This week we headed down to the dirty South (judging from Jude's explosive poops) to visit with Grandma Janet (great-grandma technically) and Grandpa Gene for one week. I appreciated the time away from the constant inundation of computers, cable, cell phones to relax and, oh yes, attempt to study for the GRE's.
Jude and my grandparents immediately bonded. Grandma, many a morning, could be found downstairs in the finished basement composing songs on the mini keyboard with Jude or reading aloud about a recalcitrant bull named Ferdinand.
As his neck muscles are now fully developed there's barely any risk for the infamous head-banging. When I informed Grandma of the tornicollis, she simply remarked, "Well, the Dumpling needed quite strong muscles to hold up such a large head."
A burly firefighter correctly installed the baby seat since Jude's legs had begun dangling precariously from the ends. Like Jack's magical beanstalk, Jude's growth knows no limits. Grandma also snuck bites of macerated banana into Jude's forever rooting mouth. Initially, he made a disgusted face, but still managed to get some down.
Two days ago I decided to take a study break and venture out from the woods and into civilization. Fredericksburg, with its ubiquitous historic brick buildings and trendy shops provided the ideal hiatus from antonyms, FOIL and square roots. Grandpa happily strolled Jude from store to store as Grandma and I searched for a dress for her to wear to my cousin's wedding. It was a sunshiny, blithe day until I headed into an Irish-American store.
Maybe it was my own fault for wearing a flowing blouse that buttons up around my chest, which protrudes mightily, or because I assumed my grandparents were behind me, stroller in tow.
The lady, like a sly Cheshire cat, smiled at me before asking if she could be of assistance. I answered that was all set, thank you. Somehow my response got muddled as other customers entered the shop, the door chime ringing loudly.
"I think there may be some things you like over here," She tells me, assuming I need help.
She takes me to a room of green baby bibs, blankets, and hats. A shirt read, "Give me a pint of milk!"
"Oh, these are adorable," I say, examining a pair of clover-laden socks.
Then it happened. A response only five months prior that would have brought a smile to my lips, but today a source of great embarrassment.
"So, when are you due?"
What would have been just a check on the sheet of stores I visited, this particular one will forever be tattooed in my memory. Proverbial neon lights flash through my mind like the "Applause" queue at an SNL performance.
Literally, I was so shocked I fell speechless. I mumbled something about four months, not wanting to make her feel guilty over the prickly awkwardness of the whole situation. Then, I ran out.
Outside, I found my Grandparents sitting peacefully in front of a row of pansies on a bench eating dripping ice-cream. Jude barely glanced up at me as he nibbled the furry musical lamb Grandpa bought him. I could barely catch my breath.
Do I really still look pregnant? Yes, I recognize I'm not svelte thin and off my original weight by about 20 lbs, but pregnant?
When I told my grandparents what happened Grandma consoled me by saying that the top I was wearing looked like a maternity top, regardless of who wore it.
Neurotically, for the rest of the afternoon, I studied my reflection in the windows like a narcissistic attention-monger. Would I think I looked pregnant if I saw me going down the street? Her words haunted me.
Once, in Thailand, I did it too. My brothers and I rented motorbikes from a friendly couple who gladly threw in a few Singhas from their refrigerator without so much as batting an eye. She was thin all around save for a protruding belly.
I asked her in Thai how many months and she laughed, "I no have baby!" At least the Thai are far less sensitive to such matters, but I was mortified nevertheless and apologized profusely for my error.
Since, I have recovered, but I have to admit that it is a first I am not pleased about.
Once I finish breastfeeding Jude a major diet will ensue. Yes, major. Until then daily walks will have to suffice.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Monday, May 12, 2008
Last Monday, Jude and I attended our first Bugs class at the Little Gym for babies 4-10 months. We arrived promptly at eleven, kicked our shoes off and sat down on a mat along with other bugs and buggets. The instructor looked like an over-exaggerated characture of Shirley Temple with her hair in tiny bouncing ringlets. I could sense an aura of neuroticism as she shifted disjointedly from activity to activity; music blasting, babies crawling, drooling, cooing and crying all over the place.
