And Poof! Life Changed

"You have a baby. In a bar."

Reese Witherspoon's Sweet Home Alabama quote flitted through my brain as I opened the diaper bag with my teeth and furtively looked for a suitable place to change my stinkily sweet daughter. She tugged at my earring as I surveyed the situation. Of course a bar wouldn't have a diaper changing station in a bathroom stall. I have a baby. In a bar.

The irony wasn't lost on me as I grabbed a clean floor space and wrangled a fresh diaper over kicking legs, careful not to crumple a red velvet Santa dress. I had been in that same stall many times a lifetime ago under extremely different circumstances. Operation Diaper Change successful, I headed to the sink. A mom blinked back at me in the mirror where a black bar pants wearing twenty-something fixed her makeup a few years ago. My daughter screeched with delight at her own reflection and I smiled at her lit-up face. Where exactly did time go?

My husband and I shared a laugh when I returned to the table, remembering vividly just how life used to be. We were having Breakfast with Santa with our infant daughter in the same place we haunted as eager twenty-one-year-olds finally legally allowed to be inside the patio wall after dark. The morning was delightful and we got a good chuckle at the bleary-eyed stares of the wait staff who we knew hadn't seen an 8am shift in years. Our daughter sat in quiet awe on Santa's lap and we enjoyed some much needed family time in the mad rush that was Christmas. And yet, as we climbed into our very responsible mid-sized SUV to put our little girl down for a nap, we couldn't help but think of the people we once were. How did we get here?

It's a question that springs up occasionally. When I was cleared to drive on my own after having a baby, I took my daughter to visit my parents. I was enjoying the freedom of life outside the house and even tuned the radio (softly) to a non-kid station. Tapping the steering wheel contentedly, I pulled up to a four-way stop and it hit me: I'm a mom. There was a car seat in my rear view mirror. I was that car. I was a mom.

A few months later, I met a friend for coffee at a popular local breakfast spot. As we settled in to our table, our car seats safely situated next to us, we looked at each other and giggled a little nervously. We were those moms. Those moms who took babies to have coffee. How exactly did we become those moms? Weren't we just those fun-loving college graduates? Weren't we just those bright-eyed girls with a sparkly new ring? Weren't we just those active, eager newlyweds? How did someone allow us to have babies?

I wouldn't change a thing about life in the present. Being a mom is a fantastic state of being. I'm just constantly struck by the fact that I don't feel like a mom - at least not the feeling my younger self imagined it would be. I'm lucky that my daughter doesn't know any different. To her, I'm Mom and Mom knows everything. I'm happy to have her fooled!

Food Fight

I need to rethink my daughter's bedtime routine. That whole bath before bottle plan the books suggest for newborns isn't as practical for 6-month-olds hellbent on painting their faces (and hair and Bumpo chair and pajama feet) with sweet potatoes.

My husband is usually the captain of dinner, wielding the spoon and the bottle while I clean up bath items and ready blankets for the loose swaddle that signals bedtime. As I breeze through the house taking care of loose ends, I sometimes wonder just what he's doing - can't he get the spoon to her mouth more efficiently? How can a 16 pound little girl own her father? She's a baby! Just feed her already.

Oh, the all-knowing perspective of the outside observer. With winter sports events in full swing and daughter, dog and I often on our own for the pm shift, the last hour of our day has become rather colorful. Bibs go in the wash covered with the green of sweet peas or the odd beige of pureed bananas. Counters are splattered with the orange of squash or the disconcerting purple of prunes. Dinnertime is a virtual exercise in abstract art.

Her fascination with her hands, while otherwise cute, is especially problematic at dinner as she eagerly shoves them into a mouth full of food, causing coated fingers and the occasional spit up. I've been thankful for her dad's absence - my performance as feeder definitely warrants an I told you so!

The other night she sneezed while eating cereal, sending little snowdrops of rice and formula to the tips of her freshly washed hair. She thought it was hilarious, exploding in a whole body laugh that had her frustrated mom grinning. My obsessive-compulsive desire to immediately Windex or baby wipe any mess evaporated in the sheer comedy of the moment. She was a mess but a happy mess. A happy mess who probably should have had another bath...

