It's 11:30pm on New Year's Eve, and I am eavesdropping on the city. On my new block, more precisely.
While my little family is asleep (having a baby makes for early bedtimes for everyone), I've woken up to feed the baby. As I sit in the darkened living room, sneaking looks out of our giant windows, I am secretly glad that Blinds.com is taking so long to complete our order, for it means I can stealthily enjoy watching a sampling of New Yorkers on Their Most Famous Night, parading by our new apartment.
Lots of revelers, children and grandparents included, are making their way to Central Park for fireworks. Some stronger souls are geared up in running clothes, lights on their wacky hats flashing, ready for the annual midnight run in the park.
I've seen dashing older couples in opera finery, twenty-somethings with noisemakers and uncomfortably high shoes, tourists using smartphones to find their way to the fun. I'm hearing helicopters and sirens, car horns honking, and tipsy party-goers slurring premature "Happy New Years" to any of us within earshot.
I've heard one spat ("How dare you. How DARE YOU!), but lots of laughing. I've seen a little bit of sloppy walking, but no outright stumbling. I've noticed people's paces pick up as we inch towards midnight.
And as I sit here in the dark, watching them all, I am happy for them. Happy they are making memories. Happy they are having fun.
But mostly, I'm happy for me. Happy to be here in the Greatest City on Earth. Happy that my little family is sleeping soundly. Happy for the year to come.
And a little happy that no one can see what I'm wearing right now.
Happy New Year.
Monday, December 31, 2012
Thursday, November 1, 2012
Neighbors
I'd not fully experienced what a "neighborhood"could be until I moved to New York City.
And I never expected it to mean as much to me as it has this past week.
NYC is a city of walkers, of people out and about in their neighborhoods. We walk to the grocery store and post office, to doctor's appointments and dinner dates. And as we walk, we see the familiar faces of our neighbors.
There's Jaunty Frenchman with a spring in his step and an enormous, well-groomed poodle; Sunglasses Lady with the tiny bulldog on a rope; Bald Guy from the wine store; The Korean couple from the cleaners who adore Elrod, and rarely make us pay for the baby's laundry; There's little Lab-mix Molly, who we've seen grow from a puppy, walking with Molly's Dad (who told us to cherish every minute with our boy); Visor Lady from # 15, whose bark is worse than her bite; There's Irish building manager at the Kenilworth, who holds court on the sidewalk outside the service entrance, and for whom I will one day bake cookies because he would really appreciate them. There's the UPS Guy, who knows to always buzz our apartment if he needs to get in, since Elrod and I are home a lot.
These people are part of our daily lives here, and we regularly greet one another with broad smiles and cheery hellos, or observations about the weather. And we have no idea what each other's names are.
And that's OK.
Because this week, whether we knew each other by name or not, we all had each other's backs.
One young family on our block suffered an unimaginable tragedy last week. A family we often referred to as The Cute Family with the Greyhound. Or sometimes, The Cute Family with the Little Girl on the Scooter. We didn't know their names. We didn't need to. Their faces were familiar and regular, and we shared the sidewalks with them as we walked our dogs, ran our errands, and ventured into Central Park.
Our block came together this week in powerful and subtle ways after what happened. We exchanged tear-filled stares as we roamed the street, dazed. Stunned. We were wordless with disbelief and helplessness. We hugged. We left flowers. We petted each other's dogs for an extra long time as we went on our regular walks.
And we had our heart-broken neighbors' backs.
One family who puts up an elaborate and scary Halloween display every year, quietly took it down, because "it didn't seem right." Another neighbor walked outside, scissors in hand, and removed the yellow crime scene tape that was still tied around a tree outside. Doormen at the family's building painstakingly moved the growing memorial of flowers and stuffed animals to inside the building's lobby, protecting them from the coming storm.
Parents didn't have to say anything to each other. We all held onto our children a little tighter, and we suddenly seemed to not mind at all if our children were a little disruptive in restaurants. Children have become the unofficial heroes up here.
