Sitting Still

two months later, and all I have are some pictures

Well, hello there.  How y'all been?  Me, I'm good.  Just insanely busy.  And when I'm not busy, I'm lazy.  A gal deserves a break, I think.

In truth, everyday in the past couple of weeks I have said to myself, "Self, today is the day that you return to blogging at Sitting Still."  Then it's 11 pm and I finish up contractually obligated posting elsewhere and I don't post.  That is, until now.  All because my little sister, who never demands anything at all (not even a birthday gift on time) said to me Friday: "It is your job to get some new pictures up on your website by the end of the weekend."

Uh, yes, ma'am.

Here are the kids.  They are still cute.  That hasn't changed.

 

Claire started back to her small church preschool.  And lo, there was much rejoicing.  Hallelujah, indeed.  (And can someone please tell me when my baby got all grown-up?  Look at that.  She's like 4 going on 17 and should model that backpack for L.L. Bean, she loves it so much.)

 

And Gage?  Well, Gage is getting big.  Dude, he crawls.  And pulls up on things, many of which are not reasonable to pull up on.  Thus, he also bonks his head a lot.  It's still a cute head, though.

 

That's all I've go for tonight.  Now that I've dusted off the ol' Typepad password, I'll be back. Be well.

Gage at 5 months

My son is five months old.  Five and a half, to be exact. Cue the whining mama: where does the time go?

He just had his four month check-up last week (at five months, as I neglectfully missed the visit I'd scheduled -- oops) and weighs in at almost 19 pounds, 27.5 inches long.  He's in the 97th percentile all the way around, which makes me say good job buddy -- a solid A in the eating department!

We still haven't managed to establish any kind of schedule, but he generally falls into the pattern of eat, play, sleep (which, come to think of it, would be the infant's answer to Eat, Pray, Love, dontcha think?).  I seem to think Claire was in this nice two-naps-a-day pattern by this age, but then again, Claire did not get carted all over town because her mama and big sister were bored at home.  So there's that. A week ago I would have told you he is consistently sleeping through the night, and that is still mostly true, except for the days when I've stayed up far too late -- then he's up at the least convenient time! (The children, they prey on your weaknesses...)

But, ah, the giggles.  They are plentiful, especially if you tickle him in the sweet spot between his chins or lift him up into an airplane in the air.  And he likes nothing better than to be naked, squirming, kicking, and grabbing his penis.  Yes, he's found it, although it's not unusual for him to stick his hand down there and grab hold of the fat roll right next door on his thigh instead, which cracks me up like nothing else.  Claire is the BEST TOY EVER, and even when she is right up in his face and practically laying on top of him and I'm yelling "Don't break his ribs!" -- even then, he's laughing at her.  It's easy to see already that these two are going to get into all kinds of mischief and that I'll be lucky to stay one step ahead.

When I found out I was having a boy, I was a little uncertain about what that would bring.  Now, I can't imagine having it any other way.  He's my buddy, and my constant companion, and his gummy smile and grabby, curious hands are a source of much delight.  I have a little boy, and he's awesomeness.

freedom

One of the loveliest gifts I received for my birthday this year was taped inside a card from my friend Bridget. It was a pupae of a Vanessa cardui, with the promise that in 3-6 days, a butterfly would emerge.

The painted lady broke free of her chrysalis Tuesday morning.  Claire noticed her first.  "Mommy, there's a butterfly in our house!" she said, running to get me and dragging me into the kitchen where our new insect friend rested, wings still wet and crinkled. We moved her into a bug house with wire mesh sides so that she could finish drying out and enjoy some rest. All the work required to change from caterpillar to butterfly must be exhausting.

I told Claire that we could keep her for a couple of days, but that soon we'd have to release her in the yard. We decided this morning -- a warm morning, but heavy with fog -- that we would wait until this afternoon to let her go.  (Claire wanted to be sure she was warm and could see where to go.)

"It's time," I told her, after lunch and with Gage napping in his crib.

She picked up the bug house and immediately burst into tears. "I don't want to let her go," she sobbed. "I love her and I want to keep her."

"Honey, butterflies don't belong inside houses.  Butterflies belong outside, where they can fly through the sky and float on the wind," I replied.

We made a deal. We would open the door to the bug house and pull the butterfly out on a stick.  If she left, she left.  If she stayed, then we'd keep her another day.