We clapped sticks together, counted to ten in Spanish then did shoulder exercises to “improve their dexterity.” I wondered how all this commotion would really benefit my son.
At one point she sprang up and demanded, “Now take your little bugs and flip them over your shins so they dangle upside down!” Already over-stimulated, my bug spewed regurgitated breast milk all over the mats when he was flipped and dangled.
Shirley Temple immediately snapped her fingers, indicating to the whitish fluid as a timid, pimply assistant cleaned up the mess with a bottle of greenish spray.
Luckily, I started talking to another woman who had a little boy named Austin just a few months older than Jude. I assumed she was his mother, so I was surprised to learn she was a nanny.
“Oh, more than half of us are just the nannies,” she told me, gesturing to the other women and their babies.
I was slightly disappointed, especially because I hoped to befriend some of the women who I assumed were young moms like myself.
One lady named Debi and I struck up a conversation and at the end we exchanged numbers. Her daughter, who wore a cute pink dress, is eight months old.
We confided in each other how the first three months were treacherous, but how after the fourth month mark life improves greatly. I have no idea what music she likes, whether she likes salty or sweet, whether she’s horrified with gas prices at $4.19/gallon, where she grew up or what college she attended. All that matters is that we both have babies. That’s enough to forge a bond these days.
Just as I was about to leave the facility, Shirley Temple approaches me.
“I was observing your son and I think his neck is misaligned. You may want to speak to your pediatrician,” she advises.
I’m ready to snap back that after observing her face, I think her features are all misaligned, but she scampers off to answer the ringing phone.
That day I study Jude’s head and neck. I do notice a slight slant when he’s looking forward, but I had always assumed that he took after me, with my head at the one o’clock position in pictures.
On Tuesday I brought Jude to the pediatrician, who is now eight months pregnant and swollen like a tick, for shots and to vent about the audacity of the Bugs instructor.
She places him on his tummy and calls to him in different parts of the room. He cranes his neck to follow her voice, smiling from ear to ear.
Her prognosis? He may have torticollis, which is when a baby’s neck muscles are not all equal in strength, resulting in the off-kilter noggin.
After a bit of googling, I learned that with physical therapy the condition can be remedied, plus it’s important for the baby to spend about half of his waking hours on his belly to strengthen the neck muscles.
I was horrified when I clicked on “images” and tiny shots popped up of babies wearing helmets specially crafted to their heads to help improve balance. Imagining Jude with one of those clunky things attached to his skull nearly brought me to tears.
Determined to ameliorate the problem, Matt and I now do “Scooby exercises” where Jude stays on his belly and we shake a rattle on one side then on the other once he’s cranked his head around. Either it’ll help him or contribute to a future tick disorder.
On the upside, yesterday was Mother’s Day. Previously a day that evoked lingering sadness for me, it now ranks as highly as birthdays. Thanks to Laurel, who emailed Matt to suggest the present, he gave me a beautiful locket necklace. Not one for corny jewelry presents, this is what I always wished for. On one side are Jude’s initials then the other has his date of birth. Inside is a picture of Jude on one side and the other is of my smiling mom when I was a baby.
With the present came a flower balloon and a card from “Jude” that enumerated all the reasons why he loves me such as, “I love you because you read books to me (I’m educated),” and “I love you MOST OF ALL because you nourish me with BIG BOOB.”
Throughout the day I received texts, phone calls and letters wishing me a happy mother’s day. For the first time in my life I truly comprehend the expressions, “Only a face a mother could love” and “Go home and thank your Mother.”
Maybe it’s just instinct, but I know that I’ll always do everything in my power to make sure Jude is a happy, well-adjusted person. Motherhood is definitely challenging because most of the time it’s a thankless job and only you are the sole judge of yourself. There’s no boss to please; it’s all up to you whether you leave your baby crying in a crib all day or sacrifice to provide him/her with the best opportunities and shower him with love. It’s not like you’ll get fired or receive a promotion either way.