Tonight she gagged on her peas. The absolute disgust on her face made me laugh out loud - she was so dramatic in her expression! I wrinkled my nose when I opened the jar (I was the child who had to put all vegetables in applesauce and swallow them whole so I could eat them and earn my dessert) but thought that she wouldn't notice. I snuck that first spoonful in and got a wide-eyed, hand shaking, gasping, gagging response. I couldn't really blame her. Looks like we might need to stick to sweet potatoes for the next few days.

There are so many interactions with my child that are humbling. It continually surprises me just how a little life can turn an otherwise capable adult into a bumbling mess of ineptitude. (I'm reminded of the early days of diaper changes when my inexperienced hands couldn't keep up with the Play-Do Fun Factory of poop -I'd go through three diapers just trying to change one). I swear sometimes she's laughing at me, her expressive eyes (so much like her dad's) wondering, What are you doing, woman?

I got her to bed with a full, satisfied tummy, albeit with more colors on her pajamas than she started with. As she drifted off to baby dreamland, I headed downstairs to feed the dog. At least that's something I know how to do!

A Little Garland Goes a Long Way

Apparently we are a family who does garland.

Four years ago, facing our first married Christmas, we had an all out war about the Christmas tree. While we agreed that it would be real, I missed my elegantly tall artificial tree. While we agreed on colored lights (oh, but for the pristine. clear glow of white lights...), we came to verbal blows about the tree topper and the presence of gold tinsel garland. He wanted a star that changed colors - I wanted my delicate Pier 1 version. He wanted garland - I was adamantly opposed to all things tinsel.

We weren't petty enough to be fighting about the pure aesthetics of the tree (though, I have to admit, I come from a long line of picky-Christmas-tree women). Instead, what was at stake was tradition - our emotional ties to our families' version of the holiday spirit. On that first married Christmas (which was, at times, a far cry from merry), we didn't know how to blend the sentiments of our past or how to start to write our own story, together. That poor tree - it was so squatty in our short-ceiling dance floor of a no-furniture living room! - didn't stand a fighting chance.

This year, our annual hunt for the ideal Christmas tree featured a new little player all bundled up in her pink snowsuit. Tramping through the field with my husband, brother and future sister-in-law, I found myself less worried about perfectly shaped branches and straight trunks and more concerned with the growing pinkness of my daughter's wind-chapped cheeks. (I was self-conscious as I ran into other families - what kind of mom takes her baby girl out on a frigid morning in a forest? And just what was I, Ms. Klutz Extraordinaire, thinking carrying her while I navigated fields full of stumps and holes?) My usual intense comparative analysis of finalist trees vanished in the face of a heightened resolve to choose a tree and get back to the warmth of the truck as soon as possible. Ironically, my quick pick turned out to be the best tree we've had yet. And if coos and mesmerized hand reaches are any indication, it's also earned a stamp of approval from another discriminating little critic.

After putting our tuckered little girl down for a nap, my husband and I tackled the tree. In four years of decorations, we've found our rhythm - there is a predictable comfort to the set-up process. We rearranged furniture, secured the stand, positioned the tree evenly in the corner and expertly threaded the lights. Eyes dancing, he dragged a familiar gold strand from the box. "Ready?" he asked. I laughed and grabbed an end. "You realize that I'm shoving this as far as I can in the tree, right?"

"As long as it goes on, we're good," he chuckled and shuffled his way around the tree, spreading gold glee with each loop. The garland was on for yet another year.

Sitting in the leather chair near the tree during feedings, I enjoy my daughter's expressions as different decorations catch her eye. Coming around the corner with arms full of folded laundry, I smile at the snoring mass of dog curled near the base. Each night as I put the house to bed (why are moms always the last to bed?), I pause before I turn off the lights, warmed by the glow of those colored lights and the presence of ornaments we've gathered together. It is a beautiful tree, made more beautiful by the life we've added to share it, made more special by the life we've built together.

And while I'll never admit it to my husband's face, there is something Christmas-y in the glint of gold tinsel against evergreen needles. It belongs on our tree.

We are a family who does garland.

Baby Brainwashing: Football Fan in Training

You can always tell when Daddy dressed Baby - right, moms?

At our house, the biggest clue comes not in mismatched gear (though that has been known to happen) but rather in team apparel.

If it's the weekend, I can pretty much guarantee that our daughter will start her day in a Notre Dame onesie (she has three), a Notre Dame cheerleader dress (for her girlier days), a Notre Dame sweatshirt (Daddy brought one home from South Bend) or a Chicago Bears onesie and bib set. (For night games, she has Bears pajamas). To mix things up, she might sport a Western Illinois jersey (#4 after her dad's collegiate water polo number) and on rare, rare occasions (because Dad is wardrobe boss for the day), an Illini T-shirt. For accessories, she has matching collegiate socks, hats and jackets. She is one decked out and prepared little fan.

