I start each morning so well intentioned, to get around to posting something in this blog. I wake up, sometimes still sleepy, but ideas in my head and a desire to get them out, on paper, on computer screen.
And then the day happens. This morning, after a just-us-4 weekend of grey skies and random trips into the city to eat things, it was sunny. It was going to be warm. I was going to have until 2pm to work on getting our passport renewals posted, some work emails sent, and some blogging finally done. And then my sleepy kid was a little clingy monkey, too. She wasn't feeling good, and the fact that she looked more than happy to go back to sleep at 9am meant no school for her. And a nap followed by a few emails for me.
Now it is 7:30pm, and M is actually trying to get her to sleep early, because that 9am nap went until 11:30am and then she's been awake until now. And I'm just trying to wind down. I no longer yearn to put ideas on the screen. I don't feel like putting together all my thoughts. But, I thought I'd start writing anyway.
I've finally told the last of the people who knew we were pregnant that we are not pregnant anymore. And while weathering a nasty little flu last week that had me in fever and chills and sinus pain so strong that my TEETH hurt, we had a physics education speaker visit the university.
Soooo boring. No, not the speaker - he was actually great. Gave the exact kind of talk that gets physics professors who have lectured their whole 40 year career long thinking. And challenged, to apply the same rigor to their teaching as to their research. He asked them to think about how they actually knew their students were learning anything. He told them that he had thought he knew about his students and it turned out that he was wrong. He told them, over and over, in subtle ways, that he was at Harvard. This last piece may have been the strongest incentive to these professors to actually listen. And he gave a very well paced, well practiced, Education 101 talk that got people talking.
But my post is boring. I don't have the energy to relate it to anything. This is why I don't blog most evenings. Morning - great. Middle of the night when I can't sleep but already have for 4 hours, probably even better. Evening, just after dinner - zzzzzzzzzzz.
So here I am, stuck in Switzerland for a few weeks, waiting for a new passport. The weather is getting nicer, and I'm finally able to breathe through my nose at night. My daughter seems to be over the worst of the extremely explosive, um, diaper filling. And I think we caught her diaper rash in time, too. Whew.
That is all I've got for you all tonight.
Monday, February 27, 2012
Wednesday, February 15, 2012
Bringing up baby
There is a new book that has been making the rounds of my parent friends here. Called Bringing Up Bebe (with accent marks, because it is a French baby we're talking about), it is an American mother's look at parenting in France. No one I know has read it yet. But we've all read newspaper reviews of it. People on Facebook, parents or not, have commented on it. I think it is controversial because it mixes individual parenting styles with cultural ideas about children. The ugly American parents whose kids are constantly eating, whining and generally reinforcing the world's beliefs about our laziness strike a particularly sore spot with American readers of the reviews. Again, I don't know anyone who has read it yet.
I don't even know if I will read it. The review was enough for me to hear about the idea that kids should cooperate in maintaining a sane, peaceful family existence, be polite, and kind, etc, etc. No one I know thinks kids should be running around a restaurant while parents and others are trying to eat, especially if those kids are making a mess, or the like. And yet, I have an impatient restaurant sitter in my family. Sure, when she hasn't had a snack close to dinner, she eats for longer, and doesn't have as much time for anything else. French babies, according to a friend's recall of the review of the book, sit quietly at restaurants. Well, my kid does, until she's full. Then she's ready to go. It depends on how tired she is, how interesting the surroundings are, and a host of other variables. And how I handle it, especially in a Swiss restaurant depends on my lack of understanding of the subtleties of Swiss attitudes towards child-rearing.
As I was reminded yesterday:
A really good cappuccino. One of the best you can get in Zurich.
A mom sits reading a paper while her 2 and 4 year olds run around in socks on a snow damp floor, visiting with family friends a few tables over. Thee are not quiet, sit calmly girls, little heels hitting the floor hard as they run. But she let's them go back and forth, and no one seems to mind.