The painted lady sat there for a moment, flapping her wings and allowing us one last close-up look at her gorgeous color.  We both held our breath as she left.  There was no gentle flapping of wings, no resting on flowers nearby. She was there and then gone; it seemed almost as if she became part of the wind.

4

Dear Claire,

Your birthday happened almost three weeks ago and I promised myself that I would write to you before the end of the month.  It's 11:19 pm on March 31, so I've effectively procrastinated until the last possible minute. It's the way I operate, but I don't recommend it. Other things I don't recommend, for the record: bikini waxing, jeans with metal adornments, small dogs, and cheap tequila. Take my word for it.

You won't of course, as you have plenty of your own words already.  If there is one thing I reckon will never change about you, it is that you love to talk. You talk to me, to your dolls, to imaginary friends. You talk and talk and talk, sometimes making sense, sometimes not. Your father and I joke that you are already a true Southern gal, because you can yack on without making a single point. There was one time recently when you were trying to ask me a question, except the question had a long backstory that I hadn't followed.  It was late afternoon, and I was tired and grumpy, and I asked you, pretty please, to JUST. ASK. ME. THE. QUESTION. You started back, at the beginning of the tale, and when I stopped you, you rolled your eyes and said, "Oh nevermind.  It's a long story."

It has been a long story. This year brought a lot of change to our lives. We moved to South Carolina and you left the only friends and the only home you'd ever known. You've readily made new friends, however, and your busy social life exhausts me. You're only four years old, and already you've figured out how to get people to feed you and how to transform your wardrobe from preschool to pool to playdate.  These skills will serve you well in college, but I'd really appreciate it if you could just slow down a little.  Please?

But you won't slow down for me.  You have words to learn and songs to sing and mountains to climb. I looked at you the day you came to meet your little brother at the hospital, and saw how you kissed him and talked to him and touched his head so gently, just like we asked you to do.  And suddenly, you were no longer my baby. You were BIG.

You pick out your own clothes and brush your own teeth. You tell me what you'd like to have for breakfast. You can write your name, and mine, and you like to giggle when you call me "Nicole." You steal my chapstick and use my yoga mat. You talk your dad into getting you another Disney princess toothpaste at Target even though you already have FOUR things of toothpaste because I fell for your toothpaste sales pitch three other times. You run on the beach and kick soccer balls and dance your fool head off to High School Musical. You read books to your brother while I take a shower. In other words, you rock.

Not that our days are without conflict, oh goodness no. We are a lot alike, you and I, in ways neither of us wants to admit, and sometimes our heads butt hard. We can yell at each other, walk away, cry, and stomp feet with the best of them. There are times I've treated you unfairly and I've had to apologize. You are always quick to forgive me and eager to seal the truce with a hug. You are teaching me lessons about letting go, about not holding grudges, about forgiveness. I hope that I am teaching you those lessons too.

I think a lot about all of the lessons I've taught in these last four years, especially as  see your world getting bigger and bigger. Just last week you were invited to spend the night with a friend, and you insisted that you should go. I was reluctant. I feared you couldn't handle it. I feared you wouldn't be able to get to sleep. I feared that it was the wrong decision to let you go. But you told me you wanted to do it. You told me you were ready, and that you would listen to the grown-ups and eat your vegetables and go to bed on time. You told me that you weren't scared.

You weren't. I was. You were ready. I wasn't. You went. We both did great.

I think after four years, I finally get it. The day the nurse handed the tiny newborn you to me, I was paralyzed by the idea that you depended on me to show you the way, to teach you everything. I was so afraid for both of us. I was so afraid of doing it wrong.

But the only way of doing it wrong is to let my fears dictate your fate. Patiently, you've shown me the way. Finally, I've let go. After four years, you've taught me to trust you, and to trust myself. You've given me permission to mother fearlessly.

The night of your birthday I was putting you to bed, cuddling and chatting and feeling pretty sentimental. I looked at you and said, "I'm so glad you're my kid." And you replied, quickly and without qualification, "And I'm so glad you're my mom."

It may be your birthday, baby, but you're not the only one getting gifts. The world -- my world -- is a better place with you in it.