This week, our neighborhood came together in a way I've not felt anywhere else. We are united in our gratitude for what we have, and in our sympathy for some of our own.
It feels good to know these people, these strangers, are there for us in some way.
Whatever their names are.
And I never expected it to mean as much to me as it has this past week.
NYC is a city of walkers, of people out and about in their neighborhoods. We walk to the grocery store and post office, to doctor's appointments and dinner dates. And as we walk, we see the familiar faces of our neighbors.
There's Jaunty Frenchman with a spring in his step and an enormous, well-groomed poodle; Sunglasses Lady with the tiny bulldog on a rope; Bald Guy from the wine store; The Korean couple from the cleaners who adore Elrod, and rarely make us pay for the baby's laundry; There's little Lab-mix Molly, who we've seen grow from a puppy, walking with Molly's Dad (who told us to cherish every minute with our boy); Visor Lady from # 15, whose bark is worse than her bite; There's Irish building manager at the Kenilworth, who holds court on the sidewalk outside the service entrance, and for whom I will one day bake cookies because he would really appreciate them. There's the UPS Guy, who knows to always buzz our apartment if he needs to get in, since Elrod and I are home a lot.
These people are part of our daily lives here, and we regularly greet one another with broad smiles and cheery hellos, or observations about the weather. And we have no idea what each other's names are.
And that's OK.
Because this week, whether we knew each other by name or not, we all had each other's backs.
One young family on our block suffered an unimaginable tragedy last week. A family we often referred to as The Cute Family with the Greyhound. Or sometimes, The Cute Family with the Little Girl on the Scooter. We didn't know their names. We didn't need to. Their faces were familiar and regular, and we shared the sidewalks with them as we walked our dogs, ran our errands, and ventured into Central Park.
Our block came together this week in powerful and subtle ways after what happened. We exchanged tear-filled stares as we roamed the street, dazed. Stunned. We were wordless with disbelief and helplessness. We hugged. We left flowers. We petted each other's dogs for an extra long time as we went on our regular walks.
And we had our heart-broken neighbors' backs.
One family who puts up an elaborate and scary Halloween display every year, quietly took it down, because "it didn't seem right." Another neighbor walked outside, scissors in hand, and removed the yellow crime scene tape that was still tied around a tree outside. Doormen at the family's building painstakingly moved the growing memorial of flowers and stuffed animals to inside the building's lobby, protecting them from the coming storm.
Parents didn't have to say anything to each other. We all held onto our children a little tighter, and we suddenly seemed to not mind at all if our children were a little disruptive in restaurants. Children have become the unofficial heroes up here.
This week, our neighborhood came together in a way I've not felt anywhere else. We are united in our gratitude for what we have, and in our sympathy for some of our own.
It feels good to know these people, these strangers, are there for us in some way.
Whatever their names are.
Saturday, September 1, 2012
Killer Instincts
I'm a Killer Mom.
My husband, baby, and I are spending our First Weekend Away From Home at our friend's country house. Our baby's godfather, to be more accurate. We envision our son growing up spending relaxing weekends here, enjoying more nature than even Central Park can offer. The type of Nature where one hears howls coming from the woods at night, and can be 92% certain that there's no need to call 911.
We spent many weekends here before the baby was born; weekends full of cocktails and frivolity, of saucy jokes, and late bedtimes. While our cocktail intake and bedtime have changed since the baby was born, some things about visiting here remain constant, including sharing gorgeous meals outdoors, under the canopy of huge trees and -last night, anyway- a giant Blue Moon.
As we dined under the stars last night, our friend asked what it feels like being a parent. If we've ever felt love quite like this before.
It's a tough question to answer.
Sure, as parents we are hard-wired to protect and love this baby we made. It's our job. My husband explained the joy we feel when our son recognizes us and smiles, and how protective he feels when the baby falls asleep in his arms, grabbing onto him like a little monkey.