At our "getting ready for baby" class, dads-to-be almost fell out of their chairs when the nurse shared that "football is good for babies." To prove it, she even provided expectant parents with a pamphlet that outlined all of the developmental benefits of watching football on television. "See, honey?" one husband remarked to his very-pregnant wife, big hand enthusiastically jabbing at the colorful handout. "Watching football is important. I volunteer to aid our baby's development by holding him during Packers games." She rolled her eyes at him and at me. "Looks like I have lost this argument forever," she quipped. "Gotta love scientific findings!" My husband grinned hugely. "Well, my fall just got validated, didn't it?" he teased. "Guess what we'll be doing while Mama is at cross country meets!"

I can't argue with their Daddy-Daughter dates on the couch. (I swear his eyes twinkle when I come down the stairs, daring me to make a comment. He has the nurse's "findings" ready and waiting in his back pocket). While she notices TV, she doesn't pay much attention to it until there is a game on. (We will ignore for the moment that she may or may not recognize the theme song to The Young and the Restless). Dad has even coached Daughter in the finer points of the traditional singing of Notre Dame's alma mater. She's been startled a few times by his excited exclamations - given the Irish's play this season, I'm guessing that not all of his comments have been baby-appropriate - and happily responded to his cheers. She watches the TV, and his animated face, with big eyes, eagerly taking it all in. I have to wonder: does this constitute baby brainwashing?

Our Sunday tradition of chili, jerseys, and a family meeting (dog included) on the couch has been especially fun this fall with a miniature fan in tow. Watching her little head wobble a bit unsteadily as she sits between us, active hands playing with her stuffed football, we are both quietly filled with an awed wonder at her presence. Who is she? And who will she be? Most importantly, who will she cheer for?

I hope that, as the years go by, their Daddy-Daughter dates continue in front of the game - I know her dad would love it. Even if she chooses not to root for Notre Dame.

The Off Button

Our daughter decided to treat us to a two hour conversation concert last night. From 12:30 to 2:30, she screeched and gurgled and squealed and babbled to her heart's content. For parents spoiled by the last few months of relatively through-the-night sleep patterns, the performance wasn't amusing. Her no-sleep conditioned and still emotionally-gooey mom and dad of a three-month-old would have rolled over to face each other, smiling at the sweetness of it - "Listen to our little girl chatter away! She's so happy - not a tear in sight!" Her parents at six months? A less than receptive audience.

I rolled over and smacked the monitor off. An immediate break in the volume. She was still going strong across the hallway but at least we didn't have a front row seat to the action.

"If only 'off' really meant 'off'," muttered my husband, echoing the exact thought in my head. It was one I have wished for often in the months of her rapid development. Though I have gradually become more fluent in "baby," learning to distinguish what certain faces and movements and sounds mean, it's hard to face the days when I don't know what she wants. As she cries (the presence of real tears can break your heart), grows red with frustration (this girl has lungs!) or fusses with need, she can reduce her mom to tears of her own. I hate not knowing how to fix things. I hate the feeling that we can't communicate. I hate feeling helpless when all I want to do is soothe. I hate that deep down in the pit feeling, however irrational, that I am to blame.

And sometimes (is this awful to admit?) I want to throw the monitor out the window. If only off meant off.

This morning at 5 am I quietly crept to peek in the crib only to meet two very awake and happy eyes. "Remember me from 2am?" I asked, prompting a grin. She patted my face and pulled at my pajamas as I swept her down the stairs for breakfast. Her shortened sleep was a non-deterrent to an enthusiastic greeting of the day. Maybe because she knew she had a slew of naps ahead?

Hearing her chatter away on the couch with her dad as I started the much-needed coffee, I had to smile. The soundtrack of our home may a bit more chaotic, unscheduled and unpredictable than it was BC (before child) but, I have to admit, I don't really want an off button.

Though I'm bound to change my mind at 2am.

Tickle Kisses and Squeezy Hugs

The day started with a dance party in the kitchen.

