That first time must have been a fluke

You know sometimes you have such a strong experience that it colors how you remember all subsequent experiences with the same person, place or event? Yeah, I think that is what Baby A's first flight did to my at Christmas time. She was a bit feverish from a vaccine shot, and slept most of the time. On the first flight to Frankfurt, then the one to Toronto, then in Toronto. A lot. No jet lag, really snuggly baby. I got a lot of sleep, as a result, and thought "Hey, my kid is a great traveler!"

Well, I think I'm ready to admit she's just a regular toddler traveler. Because after another long flight, I finally opened my brain enough to remember that apart from that first flight, she has screamed to sleep on every flight since. Ah, the power of positive thinking. It only took me 10 more flights to realize that. I guess it was good to have the illusion for the time being and it probably helped me more than anyone, to feel like it was going to be fine.

Not that she's a maniac on flights. But it is good to remember that if it isn't night time and the plane isn't all dark, and she isn't a bit sick, it will take a bit to get her to wind down, and that will include some crying. And making sure she eats enough fiber on flights is going to take a bit more work than I put into it this time.

Oh well. At least she can eat prunes straight out of the bag now.

As for the louder-than-necessary comments from the business man in back of us on the one flight she just drifted off to sleep on, about "the earphones don't work! when does the entertainment system come on so I don't have to hear crying?", turns out my baby is less of a whiner than you are. That is all.

It'll do

Last night, while preparing for a big day today, I was frantically trying to get these programs made for our naming ceremony for Baby A. Since we aren't practicing Catholics anymore, and I'm not crazy about the state of the Roman Catholic church's handling of sexual abuse of children anyway, we aren't baptizing her. But we have guardians chosen and it is still nice to officially welcome a new child into her families. So we are doing our own ceremony. Short, hopefully not to corny, but still symbolic in some ways. I think it will be nice.

But there I was trying to get my new version of iPhoto on the Mac to hurry the hell up and load photos of her so I could use the cool card template to make an amazing (and oh so stylish) program. Yeah, well, this new version of iPhoto hasn't been playing nice with all our old photos. It may take until the next decade for this software to actually do whatever precious conversions of old photos it keeps assuring me I need. Whatever, iPhoto, you're bumming me out.

So there I was, getting more frustrated, feeling the time pinch of having to get to bed soon, Baby A's intestines decided that last night was the night to either get constipated or have loads of gas and the poor thing was screaming and writhing on the bed, us not being able to help much.

I'm running around the kitchen trying to get the cumin (I think) seeds boiled and strained to make a warm tea (in case it is gas), and soak the prunes in boiling water and then mash them up to make prune juice (in case it is constipation).

I'm thinking about how we'll even do damage control to those crib sheets (and walls, and floors) if she isn't actually constipated and I just fed her two whole prunes.

I'm cursing under my breath at the Mac and restarting the whole computer.

And finally, she settles on M's chest and then asks to go to her crib. We put some loose clothes on her and she drifts off to sleep.

I go back to the desktop, inhale, exhale. Blink blink. I open MS Word, pop one photo of Baby A I have from the desktop to the document. Put the text in, print out a bunch of copies, and I'm done.

Good enough, yo. That's all that it needs to be. And I get to go to sleep, instead of feeling that sinking "I'm not even 1/4 done yet" feeling I used to get at the beginning of a long night, way behind on my thesis writing in that last month. Phew.

Oh, and I'm happy to say, there will be no baby-poo Spilled Milk #4 photo. No explosion from the diaper area last night.

Spilled mik, #2 and #3

After the photo of the spilled milk came out so nice, I started taking a few others, of the things that might be called messes, that Baby A creates, but really are beautiful, too. Sure, they have to be cleaned up, but in a photo, to look at, later, when they no longer represent more work to be done, they're kind of nice.

I had one of my almost-out-the-door conversations with M this morning. Why is it that the sweet spot for interesting topics happens somewhere between the end of breakfast and the start of the commute? I guess it keeps things short, but there is an emotional space there that encourages those 7 minute chats somehow. Like the spilled milk photos, it is nice.