I explained things a little differently.
I feel protective in a more violent way. A more animalistic way. A more primal way. I explained in great detail, and without hesitation, that if anyone threatened the safety of my child, I would reach out with my hand and jam my rock-hard fingers into their throat, grabbing their trachea and esophagus, and ripping them out the front of their neck.
The truly scary thing isn't the graphic nature of the punishment I would inflict, but rather that I came up with it without a moment's thought. I didn't weigh my options, I didn't wonder if kicking the perpetrator in the balls would be just as good. I knew exactly what I would do, and I know without a doubt that I would have the strength and courage to see the violent act through.
Is that scary or admirable? Is it to be discouraged or encouraged? Should Child Protective Services be alerted, or should Parenting magazine profile me for their Awesome Parents Edition?
Apparently, this intense desire to protect comes with parenthood. Our brains change. Our chemistry alters, like Dr. David Banner in The Incredible Hulk. We become Super Humans. Super Parents. Maybe even Super Scary.
I didn't know I had it in me.
My husband, baby, and I are spending our First Weekend Away From Home at our friend's country house. Our baby's godfather, to be more accurate. We envision our son growing up spending relaxing weekends here, enjoying more nature than even Central Park can offer. The type of Nature where one hears howls coming from the woods at night, and can be 92% certain that there's no need to call 911.
We spent many weekends here before the baby was born; weekends full of cocktails and frivolity, of saucy jokes, and late bedtimes. While our cocktail intake and bedtime have changed since the baby was born, some things about visiting here remain constant, including sharing gorgeous meals outdoors, under the canopy of huge trees and -last night, anyway- a giant Blue Moon.
As we dined under the stars last night, our friend asked what it feels like being a parent. If we've ever felt love quite like this before.
It's a tough question to answer.
Sure, as parents we are hard-wired to protect and love this baby we made. It's our job. My husband explained the joy we feel when our son recognizes us and smiles, and how protective he feels when the baby falls asleep in his arms, grabbing onto him like a little monkey.
I explained things a little differently.
I feel protective in a more violent way. A more animalistic way. A more primal way. I explained in great detail, and without hesitation, that if anyone threatened the safety of my child, I would reach out with my hand and jam my rock-hard fingers into their throat, grabbing their trachea and esophagus, and ripping them out the front of their neck.
The truly scary thing isn't the graphic nature of the punishment I would inflict, but rather that I came up with it without a moment's thought. I didn't weigh my options, I didn't wonder if kicking the perpetrator in the balls would be just as good. I knew exactly what I would do, and I know without a doubt that I would have the strength and courage to see the violent act through.
Is that scary or admirable? Is it to be discouraged or encouraged? Should Child Protective Services be alerted, or should Parenting magazine profile me for their Awesome Parents Edition?
Apparently, this intense desire to protect comes with parenthood. Our brains change. Our chemistry alters, like Dr. David Banner in The Incredible Hulk. We become Super Humans. Super Parents. Maybe even Super Scary.
I didn't know I had it in me.
Saturday, August 18, 2012
Only Children are A-OK!
I am an only child.
At this point, some who know me may crack wise about my reluctance to share dessert at a restaurant, or the unspoken but unwavering claim I lay to the remote controls in the apartment. Some may see being an only child as a bad thing. That it makes one...self-focused.
I think it makes one self-sufficient.
When I was a kid, I received a lot of board games as gifts. Multi-player games, like Sorry! and Parcheesi. And as an only child who hated other children, it was rare to find someone to play them with. I recall my Uncle Tommy playing with me, and I'm sure my parents must have, but mostly, I remember playing these games by myself. Or rather, with myself. Or maybe even against myself. At least I always won.
My husband is the youngest of three boys, and really appreciates having brothers. For me, the main appeal of having siblings would be to relieve some of the pressure of caring for aging parents. Having someone to consult/blame/cry to/drink with when the time comes to find a really good nursing home. (Mom and Dad, consider this "writer's embellishment.")
