother who tries to Do It All better. I am awake every morning around by 5am because Rayah has sooooo much she wants to say, she can't wait for daylight. So she wakes up, lies in her crib and babbles, and then falls back asleep. And that's pretty much how my days go untll 9pm, when I'm falling over myself to get in bed. Since Rayah came along, my life has been so busy. So exhausting. So full, in the most awesome way I could ever imagine.
When we had Rayah, I was concerned I would struggle with baby blues. I expected it. I prepared for it. And I feel so, so blessed that so far, it has not been a part of my story as a mother. Roger and I wholeheartedly agree that our daughter is the best thing that has ever happened to us. She's so fun, so lively, so curious. She's beautiful, and she's smart. It's been so fun watching her grow, watching her learn to bat at toys, and then grab at them, and now she's putting them in her mouth. EVERYTHING goes in Rayah's mouth: toys, stuffed animals, burp cloths, anything within her reach. I love it when she locks her eyes on me and smiles, that wide-open, toothless, dimpled smile.
I realize that every parent feels this way, or I hope that every parent feels this way. Because becoming a mom has been the greatest privilege of my life. Any doubts that I might have once had about whether I wanted to become a mother have been erased, and now I'm realizing that this is the role I was created for. And that just makes it that much sweeter.
When I learned Santa Claus wasn't real, I was crushed. It was December. I was in third grade. That was the only year I rode the bus home from school, and I mostly didn't mind, except there was one girl on that bus, Brittany, whose sole mission seemed to be focused on making my life miserable.
I lived in the country, which meant that the bus ride was a long one for me, full of stops in town before we headed out my farm-to-market road. But she also lived out in the country, farther out than I lived, and so I had to endure her the entire ride. She was a year or two older, and the only thing I remember about her was her dirty blonde hair and how she mocked me and taunted me.
Now, listen - I realize this really isn't all that bad. But in my eight-year-old world, it pretty much was the worst thing ever. And to top it off, on that December afternoon, she was insisting that Santa wasn't real.
I had asked before, and my parents had always encouraged me to believe in Santa Claus. But this day - this day was different - my mom gave in and broke the news to me as gently as she could. It devastated me. Devastated. Oh!, how I cried. And cried. And cried.
Before having a child, I didn't think much about what I would teach my own children concerning Santa. Now that we have Rayah, I can't stop thinking about it. Granted, she's only three months old - I've got a couple years before I need to navigate that conversation. But it's already keeping me awake at night.
Roger and I intend to teach Rayah that Santa Claus is not real, but that he is a fun tradition we participate in every year. The part that stumps me is this: How do we teach Rayah not to be someone else's Brittany? I want my daughter to be an honest child, but I don't want her to crush someone else in her pursuit of the truth. How do we do that? Is it even possible?
What did your parents teach you about Santa Claus? Or, if you have kids, what have you taught them?
I just sucked on my daughter's pacifier, to see what the appeal was. I still haven't figured it out.
Rayah is our littlest reason to be thankful this year!
We hope that you will also have a delightful holiday, filled with family, friends, food and a heart full of thanks.
I’ve never really understood the phenomenon that makes parents so narcissistic about their offspring. I mean, yes, she is your child. And in some cases, she is even cute. (Because let’s face it: not all babies are cute. Can we agree on that? Except yours, yours is very cute.) But seriously? Did you really need to whip out that accordion photo wallet to show me each picture you’ve taken over the last 45 days? No, no you did not.
Then I got pregnant, and hung each sonogram on the refrigerator where I could stare at it every time I went into the kitchen. (Confession: I found more and more excuses to make a trip to the kitchen. This may or may not have contributed to pregnancy weight gain.) I loved knowing that the microscopic embryo inside me was growing and maturing and that in a few short months, I would get to hold my child in my arms. (I was also actively ignoring the thought of childbirth, because: Ouch.)
When I first met Rayah, I thought that I had never seen anything more beautiful. Her pouty lips, her full cheeks, the delicate arch of her eyebrow, the way her tiny hands ball into fists and then extend again, watching her bright blue eyes taking in her new environment , the sweet chub of her thigh, the natural highlights in her hair, how the soles of her feet are unbearably soft. Even listening to her coo while she plays, and breathing in the scent of her hair every time I pick her up is magnificent to me. She’s like my newest addiction, and I can’t help but want to preserve every single bit of her.
Every day I find myself picking up my phone and photographing her. And each day I text those photos to Roger, because if I had to be apart from her during the day, I would want the same thing: copious amounts of photographs, just to make me feel like I was there. I flip through the photos on my phone and my heart still skips, even though I see her and hold her every hour of every day.