Dad had downloaded new music for his workout and when Baby and I came downstairs, fresh from a morning diaper and outfit change, we were unexpectedly swept into a bumping, bouncing, arm-waving version of "The Club Can't Handle Me." Our daughter's eyes bugged wide with wonder: just what in the world were Mom and Dad up to at 6am? Squealing as her daddy gathered in his arms and danced her feet across the kitchen island, she giggled her way through the repeated chorus while we twirled around like happy idiots. Mid-song, the dog lumbered up the basement stairs, yawning and blinking at the spectacle before him. Just another Tuesday morning at our house.

Our daughter is in love with her father. Her face lights up as soon as he walks in the room. His after-school homecoming is on par with Super Bowl cheers. She coos and laughs and kicks and waves just to get his attention. She is fascinated by his goatee and reaches to paw gently at his face. She talks to him, crabs at him, plays with him, cuddles with him. He (followed closely by our dog) is her favorite plaything.

My husband is in love with his daughter. A friend of ours, then a new dad, once said (in his blunt, state cop kind of way) that he loved his daughter more than his wife. His wife just winked at us as he earnestly shared his truth; unoffended, she patted his arm and kissed his cheek. "He says the nicest things, doesn't he?" she teased. As a married couple just beginning our life together, we were a little surprised by the conversation. Two years later, we both understand his sentiment. The love you feel for your child is just different. It's complete, all-encompassing, primal. I know my husband loves me but our daughter? She's his special girl.

He was the first to teach her something. A few minutes after she was born, he gently gathered the little bundle of her to his chest and walked to the window. "I want to be the first to teach you something, little girl," he murmured. "See that? That's a tree. That's the first thing you learned in your life." With a sweet kiss to the forehead, he turned her to the window, late morning sunlight illuminating both of their faces. From my view in bed, I had never seen anything so literally breathtaking.

I know well their special connection, as I too am a very lucky daughter of a loving and attentive dad. Watching my dad's face in the hospital room as he met his granddaughter was a gift I'll never forget. As I met him for coffee last week, baby in tow, I enjoyed the rare pleasure of a one on one visit. He sipped his coffee while I chattered on, making faces and gently teasing a smile out of my daughter. "Someday, you're going to be a talker just like your mom, aren't you?" he grinned, tickling her side. Rewarded with giggling babble, he scooped her up and put her on his lap. "You are just the prettiest little girl." She certainly has all the men in her life wrapped securely around her little finger!

Squeezy hugs and tickle kisses are Daddy-Daughter originals. My husband likes to put our daughter in the crook of his arm and squeeze her close, hugging her back and forth while he drawls "squeeeeeezy hug" in his best high-pitched interpretation of her voice. No matter her mood, the move is sure to have her face explode in a smile. Couple that with smacking, scratchy kisses from her dad and she is bound to go to bed, take a bottle or face an outfit change with glee. He is her special guy - Daddy can do no wrong.

I watch them quietly as I go about the mom business of laundry, cleaning and organization and privately thrill in their obvious joy in one another. I can't wait to watch him teach her how to tie her shoes, ride a bike (if she's anything like her mom, it will take patience!), shoot a polo ball, drive a car. To see him dance her on his feet, use his big hands to try to put together a ponytail, wipe her tears when she falls. To be there to watch him walk her proudly down the aisle, twirl her playfully on the dance floor and stand awed in the doorway as he meets his grandchild for the first time. I am honored to witness their story. Knowing the two of them, it will be a beautiful one at that.

In a few hours, Dad will be home and full of tickle kisses and squeezy hugs for his baby girl. Perhaps he'll have one saved up for his original girl as well?

Reflections in a Dressing Room

My last shopping trip felt like a scene from Pretty Woman. Not the triumphant "big mistake" scene where Julia Roberts smugly puts snooty saleswomen in their place. The "before" scene.

I left the house feeling excited enough. The to-do list was mostly checked off and my daughter had happily followed a pretty predictable schedule - it was time for a mommy-baby outing. She smiled when I slid the car seat into its spot; I tapped the steering wheel in time with the radio. Mid-afternoon sunlight slid cheerily through almost empty branches as I headed my car to our shared adventure, just two girls about town. Maybe I could find a cute outfit for my cousin's shower that fit more flatteringly than the options in my closet. Here was hoping.

After securing a rather prime parking spot (a feat in itself) and getting the stroller situated with all of the necessary - and coordinated - essentials, I tackled the first shop. And that's when I learned that the sweet smiles - the genuine kind that enter the eyes - that greet a pregnant mom-to-be are not the smiles a stroller evokes. At least not in a retail setting. A stroller carrying even the quietest of infants sparks a frosty professional smirk, one that urges the shopper to scan the store quickly from the doorway, then leave. And leave I did. Often.