I couldn't do that with A. Not here. In the US, maybe. but not here, where the subtlety of social convention keeps me the slightest bit nervous, even in the hipster part of town. I don't know the range of what I can and can't do and that just means I'd have a hard time calmly reading the paper. Then again, maybe mom is faking the calm I imagine she has at her disposal. But she finitely didn't raise her voice when the little shoes got kicked off and the socks took over running.
And, of course, I sit here imagining just the good things about being her and not me. All I see is a woman with two kids (who are quietly engaged with a laptop I now see), reading a paper in a cafe. Without the pooch I'm sporting post-early-pregnancy eating. Actually engaged in an article. Her life is perfect, I imagine. She lives in a old, expensive house in town with hip furnishings and amazing friends. She most definitely uses mirrors in her home to improve the feng shue and not to scrutinize her face. Oh, and she cooks exotic meals every night with spices she learned to use on that two year trip she took around the world. By herself.
The coffee is good. And this moment alone has been good. As will going to get those bed sheets for soon arriving guests.
As I left the coffee shop and took another look at the two little girls, they were happily sitting on and near the man from the couple they'd gone over to interact with. Watching YouTube videos. And I think I heard one of them say "papa." Which is when I realized that the super-cool mom I was so jealous of might well have just been normal-babysitter.
I don't even know if I will read it. The review was enough for me to hear about the idea that kids should cooperate in maintaining a sane, peaceful family existence, be polite, and kind, etc, etc. No one I know thinks kids should be running around a restaurant while parents and others are trying to eat, especially if those kids are making a mess, or the like. And yet, I have an impatient restaurant sitter in my family. Sure, when she hasn't had a snack close to dinner, she eats for longer, and doesn't have as much time for anything else. French babies, according to a friend's recall of the review of the book, sit quietly at restaurants. Well, my kid does, until she's full. Then she's ready to go. It depends on how tired she is, how interesting the surroundings are, and a host of other variables. And how I handle it, especially in a Swiss restaurant depends on my lack of understanding of the subtleties of Swiss attitudes towards child-rearing.
As I was reminded yesterday:
A really good cappuccino. One of the best you can get in Zurich.
A mom sits reading a paper while her 2 and 4 year olds run around in socks on a snow damp floor, visiting with family friends a few tables over. Thee are not quiet, sit calmly girls, little heels hitting the floor hard as they run. But she let's them go back and forth, and no one seems to mind.
I couldn't do that with A. Not here. In the US, maybe. but not here, where the subtlety of social convention keeps me the slightest bit nervous, even in the hipster part of town. I don't know the range of what I can and can't do and that just means I'd have a hard time calmly reading the paper. Then again, maybe mom is faking the calm I imagine she has at her disposal. But she finitely didn't raise her voice when the little shoes got kicked off and the socks took over running.
And, of course, I sit here imagining just the good things about being her and not me. All I see is a woman with two kids (who are quietly engaged with a laptop I now see), reading a paper in a cafe. Without the pooch I'm sporting post-early-pregnancy eating. Actually engaged in an article. Her life is perfect, I imagine. She lives in a old, expensive house in town with hip furnishings and amazing friends. She most definitely uses mirrors in her home to improve the feng shue and not to scrutinize her face. Oh, and she cooks exotic meals every night with spices she learned to use on that two year trip she took around the world. By herself.
The coffee is good. And this moment alone has been good. As will going to get those bed sheets for soon arriving guests.
As I left the coffee shop and took another look at the two little girls, they were happily sitting on and near the man from the couple they'd gone over to interact with. Watching YouTube videos. And I think I heard one of them say "papa." Which is when I realized that the super-cool mom I was so jealous of might well have just been normal-babysitter.
Monday, February 13, 2012
Let me not grieve
There is no hole in my heart. There is no hole in our family. We are not grieving. The crying happened, and is over. We feel fine. I'm not in denial, it really just is ok. And while I know that some friends and family will still need to grieve, I hope it is not for us, not for this one event. We have a second chance right now, to take a hard look at life and figure out how to make it run a bit smoother and to put in some more energy reserves. To take things slower. And to just enjoy the current moments, instead of planning for tomorrow too much.