Last night someone asked me whether Rayah wore a Halloween costume, and as I told her about Rayah’s homemade pea-in-the-pod outfit, I instinctively reached for my phone and began flipping through two weeks’ worth of photos until I found what I was looking for. And then I looked up, eyes wide, realizing what I had just done. I had just become That Mom, except I was holding something much worse: the digital version of the accordion photo wallet, with near-unlimited space for MORE photos.
As far as babies go, I think my daughter is pretty cute. More than cute – to me, she’s beautiful. So no, I didn’t really need to whip out her photos to show, especially considering I had the live version sitting in my lap at the time. It’s just that I’m so immensely proud of Rayah, and I can’t wait to share her with the world.
Since becoming a parent, I've found that I do a lot of absurd things in the name of Keeping the Peace. At the top of that list is putting Rayah (eight weeks old) to bed each night. She absolutely refuses to fall asleep in her crib before 11pm -- believe me: I've tried, and every time she wakes up within 15 minutes and starts wailing, and that wailing doesn't subside; it becomes a full-blown cry of rage with hiccups and guffaws and disbelief that I would try such a thing -- and so I've gotten into this routine of feeding her and letting her fall asleep on my chest.
If I move within the first 30 minutes, she's wide awake and perturbed, and we have to start the whole routine over again. So I lie absolutely still, propped up with six pillows. I generally entertain myself by reading (turning pages veerrryyyyy quietly) or playing games on my iPhone (volume turned off, of course) or watching TV shows on my laptop (wearing headphones).
At the one hour mark, the poorly choreographed dance begins. I slowly lean forward, my hands positioned behind her head and bottom, my eyes glued to her face for signs of disturbance. I stand up and hold her away from me, her arms spilling downward, my eyes still searching for signs that she's realized she's not on me any longer. Carrying her to her room is like playing that game with the egg in the spoon. You know the children's relay race, where you can't drop the egg, and so you walk very stiffly, carefully holding it, moving as little of your body as possible, all the while chanting: "Don't fall out, don't fall out, don't fall out." Except in my case, I'm thinking: "Don't wake up, don't wake up, don't wake up."
Gingerly, I lay her in the crib. I let her back get used to the mattress while I gently remove my hands from behind her head and her lower half. I back away two steps, still close enough to see whether her eyes pop open. Pause and watch. Take another step back. Pause and listen for movement. Take another step back. Turn off the dimmer switch, which was already set to the lowest setting. Pause and listen for tell-tale grunting. And then I tiptoe back to my room, where I lie in bed and listen for her cry, eventually falling asleep.
It's a little ridiculous, but it works. Most of the time.
The past seven weeks, since Rayah was born, have been a blur. Time has slipped away much too quickly, and I've begrudged every bit of it. It's kind of eerie how naturally our daughter fits into our lives, how it seems like she's always been a part of us, how much we love this little girl that we only just met.
Pre-Rayah, I was strictly an eight-plus hours of sleep per night kind of woman. I guess I was storing it up for myself, because I haven't seen eight consecutive hours in a loooonnnggggg time. I've surprised myself with my own capacity for sleep deprivation. Yes, those first couple weeks were tough -- especially because we were in and out of hospitals with complications -- but I'll be the first to admit that she's totally worth it, a thousand times over.
Roger and I are totally enamored by our daughter, which is I suppose how we should feel. We can't stop staring at her, trying to figure out which of us she resembles most (we still haven't figured that one out), whose toes she has, if she has my attached earlobes or Roger's detached (jury's still out on that one too, though it seems she inherited her toes from Roger).
Her eyes are still blue, she still has natural blond highlights interspersed through her dark brown hair. Her little thighs are only just beginning to fill out, though they're not quite chunky enough for her to fit into her cloth diapers. Rayah is starting to smile more -- though barely -- and every time I see her sweet dimples, my heart swoons.
We are already seeing little glimpses of her personality, and WOW: she has a flare for drama, and she is VERY opinionated. Of course, considering who her parents are, that's not much of a surprise.
Right now she's in her pack-and-play, kicking her legs and cooing. I like to imagine she's telling Roger and me how much she loves us, too. Even if she doesn't know it quite yet.
It was 4 a.m. and I woke to a sharp jab in my lady bits. I levitated, sprinted to the restroom, and after ten seconds called out an alarming, “Roooggeerrrrrrrr!!!” It was twenty five days before my due date, almost an entire four weeks of time we thought we still had left, and there was no question whether my water had just broken. There was gushing. Gushing.