Our son is seven weeks old, and already people ask if we're planning on having another one. My knee-jerk response has been, "No, parenting is a young person's game," but then I gave it some serious thought. Yes, it takes an enormous amount of energy to tend to a newborn's needs, and one must function on very little sleep, two attributes that were at their height when I was in college. Also, recovery from childbirth- in my case, a c-section- is much more difficult than I expected, and a younger, firmer, more elastic body would likely have more success bouncing back.
But I did think about it. And I determined I was 89% certain that one child is plenty for us. My husband is 84% sure of the same. I'm more sure, so I win...even though we're on the same team.
Being an only child has its payoffs in adulthood, though.
OK, I can't think of many of them right now, but I CAN say that being an only child has allowed my imagination to flourish. Not just to flourish, but to...whatever is even more fabulous than flourishing.
Case in point: our son wakes up in the middle of the night, and it sometimes takes a bit of walking, bouncing, and singing to get him back to sleep. We have a nightlight in our bathroom that has what I initially considered to be a charming scene of animals camping.
But really, it's more than that.
Many a night I've explained to our child that the red fox in the sleeping bag had a little too much to drink, and doesn't even realize he's not sleeping inside the tent. The deer is helping him conceal it from the grey fox by hiding the empty wine bottle behind him. The poor grey fox has to do all the work, including gathering firewood, and will no doubt have to clean up that dirty plate (bottom left corner) and the unfinished can of beans outside the tent. The poor grey fox is so busy doing everyone's work, he's unable to hold his own marshmallow stick, and has to plant it in the ground, because the deer hasn't offered to help. The grey fox probably didn't even want to go camping in the first place.
See? You probably thought it was just some animals camping.
And you probably have siblings.
I win.
At this point, some who know me may crack wise about my reluctance to share dessert at a restaurant, or the unspoken but unwavering claim I lay to the remote controls in the apartment. Some may see being an only child as a bad thing. That it makes one...self-focused.
I think it makes one self-sufficient.
When I was a kid, I received a lot of board games as gifts. Multi-player games, like Sorry! and Parcheesi. And as an only child who hated other children, it was rare to find someone to play them with. I recall my Uncle Tommy playing with me, and I'm sure my parents must have, but mostly, I remember playing these games by myself. Or rather, with myself. Or maybe even against myself. At least I always won.
My husband is the youngest of three boys, and really appreciates having brothers. For me, the main appeal of having siblings would be to relieve some of the pressure of caring for aging parents. Having someone to consult/blame/cry to/drink with when the time comes to find a really good nursing home. (Mom and Dad, consider this "writer's embellishment.")
Our son is seven weeks old, and already people ask if we're planning on having another one. My knee-jerk response has been, "No, parenting is a young person's game," but then I gave it some serious thought. Yes, it takes an enormous amount of energy to tend to a newborn's needs, and one must function on very little sleep, two attributes that were at their height when I was in college. Also, recovery from childbirth- in my case, a c-section- is much more difficult than I expected, and a younger, firmer, more elastic body would likely have more success bouncing back.
But I did think about it. And I determined I was 89% certain that one child is plenty for us. My husband is 84% sure of the same. I'm more sure, so I win...even though we're on the same team.
Being an only child has its payoffs in adulthood, though.
OK, I can't think of many of them right now, but I CAN say that being an only child has allowed my imagination to flourish. Not just to flourish, but to...whatever is even more fabulous than flourishing.
Case in point: our son wakes up in the middle of the night, and it sometimes takes a bit of walking, bouncing, and singing to get him back to sleep. We have a nightlight in our bathroom that has what I initially considered to be a charming scene of animals camping.
But really, it's more than that.