When I actually did enter a fitting room with clothes options in tow, my daughter was the only one who had a good time in front of the mirror. While she chortled enthusiastically at her image, I died a little each time I saw the final result in the reflection. I didn't look like the mannequin. More importantly, I didn't look like myself - the self I saw each day before that cute, pink drooling machine entered my universe. While the fluorescent lights didn't help, they weren't to blame for my current dismal worldview.

Determined in that desperate something-good-has-to-happen way, I eventually found a stylish (I hoped) gray sweater with unique detailing at the cuffs and black dress pants that made my legs look thin. While the sizes on the tags boasted numbers I did not own in my pre-mom life, at least I could zip and drape them without unseemly bulges peeking through. A quick trendy necklace purchase (I don't know what to do with accessories!) and I had an viable option for our family event. More importantly, I could let myself go home. This item was firmly crossed off the to-do list.

My husband didn't know what to do with the tears that followed my entrance in the door. Even my dog's eager, bulldozing hello and my daughter's accompanying cries of delight didn't stop them. I was maddened by the tears - who cries about shopping?? - but couldn't help myself. I just felt raw. I guess I wasn't prepared for all of the reflections...

In the end, the outfit was a hit and I did feel pretty wearing it. As the frustration of the search ebbs, I think I might just be able to face a back-to-school shopping trip in a few weeks.

It would be nice if, by then, my daughter isn't the only one smiling at the mirror.

Due Dates

The passenger seat of my car is littered with due dates. There are the slips for my daughter's library books. Notes from students about deadlines for college recommendations. A cross country calendar. Coupons to Hallmark and Jewel with expiration dates circled. Our dry cleaning ticket. (I shouldn't really need to go to the dry cleaners but I absolutely hate to iron. And the lady is so nice. She has my information memorized and calls my husband by my maiden name. How could I not go?).

Sometimes it feels like life is all about due dates. After all, life as we knew it changed with one very big due date.

I don't mind deadlines. Due dates give a nice structure to tasks and there is something so gratifying about eliminating items on a to-do list. (I can't be the only one who has ever written something down that is already done just to have the satisfaction of crossing it off...). I like a clearly defined calendar and feel best when I know all that lies ahead. Even the completion of happy events like holidays feels like an accomplishment; while I'm always sad to pack away the Christmas decorations, I'm also inarguably anxious for the clean start (and bare home) of the new year.

Overall, I have a pretty positive working (if sometimes contentious - mostly related to the area of paper grading) relationship with due dates. However, there is one that I have blatantly ignored for months: my return to work date.

Today I faced the monster head on. I put my sweet bundle of bouncing, bubbling energy into her jogging stroller and walked to our sitter's home. My husband and I met with her a few weeks after our daughter was born. Then, standing in her kitchen with a baby-baby (our descriptor for infants) in my arms, the prospect of arranging for child care was purely intellectual. Yes, I would be returning to work in January and if we so chose, she would watch our child. I imagined that yes, it would be hard but the reality of actually leaving my daughter with another adult while I went to work was in the distant future. It would all work out.

Now the future is not so distant and while I know it will all work out, the situation is centered in my heart rather than my brain. Our sitter is fantastic. A mom of two sweetly spunky kids, she is a truly beautiful former engineer who seems to approach each day with her children with both joy and a clear lesson plan. She is calm incarnate - just sitting on her couch for twenty minutes made me feel Zen. In her graceful accent, she gently offered suggestions as to how our arrangements might work best for our two families while patiently incorporating her chatty four-year-old into our conversation. My daughter sat on her lap, staring at her with wide-eyes, curious but content. She assured me that I could call as much as I wanted to during the school day and that my daughter's presence would be a welcome one in her family. She was confident but not pushy, comfortable but respectful of my role as mom. She will not be my daughter's babysitter - she will be her first teacher. In the end, that difference made all of the difference for me.

The nightmares that whirled in my head as I walked to meet her quieted and I was left with a gut truth: my daughter will be safe, happy and cared for in her home. Even if I hate driving away from there each day.

In the meantime, I'm going to keep the January calendar firmly off the refrigerator until the last possible second. This is one due date I'm not going to circle.