* * *
Suddenly our house was a flurry of activity, us calling my doctor, racing to pack last-minute toiletries in the hospital bag, calling my doctor AGAIN (Aannnnsssweeeerrrrrrrrrr, I silently pleaded. He did.), and finally hopping in the car to drive to the hospital. It was surreal, and exciting, and intimidating. We had no idea what to expect, other than being silently aware of how our lives were about to change.
* * *
I remember reading a statistic somewhere that said only 13% of pregnancies end with water breaking before the woman actually goes into labor. I was now a statistic. By 8 a.m. I still hadn’t started experiencing contractions. My water breaking meant that The Area was no longer a sterile environment, and we had only 24 hours to give birth. So we induced labor. The Pitocin drip began, and almost as quickly my contractions began.
* * *
I had two phases of labor: pre-Epidural and post-Epidural. I remember very little pre-Epidural, other than The Pain. I spent two-and-one-half hours curled up on my left side, my face buried in the side of the bed’s handrail, eyes tightly closed, teeth clenched shut, with Roger holding a cold washcloth to my forehead. I tried to focus on his soothing voice, on leveling out my breathing, on anything other than The Pain. Even The Trembling was a welcome distraction, my body shaking so violently I wondered whether I was having a seizure. At one point I opened my eyes to discover a half dozen nurses and doctors surrounding my bed, some rolling my body back and forth, side to side, over and over again, while others fussed over machines. I thought maybe that was a normal part of labor, but found out later that our daughter's heartbeat had dropped from 130 to 50. They were trying to move her off her umbilical cord, which had somehow become compressed under her body.
On September 2nd, Roger and I welcomed our daughter, Rayah, into our family.
At birth, she was 7 pounds, 15 ounces and 20.5 inches long. Don't let her size fool you, though - she was nearly four weeks early!
I'm working on her birth story, but in the meantime we're enjoying all her little coos, the funny little faces she makes, and getting to spend time with our sweet child as she explores her new world. As we suspected we would be, we're totally smitten.
For the past week, I've been hearing about Choosing Thomas -- have you heard about this? -- a family chose to give birth to their son, even though they knew he had a fatal illness. They didn't know how long he would survive outside of the womb, how long they would have to love him or cuddle him. They said, "We could have 11 minutes or 11 days."
I just finished watching their story. It was so poignant. They remarked that their son, Thomas, would never know the hurts of this world. He'd only know that for the extent of his life, he was loved. And that he was loved well.
I admire this family, their devotion to their son. I can't imagine allowing such raw emotion to be filmed. But at the same time, what a gift to have his life documented. I hope you'll take a few moments to watch the video.
(A word to the wise: keep tissues handy.)
This weekend we painted the nursery. Before I tell you anything else, I should explain that I use the term "we" very liberally. Roger is the one doing all the work around here, and I amble in every few minutes to check his progress and tell him how awesome it looks. (Which, it does look awesome. We love the bright, cheery lime color. During the day, sunlight floods in from the window and the color is a very, very pale sherbet shade. In the evening, it becomes darker and more olive-toned. The color is called "Seawall" and this is the thing: I love the sea. So I'm kind of hoping that the wall color will foreshadow how this room will affect our daughter, meaning: SOOTHING AND CALM.)
While Roger works on the nursery, I am busying myself in the kitchen. I spend my weekends cooking, and then cleaning up my (very large) messes, and then making grocery lists, and then shopping. Which pretty much cements that nine times out of ten, I am the epitome of the old cliche: barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen. But I don't mind, because I like to cook and think it's fun to serve up delicious food to my husband, who is working so hard on our house. And he likes eating it. So it's a win/win for both of us.
I also spend my time flipping through a variety of children's decor magazines, and I've noticed this trend of placing mobiles over the changing table instead of the crib. Which is utterly confusing to me, because when did we stop putting them over the place that newborns spend most of their time? Or am I supposed to move the mobile once our daughter starts standing up? Or did I have it wrong in the first place? Because I'm entirely planning on attaching the mobile over the crib, if we can figure out how to do it without putting holes in the ceiling.
Speaking of mobiles, we just received ours in the mail! We had custom-ordered it from Gifts Define, an etsy shop of hand-sewn plush designs. It's a little out of context here, since last night I just held it against the wall and you can't see the furniture in the room (ahem, because right now there isn't any furniture in the room), but the mobile is made of five sweet little birdies: yellow, lime, coral, blue and olive. The coral and olive are hues from her bedding, and the other colors will be incorporated in the artwork we're planning for her room.