Many a night I've explained to our child that the red fox in the sleeping bag had a little too much to drink, and doesn't even realize he's not sleeping inside the tent. The deer is helping him conceal it from the grey fox by hiding the empty wine bottle behind him. The poor grey fox has to do all the work, including gathering firewood, and will no doubt have to clean up that dirty plate (bottom left corner) and the unfinished can of beans outside the tent. The poor grey fox is so busy doing everyone's work, he's unable to hold his own marshmallow stick, and has to plant it in the ground, because the deer hasn't offered to help. The grey fox probably didn't even want to go camping in the first place.
See? You probably thought it was just some animals camping.
And you probably have siblings.
I win.
Saturday, August 11, 2012
People are Crazy for Babies. In a Scary Way.
This really happened.
As our son is getting older (a whopping 6 weeks old, now), we've taken him more and more places. We stick close to home, and our outings usually consist of dog walks or shopping trips for more diapers. Or wine.
Last week, we took our baby out to dinner to celebrate my father's birthday. As we expected, the baby got a little fussy here and there, so my husband and I took turns walking him around outside the restaurant while the other enjoyed dinner. When it was my turn, I carried him out the front door, and past the tables of outdoor diners.
And that's when She stopped me.
She was close to 70 years old, sitting across from two gentlemen who were engrossed in their own conversation. As I walked by, she stopped me, pointed to the baby, and said, "Excuse me. May I?"
I obliged, turning so she could see his face over my shoulder. She gazed longingly at him, saying the usual kind words about how beautiful he is, and how we should cherish every moment.
And then She got weird.
As she stared at the baby, she crossed her arms over her chest and said to me, "I can almost feel myself lactating." (Go ahead and reread that part.) She looked right at me and said, "I don't think you know what you have here."
I was a little offended, and still frozen by the image of geriatric lactation. Trying to be accommodating, I replied, "Oh, we know he's pretty special! We love him a lot." And I looked at the baby and did some nose kiss thing to prove my point.
Then she demanded, "Kiss him."
"Excuse me?"
"Kiss him," she said very seriously. "Lean down and give him a kiss."
He's my baby, so I obliged. Plus, she was elderly, and likely lonely, as those two men across the table were still ignoring her.
Then she directed, "Tell him you love him."
I thought it was a little strange, but for some reason, I was willingly compliant to her strange demands. I leaned down to the baby and, in a baby-friendly voice, said, "I love you! I love you! Yes, I do!"
"NO!" she said. "Whisper it to him. Like you mean it."
"Oh, I mean it," I said.
Who was this woman to tell me I didn't MEAN it? What did I have to do to prove to her that I meant it? And WHY did I feel like I had to prove my love for my baby to a total stranger?
"Tell him again."
Sigh. So I did. I stood there and followed this stranger's orders. I let her direct me in the middle of a crowded restaurant patio. It was a one woman show (with an adorable prop) for an audience of one, as those men still weren't paying any attention to what was happening. After a few more instructions, she finally told me to give the baby a kiss from her, and I knew it was time to end the show.
Why had it been so difficult to leave? I'd stood there for a good eight minutes, kissing and cooing at my baby, following my captor's orders. I was like Patty Hearst with Stockholm Syndrome. Am I that much of an actor, that I felt I had to perform? Was I pimping out my child for the entertainment of the elderly? And if so, is that a bad thing? After all, she seemed lonely.
You know, those men sitting at her table never looked over during that whole exchange. They never got to see how cute the baby is. But mostly, they didn't do anything to save me.
Maybe I was the one saving them.
As our son is getting older (a whopping 6 weeks old, now), we've taken him more and more places. We stick close to home, and our outings usually consist of dog walks or shopping trips for more diapers. Or wine.
Last week, we took our baby out to dinner to celebrate my father's birthday. As we expected, the baby got a little fussy here and there, so my husband and I took turns walking him around outside the restaurant while the other enjoyed dinner. When it was my turn, I carried him out the front door, and past the tables of outdoor diners.
And that's when She stopped me.
She was close to 70 years old, sitting across from two gentlemen who were engrossed in their own conversation. As I walked by, she stopped me, pointed to the baby, and said, "Excuse me. May I?"