I am not sad. And I hope that people will not ask me to be sad. For some reason I feel like I need to even apologize for not being more affected by all that happened in the last 7 days. And I am resisting that urge.
I am also resisting the urge to keep swearing about how cold it is out there. And I will be continuing my usual blind trust of the iPhone weather app, that is usually so wrong about everything - the high, the low, the possibility of sunshine tomorrow and snow the next day. I will just nestle in happily believing that in 2 days this cold snap will be over, and my kid might actually want to sled on that white stuff outside I am so strangely excited about.
I am not sad. And I hope that people will not ask me to be sad. For some reason I feel like I need to even apologize for not being more affected by all that happened in the last 7 days. And I am resisting that urge.
I am also resisting the urge to keep swearing about how cold it is out there. And I will be continuing my usual blind trust of the iPhone weather app, that is usually so wrong about everything - the high, the low, the possibility of sunshine tomorrow and snow the next day. I will just nestle in happily believing that in 2 days this cold snap will be over, and my kid might actually want to sled on that white stuff outside I am so strangely excited about.
By the end of the day, Feb 9th
The doctors, it turned out, were really great. Exactly what I hoped for: open to my many questions, aware of the risks of the d&c, able to talk about my worries and tell me about the options of just waiting or the pill. And then, once they had given all that information and answered, really, all of our questions, they were more than willing to let us talk about it and decide what we wanted. Even if it was not what they recommended.
It was exactly what I needed. And I opted to stay in hospital for the d&c.
The procedure was in the morning, in the hands of the director of gynecology, who has done many hundreds of these procedures, and whom I trusted given his demeanor the day before. He wasn't pushy. He didn't seem like he was going to be overly aggressive with the procedure. Sometimes, living in Switzerland is really a good thing.
By mid afternoon, the local anesthesia wore off, and I went home. And felt fine. And calm. Physically, mentally, emotionally.
Things had started, circled, oscillated, and settled down, and there was closure.
And I had some smoked salmon for breakfast on Sunday.
It was exactly what I needed. And I opted to stay in hospital for the d&c.
The procedure was in the morning, in the hands of the director of gynecology, who has done many hundreds of these procedures, and whom I trusted given his demeanor the day before. He wasn't pushy. He didn't seem like he was going to be overly aggressive with the procedure. Sometimes, living in Switzerland is really a good thing.
By mid afternoon, the local anesthesia wore off, and I went home. And felt fine. And calm. Physically, mentally, emotionally.
Things had started, circled, oscillated, and settled down, and there was closure.
And I had some smoked salmon for breakfast on Sunday.
By the end of the week.
Feb 9th
Same building, same floor layout. The lounge area has a great view over the old city and the lake. The kitchen, just like downstairs, 6 floors down, where I sent my first week with A. But there are no bottles of fomula or breast milk in this kitchen, no new babies in the lounge. There are women here, in rooms with the same patterned linens as downstairs. But this is a quieter floor. Less newborn cries. Probably still tears, but quieter, from some rooms.
I keep hoping the miscarriage will start, so I don't have to make the decision, about having the surgical procedure or asking for a pill to do the work. I'm reluctant to wait for my body to "do what it does naturally" because it's been a pretty poor performer so far in these matters in the past. And because I am scared to have extreme pain and bleeding at home in the middle of the night where A might have to hear, see me cry, be rushed off to a friend place for e night. Where M might have to call the dog sitter to get the dog in the morning and me to the hospital if things don't go the way they are supposed to. Ey didn't with the first pregnancy, with the birth, with the breast feeding or with the depression. If I truly listen to my body It keeps saying "yeah, um, I'm not really sure how this is supposed to work, so you'd best get some help."
And the options, as usual, are not simple. A procedure that might damage my fertility but be over by tomorrow, or a pill that could induce a few day extremely painful miscarriage. And the latter might not be complete and I end up here again.