Next weekend “we” are planning to move furnishings into the room, and sometime in the next couple weeks we’ll design the artwork (Roger is creating the design!) (I love being married to a graphic designer.) and have it printed. In the meantime, we’re staring doe-eyed at five little birds, hoping we’ll get it all done before our daughter arrives. And though her due date is less than five weeks away, we think she might come earlier based on an ultrasound we had two weeks ago. But that’s another story for another day.
Tonight I began packing my hospital bag, based on Emily’s Great Big Hospital Bag Packing List and the list I found on TheBump.com. I combined both and then narrowed them down based on what I thought I would need. But then it occurred to me that the Internet Knows Things. So I’m including my list below, and if there’s anything I haven’t listed that you think is vital, would you let me know?
Documents: Insurance info; hospital forms and birth plan (I do not really have much of a birth plan – it kind of goes like this: I only want Roger in the room with me, and at the end of labor and delivery I’d like to have a live baby. I’d prefer to give birth vaginally, but if that doesn’t work out, I don’t mind. That is all.)
Clothing Items: 2 pairs of warm, nonskid socks; maternity bra/nursing pads; maternity clothes for going home; possibly a gown for labor/delivery; yoga pants and tops for recovery (Is this right? What did you wear after giving birth? Don’t you have to stay in the hospital for 48-72 hours? Did you just hang out in a hospital gown the entire time?)
Toiletries: Lip balm, eyeglasses, makeup, headband or ponytail holder, toothbrush and paste, deodorant, face wash, lotion, lanolin nipple cream. (Truthfully, I will probably also bring my Bumble & Bumble hair powder, so that it looks like I washed my hair, when really I probably won’t bother because do you know how much effort it takes to maintain my curls? I have to wash, condition, put in hair product, and then dry my hair with a diffuser. And then add MORE products. And that seems like a lot of work to me, especially when I’ll have just finished pushing something roughly the size of a watermelon out of my very un-watermelon-sized lady bits. I’m just sayin’, though I suppose you never know. Maybe I’ll be feeling very ambitious afterward.)
Miscellaneous: Sugar-free hard candy or lozenges; pen and paper; iPhone (doubles as alarm clock, address book, Internet addiction feeder, Twittering device and all-around good distraction, unless Roger is using his when CLEARLY he should be paying attention to ME) with charger; coins for vending machines; snacks; camera/memory card/charger; bath towel (people keep saying how tiiinnyyyyy hospital towels are); very light reading; iPod (if I can’t be bothered to load music onto my phone by the time I deliver, though in this case I suppose I should consider getting speakers, too); tennis ball (for massaging, or throwing at the first person who eats around me during labor and delivery); pillow (because hospital pillows are baaaddddddd); sleeping mask (for pretending that I’ll be able to sleep at all); baby scrapbook (for recording things like sweet, inked footprints); and thank you notes (again, in case I’m feeling overly ambitious)
For Roger: Change of clothes; his own toiletries; mints or gum; his pillow and a warm blanket (for the frigid hospital room); snacks (that he is not allowed to eat in my vicinity)
For Baby: Receiving blankets; hat; car seat; going home outfit; extra baby outfit; socks. (Our hospital provides everything from blankets to nail files to diapers, so there isn’t much we’ll need for baby. I think. Though I’ve never given birth before, so I guess I could be wrong about this. I probably should have paid more attention in my baby care class, but I was too distracted with learning how to swaddle. And give baths. And stop the CRYING.)
I’m trying not to go overboard, but after looking over this list I think that I’ve failed in the moderation department.
When people ask me What has been the hardest part about being pregnant?, I always pause and think about my answer, a little perplexed because I've really enjoyed being pregnant. I only have six weeks left, and I still sometimes forget that I'm pregnant. Is that even possible? Apparently so.
It's just that nothing about me, other than the size of my abdomen, has really changed. I haven't experienced the same symptoms of pregnancy that I've listened to other women bemoan. I don't have war stories involving my gag reflex and the toilet, or of exhaustion, or of cravings or food aversions. Sometimes I even make up cravings, just to feel more pregnant, like: "Ooooohhh, sweetie. I really want some [insert here: caramel popcorn or garlic bread or fresh blueberries]." And then I get it, and I eat it because I have it and it tastes good, so why not?, but it's generally not particularly satisfying because I wasn't actually craving it in the first place. And I realize how dysfunctional that is, and how awesome it is at the same time, because I'm in a pretty fortunate situation.