I once read that if a mother were to be compensated yearly for the amount of work she must do if staying at home with the kids, she would be paid over $100,000 at minimum wage. We’re talking being paid the same rate as the burger flippers at McDonalds, and still the amount would come out to a staggering amount.
In fact, last night my neighbor confided in me that she quit her job teaching middle school math to take a nannying job in Greenwich for $80,000/year. She will be working 12 hour days, from 7 a.m. to 7 p.m. Monday through Friday so, hypothetically, if my math doesn’t fail me, at that rate if she would make around $200,000 a year as a full-time mom for this family.
I only bring this up because I believe that motherhood is so undervalued. Although I want to return to work, I know it’s in part because I don’t feel I have enough purpose in my life simply caring for Jude. I say I want to get back into the workforce, but I have a feeling that once back I’ll miss spending my days with Jude, sometimes wondering where the day went when all I did was breastfeed, change diapers, read books to him and make dinner.
As a mom, you’re on call 24/7, there’s no shutting off the cell phone or calling it a day to grab a beer at the bar. Yet there’s a sense of satisfaction and indescribably pride I experience watching Jude, so plump, jolly and delicious.
Tomorrow, to grandmother’s house we go!
We clapped sticks together, counted to ten in Spanish then did shoulder exercises to “improve their dexterity.” I wondered how all this commotion would really benefit my son.
At one point she sprang up and demanded, “Now take your little bugs and flip them over your shins so they dangle upside down!” Already over-stimulated, my bug spewed regurgitated breast milk all over the mats when he was flipped and dangled.
Shirley Temple immediately snapped her fingers, indicating to the whitish fluid as a timid, pimply assistant cleaned up the mess with a bottle of greenish spray.
Luckily, I started talking to another woman who had a little boy named Austin just a few months older than Jude. I assumed she was his mother, so I was surprised to learn she was a nanny.
“Oh, more than half of us are just the nannies,” she told me, gesturing to the other women and their babies.
I was slightly disappointed, especially because I hoped to befriend some of the women who I assumed were young moms like myself.
One lady named Debi and I struck up a conversation and at the end we exchanged numbers. Her daughter, who wore a cute pink dress, is eight months old.
We confided in each other how the first three months were treacherous, but how after the fourth month mark life improves greatly. I have no idea what music she likes, whether she likes salty or sweet, whether she’s horrified with gas prices at $4.19/gallon, where she grew up or what college she attended. All that matters is that we both have babies. That’s enough to forge a bond these days.
Just as I was about to leave the facility, Shirley Temple approaches me.
“I was observing your son and I think his neck is misaligned. You may want to speak to your pediatrician,” she advises.
I’m ready to snap back that after observing her face, I think her features are all misaligned, but she scampers off to answer the ringing phone.
That day I study Jude’s head and neck. I do notice a slight slant when he’s looking forward, but I had always assumed that he took after me, with my head at the one o’clock position in pictures.
On Tuesday I brought Jude to the pediatrician, who is now eight months pregnant and swollen like a tick, for shots and to vent about the audacity of the Bugs instructor.
She places him on his tummy and calls to him in different parts of the room. He cranes his neck to follow her voice, smiling from ear to ear.
Her prognosis? He may have torticollis, which is when a baby’s neck muscles are not all equal in strength, resulting in the off-kilter noggin.
After a bit of googling, I learned that with physical therapy the condition can be remedied, plus it’s important for the baby to spend about half of his waking hours on his belly to strengthen the neck muscles.
I was horrified when I clicked on “images” and tiny shots popped up of babies wearing helmets specially crafted to their heads to help improve balance. Imagining Jude with one of those clunky things attached to his skull nearly brought me to tears.