So here is what I've learned about a d&c. It is a bit barbaric in the sense that current practice does not involve any looking to see what is being done. No ultrasound monitoring or camera to make sure that only what is necessary is being removed. And when more is removed than necessary, this can cause scarring that can lead to infertility. More miscarriages or just no more getting pregnant.
The pill, whatever version, is painful, takes longer, messier, and possibly still requires a d&c after all the pain and difficulty if not all the placenta comes out. But so far, apart from that I'm not sure if it is the worse choice for me. It just hasn't been used that much yet to treat miscarriages, so our new Obgyn didn't know much about it.
So here I am, at the university hospital, waiting to meet some doctors and get some answers. About their practices, statistics, options.
Same building, same floor layout. The lounge area has a great view over the old city and the lake. The kitchen, just like downstairs, 6 floors down, where I sent my first week with A. But there are no bottles of fomula or breast milk in this kitchen, no new babies in the lounge. There are women here, in rooms with the same patterned linens as downstairs. But this is a quieter floor. Less newborn cries. Probably still tears, but quieter, from some rooms.
I keep hoping the miscarriage will start, so I don't have to make the decision, about having the surgical procedure or asking for a pill to do the work. I'm reluctant to wait for my body to "do what it does naturally" because it's been a pretty poor performer so far in these matters in the past. And because I am scared to have extreme pain and bleeding at home in the middle of the night where A might have to hear, see me cry, be rushed off to a friend place for e night. Where M might have to call the dog sitter to get the dog in the morning and me to the hospital if things don't go the way they are supposed to. Ey didn't with the first pregnancy, with the birth, with the breast feeding or with the depression. If I truly listen to my body It keeps saying "yeah, um, I'm not really sure how this is supposed to work, so you'd best get some help."
And the options, as usual, are not simple. A procedure that might damage my fertility but be over by tomorrow, or a pill that could induce a few day extremely painful miscarriage. And the latter might not be complete and I end up here again.
So here is what I've learned about a d&c. It is a bit barbaric in the sense that current practice does not involve any looking to see what is being done. No ultrasound monitoring or camera to make sure that only what is necessary is being removed. And when more is removed than necessary, this can cause scarring that can lead to infertility. More miscarriages or just no more getting pregnant.
The pill, whatever version, is painful, takes longer, messier, and possibly still requires a d&c after all the pain and difficulty if not all the placenta comes out. But so far, apart from that I'm not sure if it is the worse choice for me. It just hasn't been used that much yet to treat miscarriages, so our new Obgyn didn't know much about it.
So here I am, at the university hospital, waiting to meet some doctors and get some answers. About their practices, statistics, options.
Not pregnant anymore.
Most people did not know I was pregnant. But I still think it is important for people to know that things like this happen, and not rarely. So here goes.
Tuesday, Feb 7th
At first I cried. M was there with me, thank god we had decided and I had asked that he come. It would have been...just not as comforting if I had been there with a doctor I’d never met, finding out that there was no heartbeat on the ultrasound. The doctor wasn’t particularly bad at the visit, but neither was she particularly comforting. She did her best, I suppose.
But when the situation got complicated, her English skills did not keep up with the question we had. After all, her specialty is live babies.
We both cried some more when we left the office, and headed home.
I’m not sure why I cried. Yes, of course, you are expected to cry, and I was emotional. For the first minutes, on the ultrasound table, I was feeling loss. Disappointment.
Maybe it is because we already have a daughter, who gives us a run for our money every day, and so life is already very full. Maybe because, just as when I was pregnant with A, I never felt I knew the baby while still pregnant. Sure I talked to both, while pregnant with them, but I had no chosen future or role in the family for this child yet. I mean, with A, we waited a day or two after her birth to even pick her name, because I still felt I had to get to know her.