I was thinking about marriages and how you decide to interfere in someone else's or not. Ha ha ha. Just writing that pretty much argues for not. But what if there is some act of good will, that one person hasn't quite realized could make a huge difference to their spouse? That has to come first, that could shift the relationship ever so slightly, maybe to a place of more room and contentment. Yeah, ok, maybe that is just wishful thinking.

I like flowers, see. Not really bouquets of red roses, but I like fresh flowers, and I like them more than M realizes sometimes. (He knows this, by the way, including the not realizing part). And what if someone just reminded him to buy them a little more often. I mean, our marriage has survived, flowers or no, but would it have shifted things a bit, in a healthy way? At some tough time? Not an apology time (he knows you don't give me an "I'm sorry" bouquet - that it is just asking for trouble), but just some time when we were more rather than less out-of-sync with each other?

In other words, what is the role of all those guests who came to your wedding? To wait until you ask for marriage advice? To be there on the day and then leave you two to yourselves, only "butting in" when asked later? But by the time people ask for help it can be too late. We wait to do maintenance on our relationships sometimes. We don't even know we need a little push here or there, an anecdote about someone else's experience. Something we didn't even know we didn't know.

For instance, someone told M to take photos of me while I was pregnant and to tell me I was beautiful. And luckily, on top of that, M actually did believe it. He told me a lot. But he also did take photos. Sometimes just because he remembered the advice from another pregnant woman's husband. And it was nice. It was good for us.

Because we can't be everything to each other, or think of all of these things ourselves. Maybe that is the line, then, to suggest things to a person in a marriage, and leave them to decide whether to act on that or not. The idea might be a great one, but it remains in their hands whether or not they do it. And that is what counts in the end. It didn't matter that M didn't come up with the photo thing on his own, it matters that he took the idea and enacted it. Did the few seconds extra of effort to take those photos.

Huh. So do I say something to the spouse of a friend or not? I guess I'll have to see how I feel. Although spilled milk can make for a beautiful image, sometimes you need someone to buy you that new mop to make the clean up just that much easier.

Sunday afternoon

A slight damp-cold day has turned into a beautiful spring, 55 F and sunny afternoon. My baby girl, poor thing, must still be sick, what with the phenomenal poo she had this morning, the small appetite and now going into her 4th hour of napping. She never does this. Not this long. And I heard another splurt from her (and the smell) about an hour ago and wonder when do I wake her up to just change the diaper so this doesn't turn into a rash, too?

Four hours. I've gotten a nap (I'm a bit sick, too, I guess, tired after a 2 hour nap and good night of sleep). M has gotten a nap. I'm writing in my blog on a Sunday with no babysitter in sight. I have a non-instant coffee. M and I have made some lists and decisions about something other than the next 2 hours. I've had a chance to sit with my Oprah magazine (can I tell you how excited I get everytime it arrives here? So American, without being all about celebrities and fashion and sex quizzes. And the book section practically summons my Kindle out of the drawer it inhabits.), and decide I'm not in the mood to read it. Yes, I'm sick, too.

I flip some colorful pages and wonder why the magazine has so many beauty product advertisers when it also contains so much "love yourself the way you are" writing. The writing I like, the ads make me a bit tired.

Crows and magpies sit on still-bare branches outside the living room window, so from the chaise that has broken free of the sofa and come to the corner, I can still see the city and the lake. In summer that won't be true, anymore. But then dinners, and afternoon baths, will provide all the contentment instead.

Four hours. I've watered the tulip bulbs that came home from Amsterdam. And I have a bit-too-hot bath tub waiting, bubbles and all, to clean that little bum when it wakes up. Sunlight warms my legs through the window. The door to the balcony is open for the pupper to come and go as she pleases on such a warm afternoon.

I hear a tiny cry. Time to go washa-wahsa.

Might as well get used to it: Spilled milk #1

The concept of motherhood continues to mystify me. But so did the concept of bride-hood, wife-hood, PhD-hood, etc.

The other night, baby A woke up at 11:45pm first crying, then when I tried to get her the binky and then the water bottle, things turned ugly. It was a full-on, arching back, screeching like being tortured 10 minutes.

I tried to hold her upright.

No good.

I tried to rock her.

Are you kidding me?

I changed her diaper.

Nice to be dry, but not the main problem. Screeeeeeeeeam!

M came in with a bottle.