Determined to ameliorate the problem, Matt and I now do “Scooby exercises” where Jude stays on his belly and we shake a rattle on one side then on the other once he’s cranked his head around. Either it’ll help him or contribute to a future tick disorder.
On the upside, yesterday was Mother’s Day. Previously a day that evoked lingering sadness for me, it now ranks as highly as birthdays. Thanks to Laurel, who emailed Matt to suggest the present, he gave me a beautiful locket necklace. Not one for corny jewelry presents, this is what I always wished for. On one side are Jude’s initials then the other has his date of birth. Inside is a picture of Jude on one side and the other is of my smiling mom when I was a baby.
With the present came a flower balloon and a card from “Jude” that enumerated all the reasons why he loves me such as, “I love you because you read books to me (I’m educated),” and “I love you MOST OF ALL because you nourish me with BIG BOOB.”
Throughout the day I received texts, phone calls and letters wishing me a happy mother’s day. For the first time in my life I truly comprehend the expressions, “Only a face a mother could love” and “Go home and thank your Mother.”
Maybe it’s just instinct, but I know that I’ll always do everything in my power to make sure Jude is a happy, well-adjusted person. Motherhood is definitely challenging because most of the time it’s a thankless job and only you are the sole judge of yourself. There’s no boss to please; it’s all up to you whether you leave your baby crying in a crib all day or sacrifice to provide him/her with the best opportunities and shower him with love. It’s not like you’ll get fired or receive a promotion either way.
I once read that if a mother were to be compensated yearly for the amount of work she must do if staying at home with the kids, she would be paid over $100,000 at minimum wage. We’re talking being paid the same rate as the burger flippers at McDonalds, and still the amount would come out to a staggering amount.
In fact, last night my neighbor confided in me that she quit her job teaching middle school math to take a nannying job in Greenwich for $80,000/year. She will be working 12 hour days, from 7 a.m. to 7 p.m. Monday through Friday so, hypothetically, if my math doesn’t fail me, at that rate if she would make around $200,000 a year as a full-time mom for this family.
I only bring this up because I believe that motherhood is so undervalued. Although I want to return to work, I know it’s in part because I don’t feel I have enough purpose in my life simply caring for Jude. I say I want to get back into the workforce, but I have a feeling that once back I’ll miss spending my days with Jude, sometimes wondering where the day went when all I did was breastfeed, change diapers, read books to him and make dinner.
As a mom, you’re on call 24/7, there’s no shutting off the cell phone or calling it a day to grab a beer at the bar. Yet there’s a sense of satisfaction and indescribably pride I experience watching Jude, so plump, jolly and delicious.
Tomorrow, to grandmother’s house we go!
Thursday, May 1, 2008
Dear Jude,
You’re still not sleeping through the night. Someone needs to coin a term for new parents who are sleep deprived and completely forgetful…something that justifies the condition along the lines of, “Sorry I’m so absent-minded, I recently had a lobotomy!”
Yesterday, at my Rowayton new mom’s group located at a trendy coffee bar in SONO (I managed to dress myself and Jude in time although I did accidentally put two different socks on him. None of the other moms batted an eye), I voiced discontent over the whole sleeping at night debacle.
“It would be one thing if he just got up once or twice, but his sleep patterns are so inconsistent,” I whined, as I downed two expressos to the pulsating music.
The seasoned mom of two, my savior Suzy from Canada, nodded her head thoughtfully before asking, “What’s his nap schedule?”
“Schedule?”
“That’s the problem.”
For the next hour, I listened dutifully as though she were Moses dictating the Ten Commandments on how to get your baby to sleep through the night. On the back of my coffee card, I scrawled down the acronym “EASY”, which stands for “eat, activity, sleep, you.”
Personally, I like the “you” and I underlined it a few times for extra emphasis.
“Babies need routine and structure. Without it, they never know when to sleep, eat or wake up. It’s also important to put him down awake so he learns how to soothe himself to sleep.”
Clearly, she doesn’t realize I have an exceptionally irascible child, I thought to myself.