Maybe it is because, now clear why, I’d been feeling so much less exhausted and nauseous the last 3 days. I thought the pregnancy symptoms had just subsided earlier than with A. And they had. But not for the reason I thought. But feeling suddenly better, healthier, less sick, makes this time easier. That night I slept more soundly and deeply than I have in the last 10 weeks.
Maybe it is because I’ve been not pregnant before, many times. 36 times in a row when we were trying for our first child. Those disappointments, month after month, were harder because there was no child yet. I had no idea what pregnancy would be like (tiring) or what mothering would be like (hard, tiring, clinically depressing and joyful - but nothing like the mostly joyful I’d imagined before A arrived). So I mourned the lost opportunity for joy.
Maybe it is because we thought it might take another 3 years to get pregnant, and we just happened to get pregnant at the first conceivable moment that we thought we might be ready to go through it all again. We were already hitting the bottom of our reserves of energy again, and prepared to put down our heads and just barrel through, but it was knowing that things would be hard.
Now I’m disappointed that I spent 3 exhausting, nauseating weeks that will not count towards the next pregnancy, should it happen someday. I feel confused about the coming choice I have to make, given no clear best choice, given my age and how far along the pregnancy was, between waiting for my body to naturally miscarry this baby, or using medical intervention. Either option could lead to the hospital in the end. Neither is without its risks for my health or chances for conceiving again. There are some doctors I’d rather have perform a d&c than others, but I don’t know how to figure out which is which. I’d prefer a female doctor who has had this procedure herself to do it. But I’d also prefer a doctor with a realistic, not-too-cocky approach to my uterus. I want someone I can talk to about risks and choices who knows more than a few pat answers about statistics that may or may not be relevant. Someone who can say “I don’t know” when he or she doesn’t.
But then again, who of us doesn’t want that, in most of the people we interact with?
I guess I feel that, at the end of the day, of the consult, I am not willing to be told “you should really do this procedure, especially given that you are an elderly mother” (certain choices of words are, um, unfortunate, in non-native speakers), and then not be allowed to ask extra questions that are important exactly because, as an “elderly” mother, my chances of getting pregnant are getting slimmer as the months go by.
I do feel very lucky that, if I cannot ask these questions, M will be there and will be able to. Just as at A’s birth, I asked him first and foremost to be the scientist, asking “why?” and “what are the consequences of not doing that?” when I couldn’t. Some doctors must hate us. Oh well.
Tuesday, Feb 7th
At first I cried. M was there with me, thank god we had decided and I had asked that he come. It would have been...just not as comforting if I had been there with a doctor I’d never met, finding out that there was no heartbeat on the ultrasound. The doctor wasn’t particularly bad at the visit, but neither was she particularly comforting. She did her best, I suppose.
But when the situation got complicated, her English skills did not keep up with the question we had. After all, her specialty is live babies.
We both cried some more when we left the office, and headed home.
I’m not sure why I cried. Yes, of course, you are expected to cry, and I was emotional. For the first minutes, on the ultrasound table, I was feeling loss. Disappointment.
Maybe it is because we already have a daughter, who gives us a run for our money every day, and so life is already very full. Maybe because, just as when I was pregnant with A, I never felt I knew the baby while still pregnant. Sure I talked to both, while pregnant with them, but I had no chosen future or role in the family for this child yet. I mean, with A, we waited a day or two after her birth to even pick her name, because I still felt I had to get to know her.
Maybe it is because, now clear why, I’d been feeling so much less exhausted and nauseous the last 3 days. I thought the pregnancy symptoms had just subsided earlier than with A. And they had. But not for the reason I thought. But feeling suddenly better, healthier, less sick, makes this time easier. That night I slept more soundly and deeply than I have in the last 10 weeks.
Maybe it is because I’ve been not pregnant before, many times. 36 times in a row when we were trying for our first child. Those disappointments, month after month, were harder because there was no child yet. I had no idea what pregnancy would be like (tiring) or what mothering would be like (hard, tiring, clinically depressing and joyful - but nothing like the mostly joyful I’d imagined before A arrived). So I mourned the lost opportunity for joy.