Again, no thanks.

And then, in a mirror to the previous night when I had gone in and repeated exactly what M had tried but I was successful, M took her.

He held her upright.

Sigh.

He layed down in the bed with her on his chest.

Deep sigh.

Grumbling under the breath (this one was me).

I hate when M can calm her when I can't. This is the part of motherhood that I'm still figuring out. I think I was raised to believe that being a mother is about being the most comforting person for your little person. That I'm the one she is supposed to want when she's sick, sad, woken up from a nightmare (one of our guesses about those two nights), upset. That some of what I get back for all the patience and calm, for the playing and loving, is pole position when it comes to soothing. My smell, my voice and my body are supposed to be the best at this.

But that isn't how it works with Baby A.

Turns out, M has the perfect touch for rocking her - no one else can anymore. And for getting her to nap on his chest - that flight from Amsterdam would have gotten a lot quieter sooner had his chest been there.

And just as I come to terms with having my body back, now it is rejected in a very intimate way. By the little being I want it to help soothe. (Note to self: eat more, and gain back that weight, because obviously the slimmer you doesn't make up for this). There may be nothing that will change this.

So I have to rethink mothering again. Maybe go back to what I learned when no body (not a single one) could soothe her best - that my job as a mother is to look out for her and make sure she gets what she most needs and what best calms her. It isn't necessarily to be that one who best calms her, but to search out those people and things and situations.

Because if I keep thinking I'm supposed to be her go-to, and it isn't working, I'm going to feel pretty hurt. I tell you what, babies are a huge lesson in not taking things personally.

Yes, I believe I would like fries with that

There I was, with my tuna salad wrap, on the tram heading home. Once again, I was eating lunch too late and I was starving. Three teenagers, two girls and a guy, maybe 17 or 18 years old sat in the seats around me - the girls facing me, the guy next to me. The guy spoke just a bit too loudly as teenage boys sometimes do, and the girls both had the huge sunglasses and carefully done hair. Not a super snobby group, but not un-self conscious, either.

I ate most of the wrap, down to a final half handful of tuna salad, that had slid out of the wrap into its cardboard holder. Dang. I was still hungry and I wanted all my tuna salad, but I could clearly feel that there was no way I was going to go in there with my bare fingers. Not in front of Swiss teenagers. Not these teenagers.

I really shouldn't care. I've got a kid, I'm busy, I'm hungry, deal with it. But nope, I left that tuna salad where it fell and wrapped it, and put it back in my backpack. I'd be switching trams soon anyway. I could eat it then.

Two stops before mine, the teenagers got off. And across the way from me was a vision in "I could care less" - two twelve year old boys with Whoppers and fries.

The tram took off again. The boys were inhaling those burgers and fries with the kind of abandon I respect. If I were indulging in that meal, I'd want the freedom to do exactly the same. Fries flying on the floor, lettuce drenched in mayo dripping into the box. Fingers covered in awesome.

I pulled out my tuna salad remains, stuck my fingers in and, in the best of company, finished my lunch. When it comes to food and hungry, I'd rather be a twelve year old boy at heart. And wish I could say that of twelve year old girls, too. But I think they are already too worried about how they look, what other people think. I'm going to have to figure out how to avoid that as much as I can with baby A.

Then again, given that I am the one sadly stashing my tuna salad, and she most definitely gets into her food body and soul, maybe she's going to need to do her best to save my butt instead.

Yup. Its spring.

There it is. The rogue daffodil that has somehow made its way to our balcony garden and decided to flower before anything else is even ready. But that's just one of the signs.

The crocuses are blooming in our neighborhood.

The sky is blue and the high was 56 F today.

I don't freak out when baby A pulls off her hat anymore, but I still say no bare feet unless we're in the bus/tram.

My orange trench coat was warm enough, and I could have made due without socks myself.

The checklist is up in the elevator asking us all to turn off our balcony faucets so that water can be turned on again.

It is light outside when baby A wakes up now, and trust me, she's not sleeping in.

But really, just like with the shedding that is probably soon to be in full swing, the biggest indicator to me that spring is here....I shaved my legs (If only I could shed instead of shaving) after some 3 months of furriness. I didn't wear a skirt or shorts. But that doesn't matter. Its spring.