Sure, there are some things about pregnancy that are a tad bit uncomfortable (well, okay then - truthfully, only one). Sleeping on my side is something that I still struggle with, because my hips get so sore! Who ever heard of sore hips from lying on your side? But they do, painfully so, and I can generally sleep about 5-6 hours (achieved by flopping back and forth every couple of hours) before I have to pack about four pillows behind me, prop myself up against the headboard, and go back to sleep. And that? That is not really a problem. That said, I'm totally content to endure a few months of sore hips, because what Roger and I will get at the end is entirely worth it.
So there's really only one thing that has been difficult about pregnancy, difficult in the same way that hitting your funny bone isn't always funny - it's also kind of painful - but at least in a somewhat pleasant kind of way. For Roger and me, naming our daughter was one of the most laborious tasks we've encountered during pregnancy. It took hours and days and weeks. It took going on vacation to a secluded island for us to narrow our list down to five that had potential, and that was only after reading through two enormous tomes of baby names. We worked from certain criteria that we had each set:
For Roger, the name had to be short, modern and unique.
For me, it couldn't appear in the Top 100 names for the past ten years (if I'm being truthful, I'd tell you that names in the Top 500 still made me cringe).
We both agreed that we didn't want a name that was easy to make fun of, and we didn’t want her initials to turn into an acronym (so, for example, any names beginning with "E" were out because, when paired with her middle and last name, it would spell ELF). We wanted a name that would be good for a child or a teenager, but also for a 40-year-old professional. And then, obviously, the name had to have a meaningful, positive origin. I mean, we didn’t want to name our daughter something that meant “warthog” in Hebrew, you know?
It all started when I was in the self-checkout grocery line six weeks ago. The store employee was watching me, and when I turned to leave, she asked how far along I was. I looked down at my belly, proud of my bump, and said “Twenty six weeks.” Her eyes widened. She looked down at my stomach again.
“Are you having twins?”
My face wrinkled as I glanced down, wondering where she was going with this. Isn’t it true that mothers don’t show as much with their first? Because I didn’t think my bump was all that big. “Twins? No. Just one. Our first.” It turns out her daughter had twins. And that when she was 26 weeks, she was about the same size as me. And that her twins were each over seven pounds at birth. I chit-chatted with her for a while, silently wondering whether that meant I was going to give birth to a 14-pound baby, and questioning how much I should believe what she told me. I mean, how could she really remember exactly what her daughter looked like at 26 weeks? I can’t even remember what I looked like last week!
After that exchange, something strange began happening. People everywhere were acknowledging my stomach. They opened doors for me, and offered to carry things for me, held elevators for me, and asked me questions about our baby, even how pregnancy was treating me. Some just stared. Others have avoided me, like they’re afraid my pregnancy is contagious. I haven’t even started waddling yet! (Personally, I hope that I never quite get there, but when I’m really close to the end and it’s like a bowling ball has dropped between my legs, waddling may be inevitable.) I’ve not yet had a stranger reach out and touch my stomach, though I like it when friends do. In the mall I watched with amusement as a little girl walked toward me, leaning back and pushing out her own stomach as she passed, mimicking my protruding belly.
The past many weeks have been a bit of a blur for me -- a hazy, exhausting, sleep-deprived blur. As we've been in the final stretch for BlogHer '09 (Yes, I really am writing about work on this blog. And no, I don't typically do that.), work has become more and more overwhelmingly busy for everyone on the Events team. Updating this site has barely been on my radar, and truth be told, lately I've been living in fear of the BlogHerAds automated scanner. Each day I check my email, wondering if that's the day it will tell me to get myself in gear and post a new blog entry already, sheesh woman, you work for a company that is about blogging. EMPLOYEE FAIL.
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In other (baby) news: Roger and I still haven't decided on nursery decor, but we DID finally commit to bedding. Sort of. Mostly. Since we haven't been able to find anything that we like online or in-store, we asked his mom to sew something for us! She's a wonderful seamstress, so it seemed like a brilliant plan. Until we went to the fabric stores, and couldn't find fabric we liked, and I broke down crying in one store, staring at bolts of fabric, because there were TOO MANY OPTIONS. And too many of those options were TERRIBLE. I blame it on pregnancy hormones.
After re-arranging a dozen bolts of fabric, Roger hit the jackpot with one combination. (Have I ever mentioned how awesome it is to be married to a designer? It's fabulous for people like me, who don't have the skill of IMAGINING how something might look based on a tiny swatch.