Maybe it is because we thought it might take another 3 years to get pregnant, and we just happened to get pregnant at the first conceivable moment that we thought we might be ready to go through it all again. We were already hitting the bottom of our reserves of energy again, and prepared to put down our heads and just barrel through, but it was knowing that things would be hard.
Now I’m disappointed that I spent 3 exhausting, nauseating weeks that will not count towards the next pregnancy, should it happen someday. I feel confused about the coming choice I have to make, given no clear best choice, given my age and how far along the pregnancy was, between waiting for my body to naturally miscarry this baby, or using medical intervention. Either option could lead to the hospital in the end. Neither is without its risks for my health or chances for conceiving again. There are some doctors I’d rather have perform a d&c than others, but I don’t know how to figure out which is which. I’d prefer a female doctor who has had this procedure herself to do it. But I’d also prefer a doctor with a realistic, not-too-cocky approach to my uterus. I want someone I can talk to about risks and choices who knows more than a few pat answers about statistics that may or may not be relevant. Someone who can say “I don’t know” when he or she doesn’t.
But then again, who of us doesn’t want that, in most of the people we interact with?
I guess I feel that, at the end of the day, of the consult, I am not willing to be told “you should really do this procedure, especially given that you are an elderly mother” (certain choices of words are, um, unfortunate, in non-native speakers), and then not be allowed to ask extra questions that are important exactly because, as an “elderly” mother, my chances of getting pregnant are getting slimmer as the months go by.
I do feel very lucky that, if I cannot ask these questions, M will be there and will be able to. Just as at A’s birth, I asked him first and foremost to be the scientist, asking “why?” and “what are the consequences of not doing that?” when I couldn’t. Some doctors must hate us. Oh well.
Friday, February 3, 2012
Nutella and Ritz
When I was pregnant with A, and we had just moved to Zurich, my sister-in-law came for a visit, and introduced me to a comfort junk food that I had no idea even existed. And I tend to know a lot of them. She went off to the little Italian grocery store down the block from where our apartment was, and came back with Tuc crackers, the European version of Ritz, thinner, break more easily, a bit softer, and some Nutella.
I am now sitting at my desk, at home, done with all my morning procrastinating on BBC.com, NYTimes, dooce.com, let's-just-check-if-something-else-happened-on-BBC.com the 5 minutes I was browsing elsewhere, and e-mail. And there is an open packet of Tuc and an open jar of Nutella next to the keyboard. It's a good morning. This stuff goes down way too smoothly, although, due to the flakier nature of the Tuc, you actually have to dip it in the Nutella glass (and it is a glass, not a jar, and can be used as a drinking glass when the Nutella is gone later toda...this week) slowly so as to not break it into 3 pieces.
There is a photo of A, from a daycare trip last year to a pony farm, tacked to the wall near the screen. I've had it there for a few weeks now, and it is one of the few things that can temporarily snap me out of my work-induced nerves in what has been an extremely busy time. I haven't worked this hard in years, at least, not with other people, and on projects that didn't involve a diaper, a rash, or a cold. This photo breaks my heart just a little, though, each time I look at it. And it isn't even the one where she is petting a horse nose, or brushing a horse back. It is a close-up of A, little neon yellow body vest on (that all the little kids at daycares here wear on outings), mouth wide open, eating a cookie. The cookie is wide, her mouth is not, and she's doing her best to remedy the situation. Her eyes look a bit concerned, like she is concentrating. There are crumbs of the first half of the cookie on the side of her mouth. She looks so...innocent. It is a photo that almost makes me want to cry for how not-self-conscious she is. How eating is about getting the food in the pie hole, and not about elbows on a table, do I have a double chin in this photo?, or all the other stuff that gets piled on us as we become adults. It is the kind of photo of of themselves that many people cringe at later, because it isn't about posing and outward appearance. The kind that we all groan over when someone posts it of us, eating something, on their Facebook page. How unflattering! Unpost that! Everyone will see!