Love,
Mama

then and now

I had post-partum depression after Claire was born.  I've mentioned it before, and shared some writing from that time in this post, but on the whole it is an experience I have a hard time talking about.  It's not hard because of shame or embarrassment; it's hard only because, while I remember the feelings of doom and gloom, there is a lot I can't convey with any specificity.  My amnesia is so significant that, every time I review photos of Claire during the first year of her life, I am grateful that I took them. They are reminders that while I was struggling, she was fine.  More than fine, really.  She was thriving.

There was one afternoon when she was six months old that does stick with me.  It had been a long day.  She was especially needy -- teething, I think -- and I had been looking for a job (and much-needed income) for several months without any luck.  I felt awful, and I knew that I'd been feeling awful for awhile.  Ron was struggling with his own challenges, on a steep learning curve in the first year of his residency, and I knew that coming home to a teary-eyed, anxious, overwhelmed wife was taking its toll on him as well.

He called that afternoon to say he was on his way home, and I decided I would ensure that when he walked in that door, I looked happy.  Not to say that I was happy, but I was going to fake it.  (Now, don't get all judgmental -- the basic idea of cognitive-behavioral therapy is that if you think you're happy and act like you're happy, eventually you'll be happy.  Psychology was on my side.)  I put on a CD with upbeat music and, just as I'd planned, when Ron walked in the door, Claire and I were dancing.  His smile of relief was genuine, even if my expression of joy was not.

It took about eight months after that to get my real grin back.

With Gage's birth, I was concerned that I might face depression again.  Very early, however, I could tell that some of the symptoms I'd had with Claire -- symptoms that I now know should have been glaring signals of something bigger -- were absent.  No obsessive-compulsive behaviors, no dread of the night, no feelings that I was an incompetent mother.  While I knew trouble could still develop, my instinct was that my experience this go around was within a normal range.

This afternoon, just as before, Ron called to say he was on his way home.  The hours before that had been challenging.  Gage wanted to either be attached to my boob or pressed next to my body, and nothing else would be tolerated.  Claire had her Valentine's party at preschool this morning and came home jacked up on the high that only copious amounts of pink sugar crystals can produce.  By the time he walked in the door, I had both kids on our bed with me.  Gage was nursing (again).  Claire and I had split the earbuds of the iPod and we were listening to upbeat music, singing and dancing as best we could while playing tug-of-war with the white cord.

This time, I wasn't putting on a boisterous display of happy for his sake.  I think I probably sighed and smiled weakly, relieved to have him home.  However, as difficult as this afternoon was, I also wasn't miserable.  I wasn't doubting myself or my ability to mother these children.  Exhausted?  Yes.  Touched out?  For sure.   But still able to laugh at myself when I told Claire she had something on that "area below her lip" and she came back with, "You mean my CHIN, mommy?"  Indeed.

It ain't perfect, but it's real.  And right now?  Real feels good.   

three updates - because it's the magic number

My boy child?  The one who is only 6 weeks old?  He is HUGE.  He hasn't had an official weight check since he was a week old, but my best estimates with our home scale put him around 13 pounds.  He's outgrown all the newborn clothes and half of the 0-3 month set.  My friend accused me of serving up pure butter in my boobs.  My only response is that most of the time it's cream.  The butter only comes after I go jogging without a sports bra.

(I have not been jogging.)

(I always wear a sports bra when I do, though.)

* * * * *
Claire has several wonderful expressions that I keep meaning to write down so I don't forget.  Lord knows that if I don't write them down, I WILL forget, so here goes:

• instead of "shadow", she says "my shade", and she prefers that you don't walk in it
• instead of "fireworks", she says "starworks"

There is at least one more that I'm forgetting.  Dang.  Should have written it down sooner.
* * * * *
I am officially boycotting Valentine's Day this year.  Well, that's not totally true.  I made Valentines with Claire for her buddies and for her school party.  However, when it comes to my own "romantic" relationship, I am just not feeling it.  I haven't been able to KISS my husband in over a month because of the mono infection, and we haven't... you know... in even longer because of the baby and my post-partum recovery.

Chocolates will make me fatter.  Lingerie would look ridiculous on me right now.  I can't drink more than one glass of wine without either getting tipsy or falling asleep.  Shiny rocks are pretty, but for that kind of cash I'd rather have a shiny new laptop, and I don't think either option is in the budget.

So, yeah.  Boycotting.  Totally.

a whole lot of hippie-dippie mixed up with a little fruit loop*

Yesterday was a total hippie mom day for me. 