Continue reading "They Warn You About Pregnancy Hormones, But You're Still Never Prepared" »
I've tried not talking about babies babies babies OMG pregnancy babies on this blog, and I've failed miserably. I thought this site wouldn't turn into a straight mommyblog, simply because I've always identified so strongly as a lifeblogger. And then it occurred to me: I'm writing nothing at all about my life. Which has kind of turned me into a non-blogger. I plan to continue writing about my life on this site, and right now experiencing pregnancy is part of my life. So. I will write about it.
Being pregnant is nothing like I expected it to be, mostly because my assumptions about gestating were formed by watching movies and reading friends' blogs. I figured I would be like them, those who woke up every morning dry-heaving into the toilet or couldn't keep down more than water and toast. I thought I would be exhausted all the time, or nauseated, or irritable, or overly emotional, or would have strange cravings and food aversions. If you think all pregnancies are like this, I am here to tell you that they aren't. Everything for me has been so simple, something I'm grateful for.
Absolutely nothing in my life has changed, other than my waistband, and even then that didn't really change until I was a little over five months along. I'm closing in on seven months now, and I still wear many pre-pregnancy shirts, because they show off my cute belly instead of drape it like a tent. Or at least that's what I'm assuming they do. If you see me in public and have another opinion, please tell me. Unless you're my husband. (Warning! Warning!)
I know exactly when I began fearing the prospect of giving birth. It was more than 10 years ago, and I was in a bible study with four of my good friends. All of whom, at the time, were Baylor nursing students. And I don’t remember much about that bible study, other than their weekly war stories – stories that made me certain I never wanted to experience a vaginal birth. Ever.
Most of the stories that stuck with me were about ripping. DOWN THERE. They were about pain, large amounts of pain and screaming and blood and pushing and pressure and then the TEARING, and then the weeks and weeks and weeks before it healed, before it no longer hurt to do something as simple as using the restroom. That was 12 years ago. To this day, I cannot stand the thought of an episiotomy. To the point that I generally stick my fingers in my ears, squeeze my eyes shut and mentally sing “la la la” if anyone so much as mentions one around me. In fact, I’ll admit that the idea of having a c-section has almost sounded dreamy to me. With drugs. Lots and lots of drugs. Just in case.
Then, last night Roger and I turned on the television and happened to find a documentary about giving birth. A documentary about giving birth naturally. A documentary about giving birth naturally at home. With a midwife. Not a doctor. Just to clarify.
At first it was kind of a freak show to me – who in the world would want to subject themselves to that? That is the sort of thing for ultra-granola women, not the sort for women like me. I like modern medicine. I like to be pampered. And maybe, I am even a little bit girly. I do not like to writhe around the floor, under a table, grunting and clutching my abdomen. (For anyone who has had a home birth, please accept my apologies: I don’t know why this is what I imagined home births are like. After watching this documentary, I am slightly less ignorant.)
It's an odd thing, lying on a cushioned table with my belly exposed, watching the monitor jump to life as the sonogram wand passed over my torso. And there, for the fourth time, was our baby: sleeping soundly, heart thumping.
Yesterday morning was our 18-week appointment. Before our session began, we told the sonogram tech we didn't want to know the baby's gender right away. Instead, we handed her a piece of paper and an envelope.
We saw the baby's bladder, and stomach, and arms and legs. We saw both hemispheres of its brain, took a profile shot with its tiny nose turned up, and then watched as it began to wake up, batting its arms and kicking its legs before settling into sleep again.
The hours ticked by slowly yesterday - no, make that excruciatingly slowly - and the longer I was aware that our baby's gender was there, known, the more I wanted to tear into the envelope and read its contents, or at least hold it up to the light, hoping I would be able to make out whether it was a four- or three-letter word. More than anything, I just wanted to confirm my suspicions. Roger kept the envelope close to his heart, tucked into his shirt pocket, out of my grasp. (Except for that one time I snatched it from him, and he nearly wrestled me to the ground for it. My husband is strong, is all I'll say.)
Thank you everyone who left comments, emailed, called and sent notes in the mail (Yes! Even notes in the mail!) to congratulate us and to ask how we're doing. The number one question, by far, has been about how much I suffered during our first trimester. And this is the part where most mothers in world will hate me. Or at least roll their eyes with jealousy.
I had no nausea (as long as I ate something every three-ish hours), no vomiting, no heartburn. No smells turned my stomach, I had no specific cravings of MUST EAT IT OR PERISH, and my appetite has neither increased or decreased. I had no exhaustion, no aches, no pains, not even pregnancy dreams. In fact -- other than a missed period -- if I hadn't seen our baby on ultrasound, I might not believe that I was even pregnant. (Which makes this documentary about women who didn't know they were pregnant until they went into labor seem a little more plausible, except really? That expanding belly and those fetal movements didn't give it away?)