A Public Pregnancy

I can tell something is up. Teachers just know. I pause mid-lecture and pivot on very pregnant feet, eyebrows raised quizzically. It's a Mom look from a not-yet mom.

"Can I ask what's going on over here?" Nervous twitches in chairs, the trademark-teenage eye shift. A whole row of desks leaves one boy out to dry. He smiles sheepishly.

"No offense, Mrs. P, but you're huge. I mean, you're weren't before but now...well, you're huge."

Everybody in the room freezes. I can almost hear the unuttered incredulous gasp - Did he really just say that? - bounce off the walls. The looks on their faces are hysterical. They think I'm going to kill him. Instead, I burst out laughing.

"Yes, Arnold. I'm huge. You better hope this baby doesn't want to join you in class." A wave of relieved chuckles and we are back to the Civil Rights movement. Just them, me and my perky protruding belly.

Being pregnant is a bit awkward. There's the beautiful reality that you are bringing life into the world but then there's that whole odd physical proof of your private life. (My dad and brother, though over the moon about the idea of a granddaughter and niece, had a hard time knowing exactly what do with me). Add the setting of a high school, a big town that is socially small and hundreds of curious eyes and you get a very public pregnancy.

When I was expecting, the world was expecting. Every time a student turned around, he ran into another pregnant teacher. Non-pregnant women jokingly avoided the water in the drinking fountains and kids lived a "health-class-on-steroids" existence as they walked the hallways. Babies were in the air.

There were wonderful things about a public pregnancy. Students were attentive and respectful and a bit more ready to work on a pretty May afternoon than they normally would. I received beautiful gifts - a sweetly crocheted blanket from a senior girl, a basket full of personalized onesies, bibs and toys from the cross country team, full outfits from some of my male students (who insisted that no, their moms did not buy them), a surprise baby shower from the water polo team. Students and parents openly shared their excitement and well wishes and I had earnest question and answer sessions with curious kids. (My water polo girls couldn't ask enough! This whole having a baby thing rocked their world). One of my fondest memories is of our players putting their hands on my stomach during the final timeout of our state finals game because they wanted to include Baby P in the team cheer. Yes, there were some wonderful things about a public pregnancy.

And then there were the hard elements. Everyone has an opinion about your weight gain. People want to know the plans for maternity leave. Will you nurse? Or bottlefeed? Will you stay home or return to work? Where are you registered? You're having how many showers? What will you do for daycare? And how is the nursery decorated? Are you going to find out if it's a boy or a girl? The questions were always well-intended and my husband and I were blessed to have the support of a truly good community around us. But I couldn't help but sometimes feel the weight of the opinions behind each question and response. I was learning to tip-toe through the minefield of public perceptions about motherhood.

Even now, almost six months post-delivery, I feel a bit exposed. I wonder about my weight: shouldn't I be further along? People are going to wonder what I did with my time... I obsess about interactions with others: do I seem like me? Am I distracted? Am I consumed with being a mom? Do they think I'm natural? Or do I seem harried? Am I being a good friend?

I worry about what people think when they see my daughter. Do I have her dressed correctly? How do I keep her nose clean when she has a cold? Is she cute, or are they being nice? I have a tiny freakout when people think she's a boy (her dad hates bows, but maybe I should put one in her hair just to make her gender clear??) or ask about a milestone she hasn't reached yet. (Once, someone asked me if she had rolled over yet. We actually went home later that day and practiced...)

I worry about things I never would have thought twice about before, like the impression I'm sending if I post too many pictures on Facebook or visit too often at school. I find myself apologizing - a lot. I'm sorry, I know I only have 1 child. I don't know how moms of more do it! I'm sorry, I know it's wonderful that I can be home. I'll be back to work soon! I'm sorry, she's only crying because she needs a nap. It's not you at all! I'm sorry, I know I should have gotten back to you sooner. I just don't know where time goes! I've found the emotional uncertainty and sensitivity of new motherhood surprising and sometimes unnerving.

Time helps. Each day and each new accomplishment brings some confidence. And our daughter is such fun. She thinks that I am the greatest thing in the universe. When my mere presence can warrant a whole-face smile and full-body flurry of arms and legs, wow. Does great things for the ego - and the heart.

Soon, I'll be back to school and Arnold and his friends will encounter a smaller version of Mrs. P in the hallways. I won't have the belly but I will be able to, when necessary, flash the Mom look of a bonafide mom.