Later that morning, around noon, I put Jude down for his first of three “scheduled naps.” The smile quickly faded as his face turned red upon realizing Mommy was not going to play anymore. I stood at the corner of his bedroom just under the red lettering “JUDE”, physically restraining myself from picking him up. After ten minutes I reminding myself that babies can’t die from exercising their lungs as he shrieked in utter defiance: thrusting his fists upwards as though protesting the outrageous gas prices and arching his back. Then, his eyes rolled back, fists fell as he nodded off to sleep.
For the rest of the day I religiously followed my newfound routine, even going so far as to clean off the dry-erase board filled with doodles and phone numbers to make way for Jude’s schedule and EASY.
Personally, I feel an enormous sense of relief establishing a schedule because it allows me to carve up the day in a predictable manner rather than just crossing my fingers, hoping he won’t be irritable or hungry if we go out.
On the downside, since his bedtime is now at 6:30, it means that many days Matt won’t be able to tuck Jude into bed, nor will he be around to take over bath time so I can have a break. It also means saying “no” to spontaneous weekend get-away’s since its important to stay consistent with the routine.
With Jude strapped to me like a mini-spiderman in the Baby Bjorn at the grocery store, I’ve slowly been inducted into the society of womanhood/motherhood. Mothers of all ages approach me, asking Jude’s age and always complimenting his radiant blue eyes. Next, I, a complete stranger, am suddenly privy to their most personal birth experiences/sleep issues/post-partum depression episodes as they always divulge a few stories.
I hear more about other women’s vaginas than those depicted in Georgia O'Keefe's "flower" paintings as no details are spared about episiotomies, tearing and other issues resulting from childbirth.
In the produce aisle, as I debated over whether to buy an eggplant or carrots for dinner, an elderly woman with purplish lipstick confessed, “I was never able to fully regain control of my urethra after the birth of my daughter.” OK, carrots it is.
A year or so ago I would have been alarmed and somewhat horrified, but I suppose after your body has served as a vessel to produce and give way to a life, such personal matters are no longer embarrassing or very private.
Oh, and on a lighter note, the top five best and most “challenging” (hellish) things about being a stay-at-home-mom of an infant:
1. Hanging out with Jude when he’s smiling, laughing and cooing. (+ +)
Hanging out with Jude when he’s irritated, hungry and just downright cranky. (-)
2. There’s no such thing as a Monday slump. (+)
At the same time, there’s no Friday and Saturday night booze-fests, nor is there an opportunity to catch-up on lost sleep on Sunday….Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday..etc. (- - -)
3. Never having to worry about what I wear or having to squeeze into uncomfortable high-heels, meeting deadlines, having a boss to brownose. (+ +)
Worrying that I’ll never get my body back in time for bathing suit season. (-)
4. On beautiful days, being able to get outside whenever I want to enjoy the weather. (+ +)
On crappy days, being stuck inside all day with a crying baby and cursing myself for living on the east coast. (- - -)
5. Showing Jude off and essentially getting free clothes/knit blankets/vacations from family far away who desperately want to see him and friends who don't have kids of their own with money to burn. (+ + +)
Trying to coordinate schedules, having to break plans, making new plans and attempting to balance friends/family who want to see him even though he’s cranky or we’re tired. (-)
You’re still not sleeping through the night. Someone needs to coin a term for new parents who are sleep deprived and completely forgetful…something that justifies the condition along the lines of, “Sorry I’m so absent-minded, I recently had a lobotomy!”
Yesterday, at my Rowayton new mom’s group located at a trendy coffee bar in SONO (I managed to dress myself and Jude in time although I did accidentally put two different socks on him. None of the other moms batted an eye), I voiced discontent over the whole sleeping at night debacle.
“It would be one thing if he just got up once or twice, but his sleep patterns are so inconsistent,” I whined, as I downed two expressos to the pulsating music.
