I’m lucky in many regards, and unlucky in a few others, but it is amongst my greatest earthly fortunes to have given birth to my first child a year after my older sister gave birth to her third child.
I call it great for several reasons: my daughter’s got seasoned elder cousins to teach her the ropes and pass her hand-me-down clothes and toys; and, more importantly, somebody else has already done some of the hardest work of motherhood for me.
New motherhood involves an incredible amount of talking. Everywhere, with everyone, about everything, including some incredibly personal and polarizing stuff.
Seriously. The conversing and questioning and cajoling begins as soon as your stomach starts to visibly bulge, and from there it’s just freaking endless.
She’s downstairs with her new nanny, screaming her ever-loving head off.
I’m upstairs with my computer and my wireless headset, trying to get some work done and turning Pandora up louder and louder in a futile attempt to drown out the sound of her cries. Continue reading
Oof. I am just so damned, dog-dead tired.
Fuzzy, hazy, tater tots for brains tired. Achy-jelly-floppy bones tired. Tired to the edge of delirium. That kind of tired where you’re so tired that even your tiredness is tired — an ooey-gooey layer cake of cumulative maternal fatigue.
It’s a tiredness so complete and all-consuming that after six months spent plowing through my days from beneath its soporific mantel, the sensation has somehow ceased to be unpleasant. Continue reading
Today, owing to a multitude of orthodontic sins committed throughout early adulthood, I chanced to find myself, at the tender age of 35, seated in an orthodontist’s chair, getting fitted for a retainer.
Today, my baby girl is five months old.
Parenthood is full of paradoxes, no doubt, but on the occasion of this tiny birthday, I’m fixated on one in particular: how we choose to raise our young is such an intensely personal thing, and yet so many of those choices must be acted out in full view of others.
Like it or not, much of the work of parenting is done in public.
I have composed iterations of this little essay in my head at least a hundred times over the past month, but somehow, I haven’t been able to bring myself to sit down and write it out loud. To make it real. I feel, now, that it is finally time to come clean.
It’s been a perfectly useless Sunday.
On the eve of her twelfth week on earth, Baby G remains clingy and crabby, even in my arms, especially in her Papa’s arms, eternally and maddeningly displeased with most everything she encounters.But especially: car seats, baby slings, swings, bouncy chairs, anything that squeaks or rocks or does not dispense milk.