I obliged, turning so she could see his face over my shoulder. She gazed longingly at him, saying the usual kind words about how beautiful he is, and how we should cherish every moment.
And then She got weird.
As she stared at the baby, she crossed her arms over her chest and said to me, "I can almost feel myself lactating." (Go ahead and reread that part.) She looked right at me and said, "I don't think you know what you have here."
I was a little offended, and still frozen by the image of geriatric lactation. Trying to be accommodating, I replied, "Oh, we know he's pretty special! We love him a lot." And I looked at the baby and did some nose kiss thing to prove my point.
Then she demanded, "Kiss him."
"Excuse me?"
"Kiss him," she said very seriously. "Lean down and give him a kiss."
He's my baby, so I obliged. Plus, she was elderly, and likely lonely, as those two men across the table were still ignoring her.
Then she directed, "Tell him you love him."
I thought it was a little strange, but for some reason, I was willingly compliant to her strange demands. I leaned down to the baby and, in a baby-friendly voice, said, "I love you! I love you! Yes, I do!"
"NO!" she said. "Whisper it to him. Like you mean it."
"Oh, I mean it," I said.
Who was this woman to tell me I didn't MEAN it? What did I have to do to prove to her that I meant it? And WHY did I feel like I had to prove my love for my baby to a total stranger?
"Tell him again."
Sigh. So I did. I stood there and followed this stranger's orders. I let her direct me in the middle of a crowded restaurant patio. It was a one woman show (with an adorable prop) for an audience of one, as those men still weren't paying any attention to what was happening. After a few more instructions, she finally told me to give the baby a kiss from her, and I knew it was time to end the show.
Why had it been so difficult to leave? I'd stood there for a good eight minutes, kissing and cooing at my baby, following my captor's orders. I was like Patty Hearst with Stockholm Syndrome. Am I that much of an actor, that I felt I had to perform? Was I pimping out my child for the entertainment of the elderly? And if so, is that a bad thing? After all, she seemed lonely.
You know, those men sitting at her table never looked over during that whole exchange. They never got to see how cute the baby is. But mostly, they didn't do anything to save me.
Maybe I was the one saving them.
Tuesday, July 31, 2012
The Parenting Olympics
The whole world has Olympic Fever.
We're all standing united in our new-found love of synchronized diving, skeet shooting, and table tennis, sports I wasn't even aware were actual Olympic events.
As a brand new parent, my husband and I are developing impressive knowledge, speed and accuracy at some events of our own, and I am now inspired to propose the first-ever Parenting Olympics.
Events would be divided into two main categories, Indoor and Outdoor events. Let's look at an early list of proposed areas of competition.
Indoor Events
Swaddling: Athletes may choose to compete in either One-Handed or Two-Handed Swaddling. Those opting for Two-Handed Swaddling will be working with a colicky, inconsolable infant, to level the playing field with the One-Handers.
Bottle Preparation: Participants will be scored on Frozen Breast Milk Thawing, Bottle Washing, Matching Lids with Bottles, and (in an effort to remain inclusive) Powdered Formula Mixing.
Diapering: Parents may choose to compete in either Cloth or Disposable categories. Those competing in Cloth will be on the honor system and will be judging themselves, as most people don't know how that whole cloth system works, anyway. Those competing in Disposable will be judged by the EPA.
Soothing: Competitors will soothe a fussy baby for three full hours in the middle of the night, using only their own bodies and voices. Special points will be given for Best Impromptu Rhyming in a Song, and for Smoothly Transferring Baby from Arms to Crib.
Outdoor Events
Baby Wearing: In this mixed-gender competition, Moms and Dads will be required to safely secure their infant in a Moby wrap, without use of the instruction booklet. (Note: Participants may be asked to sign a waiver for footage to be used on America's Funniest Home Videos.)