The most difficult part of pregnancy for me, so far, has only begun to occur in the second trimester. You see, I've been trying to teach myself to sleep on my side for quite a while - but side-sleeping is painful! I don't understand how people do it. My hips go numb and my hip abductor muscles are shooting with pain and I don't think it's a coincidence that Mario Badescu just sent me an email about diminishing puffiness and tired eyes. Because I am not getting any sleep. Which is why I've started shopping on Craigslist for a recliner that I can use during pregnancy, because that's the only way I foresee getting any sleep: propped up on my back, cuddled under a blanket, and NOT ON MY SIDE. Is this a normal problem? Because I've not heard anyone talk about this before, and I think I've tried every variation of side-sleeping and pillow combination ever created.
(Though I have to admit: it's doing an awesome job of preparing me for when the baby comes. So there's that.)
The second most common question you asked was whether I'm showing yet, and the answer is: just barely. At 16 weeks, I'm still wearing nearly all of my pre-pregnancy jeans, and I've only just begun wearing maternity tops. But mostly because many of my shirts are fitted, and when I wear them and my stomach pokes out, it looks like I'm a little more plump around the middle rather than pregnant. I have exactly five maternity tops: black, pink, blue, grey and white, and I have a feeling that by the end of this pregnancy I might need to burn them. (Though I'll still admit to feeling giddy every time I put one on.)
And the third most common question was about this website. Will it turn into a mommyblog? I don't have an answer to that question quite yet, though I think it's fair to say that I write about my life, and this is a part of my life. Also: I've been holding this news in for a loooonnnnnggggggggg time. You'll have to bear with me while I flush all of the newness of writing about baby, baby, OMG BABY out of my system.
When Roger and I miscarried last fall, it was the single most grievous experience of my life. I’ve never cried like that – it was wailing, really, and gnashing of teeth – and I’ve never really understood that level of sorrow, that depth of mourning until October 6, 2008. But I learned a lot, too.
I learned about myself, and my own capacity for feeling, for loving, for trusting. I learned about Roger and his quiet strength, drawing comfort from his protective arms wrapped around me in a way that I had and had never known before. I learned about us as a couple, and who we would become as parents. I learned about the character of our friends, and it changed my own character, the way that I respond now when friends or family members share with me when they have miscarried.
When we were pregnant last fall, we all but screamed it from the rooftops, sharing our good news with nearly everyone we knew before we had even had our first sonogram.
This spring, though, we have waited. And over the last two weeks, we’ve begun telling our family and our friends that, once again, we have exciting news to share.
We’ve seen our child three times now: first as a little blobby lima bean, heartbeat sounding off loudly. The second time, our baby was proving that it likes to dance as much as mama, with its arms and legs performing the most perfect version of the Running Man that I've seen in a while. (Well, for a 10-week-old fetus, I mean.) And the third time, it was sleeping peacefully with a steady 138 bpm.
Later this month, we’ll find out the baby’s gender. I think it’s a boy, and Roger has a feeling that we’re having a girl. Either way, one of us is bound to be right - and we couldn't be more ecstatic!
I learned an important lesson from a good friend last week. A lesson about friendship, about love, about family. You see, my friend is from India. Culturally, when people in her life – whether family or friends– are hurting, she has been taught to drop whatever she is doing to be by their side.
Chris and Merlyn were among the first friends we told that we were pregnant. And subsequently, they were among the first friends we told we were miscarrying. When they heard our news, Chris and Merlyn asked if they could come over to be with us, even if it was just for dinner. At first I was taken aback. Admittedly, I thought it was intrusive. I wanted my space. I wanted to be alone to grieve in private. But in the back of my mind, I also knew that Roger and I can’t do this alone. So I said yes.
I walked away from dinner that night with the realization that our American culture of space and privacy and isolation is absurd. Why have we learned to leave each other alone at a time when we feel our most lonely?
And that’s one of the reasons why I’m so thankful I chose to write about my miscarriage on this web site. Our pregnancy was one that was planned for, hoped for, longed for. I recall in vivid detail exactly how I found out that I was pregnant. I remember how discovering that pink line on the pregnancy test felt like Christmas morning. I laugh about how many times I got up during the day to go look at that test, and how my heart flip-flopped each time I got a glimpse of the double lines. I took so much pleasure in planning how I would tell Roger, and oh!, how he was surprised. And I loved that he teared up, just a little, when he discovered our news. And several weeks later, in the blink of an eye, a flip of the ultrasound wand, our baby was gone.