We spent the morning at the county park, walking around looking for alligators.  (Claire kept asking when we were going to see the animals, and we kept trying to explain that this was their home, not a zoo, but to keep an eye out.  No luck.) 

The afternoon saw me cleaning my bathroom with nothing but baking soda and a freshly cut lemon, juicing oranges for fresh juice and washing my first load of cloth diapers. 

I meant to hang the diapers on the line outside while humming Kum Ba Ya, but fell a little short on time so I listened to my iPod while they were in the dryer instead. 

Still, a very good day.

*this phrase is how the ever-so-descriptive Debunot explained Nia to Raybelle when we had dinner together a couple of weeks ago.  I thought it was brilliant, so I stole it, even though she was probably making fun of me.

P.S. New pics of the kiddos up at Flickr.  SEE THAT MOM.  NEW PICS.

on being mammalian

I will say that one of the nice things about having breastfed Claire successfully is that this time I got to skip the classes and shoo away the lactation consultant.  Mind you, Gage and I were doing just fine, and should I have needed her, I would not have hesitated to call upon her expertise.  But as things were, I didn't need her to show me nursing positions or discuss proper latch when I had other things to do.   Like sleep.

Of course, she still felt the need to share some of her wisdom with me, so I got what I imagine is a lecture called Breastfeeding 201.  I don't remember much about this bit, except for the fact that she kept orienting a stuffed bear at her own breasts, and that it ended with a spiel about how babies really do know how to breastfeed, because we humans?  We're MAMMALS.

Yes, the woman felt the need to remind me that my baby boy is really just a little mammal.  What she failed to mention, however, is that sometimes the little mammal I would be allowing to suck my nipple would act like a hungry, pissed off baby RACCOON.

He howls. I offer.  He taste-tests.  He latches.  My letdown comes too fast and milk gushes into his mouth.  He chokes and sputters and pushes off of me with both paws.  If I've forgotten to trim his claws, I pay.  He shoots me a pissy look.  Perhaps he grunts and moans a bit because he's got air in his belly.  I try to burp him.  He won't burp.  He's still SO HUNGRY, FEED ME WOMAN.  He literally throws himself off of my chest trusting that I will catch him so that my nipple is lined up precisely with his mouth.  He latches.  He still needs to burp.  He pulls off.   This continues until either the flow slows to his liking, or he decides to...well...suck it up and just nurse.

All I can say is that, in addition to surviving on breastmilk like other mammals, he's also cute and cuddly and furry.

It makes up for a lot, doesn't it?

i don't want to forget

the smell of a new baby. the way he throws out his arms when startled in a Moro reflex. how it takes time for him to learn that he can stretch out their legs in his new, less restricted world.  the tingle of a let down. the squeaking and gulping noises as he tries to coordinate breathing and eating. the squirming that comes on mid-diaper change. my laughter when he pees all over the place.  the involuntary smiles that I know are involuntary, but still believe are just for me.  the smacking of lips as he dreams of mama.  how quickly the cheeks fill out and the chins grow. the look of recognition in his eyes when I talk to him.  the nuzzle of a hungry baby on my arm or face or anywhere, really.  the warmth of a baby sleeping on my chest...

the magic of a new life.

moments

Claire, kissing Gage's head: "I love you baby brother." (more smooches) "More than you know."

* * *
Ron, bringing baby into me to nurse: "Look Gage!  BOOBIES!"

* * *
Speaking of breasts --
Claire, upon invading Nana's privacy after a shower: "Nana, you have lazy boobs."

* * *
Claire, instructing me that I should pick her up from preschool, since Nana was dropping her off:
"You can pick me up, because you can drive now."
(Discharge instructions were to avoid driving for two weeks, and we were both getting tired of telling Nana where to turn!)

* * *
Ron, 5 am, in the delirium of fever with an illness acquired in Guatemala: "Do you want a fork?"
Um, no honey.  I'm changing the baby's diaper.  I don't think a fork would be useful.
Yet he persisted. "Was it a fork that you wanted?"
NO, dear, I do not want a GAHD DAMN fork.

* * *
And not so much a moment, but a rhetorical question:
Why did you people not tell me that the male version of baby is capable of peeing IN HIS OWN FACE?  Not that anything like that has happened here.  Oh, no.