Subway Navigation: Athletes with infants will be given a destination over two miles from the starting line, and must navigate the NYC subway system through no fewer than two train changes and stations with no elevators. Athletes may not ask strangers for assistance with strollers.
Dining Out: Participants will be required to eat a full, three-course meal (appetizer, entree, and dessert) in a public restaurant with table service. Competition must take place between 7pm and 9pm, during peak restaurant hours. Points will be deducted for each restaurant patron that rolls his eyes at the participants. Extra points will be awarded for finishing the meal without staining your own clothes or dropping hot food on the baby.
In this early stage of development, the Parenting Olympics is focused solely on infant care, but plans are in motion for the Parenting of Teenagers Olympics, the Parenting of Twins Olympics, and (in a special deal with Comedy Central) the Teenage Parents Olympics. The Lifetime Network has expressed interest in the Single Parent Olympics, but participants deserve much more lucrative endorsements than are currently available, so those deals are stalled at this time.
The success of the Parenting Olympics depends on your input. We can't do it without you.
I'd keep working on my list of potential events, but I've got to go pump.
(Look for Pumping to be added in 2016.)
Monday, July 23, 2012
Betrayed by Modern Conveniences
When I was pregnant, my husband and I watched the documentary film, Babies. It's a fascinating look at how four different babies are raised in four different parts of the world- Mongolia, Japan, Namibia, and San Francisco, California. Each baby is followed for a year, and while there is no narration or any substantial dialogue, we found ourselves rooting for the little tykes, and admittedly, developed a favorite along the way.
By far, the happiest baby of the lot was the Namibian girl. We watched as she and her siblings played games like "Rock"and "Stick." They sat in the dirt, right next to the family dog. Her mother handled her confidently, slinging the baby over her back as she worked, not appearing to be worried that the sun may be too hot on the baby's head, or that a fly was buzzing a little too close for comfort. She played with her baby heartily, and the family laughed often.
The baby's mother didn't have a vibrating chair or a Boppy pillow, or stuffed animals that make soothing ocean sounds. She had her own loving arms and strong legs and soft breasts, and with these tools alone, cared perfectly well for her baby.
I, too, have these things, and I've felt pretty darn good about my ability to soothe our son myself, without many "modern conveniences." I bounce, rock, sway, sing, rub, pat, coo, feed, swaddle, and hold with skill; and usually, our baby responds beautifully- by dozing off or quieting down- safe in his mother's arms.
Until yesterday.
Elrod's paternal grandparents have come to town for a visit, and his schedule is a little off from his typical day. He was cranky at unusual times, and nothing helped. He screamed and screamed, and then- when my back was turned- he magically hushed. I turned around to see what had happened- was someone trying a new hold? A new way of baby-joggling I'd not yet learned?
Nope.
There in his mouth was a bright blue pacifier. And he seemed to love it. He happily sucked away, soothing himself and falling asleep, as if someone had pushed a button. Or given him a lot of Benadryl.
Now, don't get me wrong- I have pacifiers in our home. I registered for them and even picked up a couple myself. I'd yet to use them, as I was waiting to master the art of breast feeding before introducing them, but I'd not put up any signs alerting others to this possibly neurotic, new mommy decision.
So I did what any new mother would do. I hid them. Should anyone ask where they are, I'll say, "Hmmm, they were here the other day." And that will be the end of it.
Only it wasn't.
Later, as the family tried to sit down to dinner, little Elrod was once again unhappy- loudly unhappy- and someone had the idea to put him in the automatic swing. The one we registered for. The one, like the pacifier, we'd yet to use. And again, he loved it. He fell right asleep.
And I fell apart a tiny bit inside.
This freaking swing had pushed me aside. It did my job- swinging my baby to sleep- better than I did it myself. It was a cold, robotic substitute for warm, flesh-and-blood, Me. The pacifier was replacing my breast, and now this swing was mocking me with its chirping bird music, and its little animal mobile above my fascinated baby's face. I hated Swing. Swing could suck it.