The seasoned mom of two, my savior Suzy from Canada, nodded her head thoughtfully before asking, “What’s his nap schedule?”
“Schedule?”
“That’s the problem.”
For the next hour, I listened dutifully as though she were Moses dictating the Ten Commandments on how to get your baby to sleep through the night. On the back of my coffee card, I scrawled down the acronym “EASY”, which stands for “eat, activity, sleep, you.”
Personally, I like the “you” and I underlined it a few times for extra emphasis.
“Babies need routine and structure. Without it, they never know when to sleep, eat or wake up. It’s also important to put him down awake so he learns how to soothe himself to sleep.”
Clearly, she doesn’t realize I have an exceptionally irascible child, I thought to myself.
Later that morning, around noon, I put Jude down for his first of three “scheduled naps.” The smile quickly faded as his face turned red upon realizing Mommy was not going to play anymore. I stood at the corner of his bedroom just under the red lettering “JUDE”, physically restraining myself from picking him up. After ten minutes I reminding myself that babies can’t die from exercising their lungs as he shrieked in utter defiance: thrusting his fists upwards as though protesting the outrageous gas prices and arching his back. Then, his eyes rolled back, fists fell as he nodded off to sleep.
For the rest of the day I religiously followed my newfound routine, even going so far as to clean off the dry-erase board filled with doodles and phone numbers to make way for Jude’s schedule and EASY.
Personally, I feel an enormous sense of relief establishing a schedule because it allows me to carve up the day in a predictable manner rather than just crossing my fingers, hoping he won’t be irritable or hungry if we go out.
On the downside, since his bedtime is now at 6:30, it means that many days Matt won’t be able to tuck Jude into bed, nor will he be around to take over bath time so I can have a break. It also means saying “no” to spontaneous weekend get-away’s since its important to stay consistent with the routine.
With Jude strapped to me like a mini-spiderman in the Baby Bjorn at the grocery store, I’ve slowly been inducted into the society of womanhood/motherhood. Mothers of all ages approach me, asking Jude’s age and always complimenting his radiant blue eyes. Next, I, a complete stranger, am suddenly privy to their most personal birth experiences/sleep issues/post-partum depression episodes as they always divulge a few stories.
I hear more about other women’s vaginas than those depicted in Georgia O'Keefe's "flower" paintings as no details are spared about episiotomies, tearing and other issues resulting from childbirth.
In the produce aisle, as I debated over whether to buy an eggplant or carrots for dinner, an elderly woman with purplish lipstick confessed, “I was never able to fully regain control of my urethra after the birth of my daughter.” OK, carrots it is.
A year or so ago I would have been alarmed and somewhat horrified, but I suppose after your body has served as a vessel to produce and give way to a life, such personal matters are no longer embarrassing or very private.
Oh, and on a lighter note, the top five best and most “challenging” (hellish) things about being a stay-at-home-mom of an infant:
1. Hanging out with Jude when he’s smiling, laughing and cooing. (+ +)
Hanging out with Jude when he’s irritated, hungry and just downright cranky. (-)
2. There’s no such thing as a Monday slump. (+)
At the same time, there’s no Friday and Saturday night booze-fests, nor is there an opportunity to catch-up on lost sleep on Sunday….Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday..etc. (- - -)
3. Never having to worry about what I wear or having to squeeze into uncomfortable high-heels, meeting deadlines, having a boss to brownose. (+ +)
Worrying that I’ll never get my body back in time for bathing suit season. (-)
4. On beautiful days, being able to get outside whenever I want to enjoy the weather. (+ +)
On crappy days, being stuck inside all day with a crying baby and cursing myself for living on the east coast. (- - -)
5. Showing Jude off and essentially getting free clothes/knit blankets/vacations from family far away who desperately want to see him and friends who don't have kids of their own with money to burn. (+ + +)
Trying to coordinate schedules, having to break plans, making new plans and attempting to balance friends/family who want to see him even though he’s cranky or we’re tired. (-)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)