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.
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
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.
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.