Then there was the overwhelming outpouring of love from each of you. I read every single comment, sometimes multiple times over, and it was like the Internet was giving me a hug, holding my hand, rubbing my back, and telling me that yes, it hurts, but you’re not alone. Thank you, each of you, for the comments you left on my previous post. Thank you for coming around at a time that I felt so lonely. Finally, I get it. I get how important it is to have companionship, in all of its myriad forms. I understand how valuable a gentle word is when one’s heart is filled with sorrow, despite our culture’s whispers to give the griever a few days for – what? The anguish to settle in? Or for us to pull ourselves together? I don’t exactly know.
But I do know this: I can genuinely say that if this miscarriage helps me know how to love others better, to console others better, be able to better comfort those who are grieving a loss, or to walk with another woman as she faces that dusty, deserted road of miscarriage, I will consider this an important, unforgettable and worthwhile (albeit painful) life lesson. Merlyn’s rush to be by my side, infused with your dozens and dozens and dozens of comments, has taught me one thing in spades: compassion. And I think that’s something we could all use a little bit more of.
Nothing can prepare you for waking up six-and-one-half weeks into your pregnancy -- your first pregnancy -- to discover fresh blood in the one place it shouldn’t be.
No one can explain the fear that shoots through your mind, or how you will exhale a barely audible, solitary word, no, or why your hands shake that badly as you frantically dial your doctor’s phone number.
No one can help you hold it together as you try to talk to the receptionist without your voice trembling and your first tears pooling in your lower eyelids (you can’t stop it from happening, no matter how long you hold your breath or how tightly you squeeze your eyes shut), or when you call your husband and all you can squeak out is “Please come home, now” before you collapse against the wall in a sobbing heap.
Nothing can still your heart when a sweet two-year old and her very pregnant mom sit down across from you at the doctor’s office, and you realize that child you’ll never have. Maybe another one, maybe somewhere down the road – but not this one that you cherish already.
And no amount of pressing your lips together will prevent them from involuntarily turning downward, forcing unexpected, hot tears to stream down your face. And maybe you’ll look away, partially cover your face, develop a new and sudden interest in your husband’s National Geographic magazine as you bury yourself in your own agony, but you won’t expect to be simultaneously embarrassed and grateful when that mom recognizes your pain and relocates within the waiting room, her daughter toddling behind her.
I remember the ultrasound, and being elated to see the womb that held our child, and feeling that first twinge of hope that everything would be okay. And then the fear settled in as our doctor, his face contorted in concentration, measured the sac and hypothesized that our baby had stopped developing. He handed me a tissue as he explained what he believed was happening.
I only remember parts of our conversation. 15% chance. Inevitable miscarriage. Possible chromosomal abnormalities. Nothing we could do to prevent it. Our doctor’s grave, apologetic tone. He placed us in a high percentile for miscarriage, with an outside hope that we may just not be as far along as I had originally calculated. I remember clinging to that outside hope, not wanting the possibility of miscarriage to be real. Every thought and every conversation related to pregnancy and miscarriage and babies and family led me to fall apart again and again and again.
Three days later we went back to run more tests, to check my hcg levels. We had expected them to double, but instead they had only increased 25%. But that’s a good sign, right? At least they’re increasing! I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: I am nothing, if not obscenely optimistic.
And a week after that, we went back for our third appointment. The goal was this: to see a heartbeat. All three of us – the doctor, Roger and I – stared at the sonogram, our eyes following the movements of the camera, waiting to see a tiny bulge, a pulsing beat. We didn’t. And now we have two options. One: Allow the miscarriage to occur naturally. Two: Allow our doctor to perform a D&C to remove the fetal tissue.
I don’t know which to choose. I went to the mall for a little retail therapy after my third appointment, and wouldn’t you know it? I chose the one entrance in the anchor store that was surrounded by children’s clothing. I made my way to the mall entrance, and the first store I saw was a maternity boutique. I stopped for something to eat and after I sat down, I looked next to me and realized I had sat across from three highchairs. I just…I just can’t get away. And all I want to do is escape, as immature and temporary as it may sound.
For now, I’m comforted by the silence of my home. I’m comforted by the birds chirping outside. I’m comforted by the words of my family and friends. And most of all, I’m comforted by my husband’s strong arms wrapped around me.
We may never know the answers to “Why?” and “Why now?”, and maybe we don’t need to know the reason this happened. But we do know who God is, that he is gracious and merciful. I know that we’ve prayed that I would miscarry this child if he/she wasn’t healthy. And I think, for now, I’m just going to have to trust that God was answering my prayers. It’s all I can hold onto.