But the thing it, everyone already has. In their everyday interactions with you and me. And they don't really care. The people who like us and love us could care less how we eat a cracker, because they are having a great time talking over coffee or a meal. And we look our most human in the very same photos we tend to hate the most.
So there she is, completely engaged in getting that food into her body. And doing it herself, feeding herself, and what a beautiful moment to have been caught on camera. It is one of my favorite photos for the emotions it brings me. I'm trying to remember not to care so much how I look, and that this moment in A's life, preserved on film, is one of those times I realize how much I love that little person.
So who knows how lovable I look right now, eating my crackers and chocolate hazelnut spread, typing away? (One of the things I love about my husband is the smile on his face when I am seriously tucking into a plate of food).
About the only disappointing thing about this morning's snack is that I hadn't realized that the glass has Smurf designs all over it. Well, maybe this is where A start using an actual glass glass at mealtimes. And since our IKEA glasses have been saying farewell to this cruel world at the rate of one per week, I guess I'll just have to get more Nutella-in-a-glass to bring up the drinking receptacle count in the kitchen.
I am now sitting at my desk, at home, done with all my morning procrastinating on BBC.com, NYTimes, dooce.com, let's-just-check-if-something-else-happened-on-BBC.com the 5 minutes I was browsing elsewhere, and e-mail. And there is an open packet of Tuc and an open jar of Nutella next to the keyboard. It's a good morning. This stuff goes down way too smoothly, although, due to the flakier nature of the Tuc, you actually have to dip it in the Nutella glass (and it is a glass, not a jar, and can be used as a drinking glass when the Nutella is gone later toda...this week) slowly so as to not break it into 3 pieces.
There is a photo of A, from a daycare trip last year to a pony farm, tacked to the wall near the screen. I've had it there for a few weeks now, and it is one of the few things that can temporarily snap me out of my work-induced nerves in what has been an extremely busy time. I haven't worked this hard in years, at least, not with other people, and on projects that didn't involve a diaper, a rash, or a cold. This photo breaks my heart just a little, though, each time I look at it. And it isn't even the one where she is petting a horse nose, or brushing a horse back. It is a close-up of A, little neon yellow body vest on (that all the little kids at daycares here wear on outings), mouth wide open, eating a cookie. The cookie is wide, her mouth is not, and she's doing her best to remedy the situation. Her eyes look a bit concerned, like she is concentrating. There are crumbs of the first half of the cookie on the side of her mouth. She looks so...innocent. It is a photo that almost makes me want to cry for how not-self-conscious she is. How eating is about getting the food in the pie hole, and not about elbows on a table, do I have a double chin in this photo?, or all the other stuff that gets piled on us as we become adults. It is the kind of photo of of themselves that many people cringe at later, because it isn't about posing and outward appearance. The kind that we all groan over when someone posts it of us, eating something, on their Facebook page. How unflattering! Unpost that! Everyone will see!
But the thing it, everyone already has. In their everyday interactions with you and me. And they don't really care. The people who like us and love us could care less how we eat a cracker, because they are having a great time talking over coffee or a meal. And we look our most human in the very same photos we tend to hate the most.
So there she is, completely engaged in getting that food into her body. And doing it herself, feeding herself, and what a beautiful moment to have been caught on camera. It is one of my favorite photos for the emotions it brings me. I'm trying to remember not to care so much how I look, and that this moment in A's life, preserved on film, is one of those times I realize how much I love that little person.
So who knows how lovable I look right now, eating my crackers and chocolate hazelnut spread, typing away? (One of the things I love about my husband is the smile on his face when I am seriously tucking into a plate of food).
About the only disappointing thing about this morning's snack is that I hadn't realized that the glass has Smurf designs all over it. Well, maybe this is where A start using an actual glass glass at mealtimes. And since our IKEA glasses have been saying farewell to this cruel world at the rate of one per week, I guess I'll just have to get more Nutella-in-a-glass to bring up the drinking receptacle count in the kitchen.
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