But then I realized (or was it rationalized?), I need to take care of Me. I had surgery three weeks ago, I still tire easily, and I deserve a meal and a rest and a deep breath now and then. My husband and I deserve, and need, time with each other, even if it's only for 15 minutes over reheated leftovers.
And if Pacifier and Swing are the ones to give me those things, then maybe there is a place for them in our home right now after all. Maybe Swing isn't mocking me. Maybe Pacifier is just misunderstood.
It's still early- our son is just a little over three weeks old. In time, these "modern conveniences" will likely have a more prominent place in our home. But for now, when they make their rare appearance, I'll try to remember that they could never replace a mother's loving arms, strong legs, and soft breasts.
It'll be nice to remember that. Because I can't remember where I hid the pacifier.
By far, the happiest baby of the lot was the Namibian girl. We watched as she and her siblings played games like "Rock"and "Stick." They sat in the dirt, right next to the family dog. Her mother handled her confidently, slinging the baby over her back as she worked, not appearing to be worried that the sun may be too hot on the baby's head, or that a fly was buzzing a little too close for comfort. She played with her baby heartily, and the family laughed often.
The baby's mother didn't have a vibrating chair or a Boppy pillow, or stuffed animals that make soothing ocean sounds. She had her own loving arms and strong legs and soft breasts, and with these tools alone, cared perfectly well for her baby.
I, too, have these things, and I've felt pretty darn good about my ability to soothe our son myself, without many "modern conveniences." I bounce, rock, sway, sing, rub, pat, coo, feed, swaddle, and hold with skill; and usually, our baby responds beautifully- by dozing off or quieting down- safe in his mother's arms.
Until yesterday.
Elrod's paternal grandparents have come to town for a visit, and his schedule is a little off from his typical day. He was cranky at unusual times, and nothing helped. He screamed and screamed, and then- when my back was turned- he magically hushed. I turned around to see what had happened- was someone trying a new hold? A new way of baby-joggling I'd not yet learned?
Nope.
There in his mouth was a bright blue pacifier. And he seemed to love it. He happily sucked away, soothing himself and falling asleep, as if someone had pushed a button. Or given him a lot of Benadryl.
Now, don't get me wrong- I have pacifiers in our home. I registered for them and even picked up a couple myself. I'd yet to use them, as I was waiting to master the art of breast feeding before introducing them, but I'd not put up any signs alerting others to this possibly neurotic, new mommy decision.
So I did what any new mother would do. I hid them. Should anyone ask where they are, I'll say, "Hmmm, they were here the other day." And that will be the end of it.
Only it wasn't.
Later, as the family tried to sit down to dinner, little Elrod was once again unhappy- loudly unhappy- and someone had the idea to put him in the automatic swing. The one we registered for. The one, like the pacifier, we'd yet to use. And again, he loved it. He fell right asleep.
And I fell apart a tiny bit inside.
This freaking swing had pushed me aside. It did my job- swinging my baby to sleep- better than I did it myself. It was a cold, robotic substitute for warm, flesh-and-blood, Me. The pacifier was replacing my breast, and now this swing was mocking me with its chirping bird music, and its little animal mobile above my fascinated baby's face. I hated Swing. Swing could suck it.
But then I realized (or was it rationalized?), I need to take care of Me. I had surgery three weeks ago, I still tire easily, and I deserve a meal and a rest and a deep breath now and then. My husband and I deserve, and need, time with each other, even if it's only for 15 minutes over reheated leftovers.
And if Pacifier and Swing are the ones to give me those things, then maybe there is a place for them in our home right now after all. Maybe Swing isn't mocking me. Maybe Pacifier is just misunderstood.
It's still early- our son is just a little over three weeks old. In time, these "modern conveniences" will likely have a more prominent place in our home. But for now, when they make their rare appearance, I'll try to remember that they could never replace a mother's loving arms, strong legs, and soft breasts.
It'll be nice to remember that. Because I can't remember where I hid the pacifier.
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