Teachers just sometimes have to when something is up.

Rhythms and Racing

Working in the high school world can feel a bit like living Groundhog Day.

Freshmen will enter the fall wide-eyed and panicky, racing through the hallways with overstuffed backpacks. Sophomores will gloat at their non-freshman status and triumphantly flash driver's licenses. Seniors will spend the first few months alternately nonchalant and frenzied, covering college-search nerves with big-kid bravado while juniors will keep their teachers sane with their relative maturity and commitment to all things high school.

School spirit and energy will come to a crescendo during Homecoming Week and crash to widespread crabbiness by Columbus Day. Breakups (and make outs) will happen during passing periods, school dances will swirl with drama, classes will experience some meaningful ah-ha! moments and even the most reluctant of seniors will get a bit misty on the last day of school. There's a natural rhythm to the school year that - though varied in exact yearly details - unfolds predictably, steadily, inevitably. It's the song of school.

Providing its own cyclical chorus is the march of the athletic season: The sweaty, determined training of the summer months. The high hopes and idealism of a fresh start. The butterfly stomach feeling of the first competition. The roller coaster reality of wins and losses, goals achieved and goals missed. The monotony of practice and the drain of tightly packed schedules. The warm coming-togetherness of team chemistry and heartfelt end-of-season-push toward playoffs.

And then there is emotion of the season's last showing.

This weekend was the state cross country meet in Peoria. Hundreds of runners swarmed Detweiller Park on a gorgeous November day to put all of their training quite literally on the line. Some places have a certain presence - Detweiller is one such place. It is more than a pretty park. It is running personified. On race day, it pulses with nervous energy, ground rumbling under determined feet, anticipation and hope snapping the air around brightly colored tents and proudly printed team signs. Old records and race stories whisper past competitors' ears as they attack the final hill toward the finish. Spectators and coaches scurry back and forth across the infield, anxious to catch a glimpse of their athletes and sneak an encouraging word through the clamor. From a distance, the mass movement looks like an elaborate dance. For three miles, nothing else in the world exists.

While I have vivid memories of Detweiller as a state racer, my most powerful experiences have been as a coach. As a spectator, you are invited into the big picture, the larger story, of the day. As a coach, you have an intimate investment in all that unfolds. There is a helpless feeling when the gun goes off and your athletes enter into the fray, feet flying, heart racing, eyes hungry. While you have given them the tools, they are ultimately in charge of their experience. You want to protect them from defeat and regret, to guarantee success and satisfaction. You want to see in them the soul-contentment that comes from doing their absolute best. You want to give them everything but can only watch as they stream past the 1 mile and the 2 mile and the 2.8 mile mark and yell and clap - and hope.

Inevitably, I tear up. No one notices, as we are all wrapped up in our own version of the experience. There is a weight to the stories unfolding, a beauty in the earnestness and timelessness of it all. There is the Cinderella team, the unexpected runner performance, the shattering of personal records. There are cheers of triumph, silent moments of defeat, groans of pain, and tears of good-bye. There are hugs from Mom and Dad and Grandma and Grandpa, high fives from teammates, one-armed side squeezes from Coach. There is the quiet of the post-race cool down and the pang of "the end" as the bus edges its way out of the park. The emotion of it is all-encompassing.

Yesterday, I found myself watching parents. As a coach, I have always appreciated the parent perspective, taking cues from my own. Yet now I wonder about my daughter's future. Will she run like her mom? Play water polo like her dad? Tackle soccer like her aunt? Try hockey or basketball or softball or lacrosse? Love playing for the band or performing with the cheerleaders? What kind of fan will I be? How will it feel to watch my child race out there on her own, chasing her goals on fast, spike-ensconced feet?

Five months ago, a gun fired and my husband and I started a race we cannot begin to comprehend. Our family story is unique but tied to the fabric of all of the stories that came before us. Our loved ones watch us knowingly; masters of the parenting dance, they tap in rhythm while we struggle to learn each basic step. First tooth, first word, first step, first day of day of school. First car, first dance, first year at college, first job, first home, first baby. How do parents handle it all?

Our daughter is off and running and while we are eager, passionate coaches, I know we cannot run for her. All we can do is cheer and guide and correct - and watch.

I'll need to carry Kleenex. This mom is going to be a crier!

It's a Reading Party!

"Hey, nerds! Put down your books and come play volleyball. We need another couple!" came the good-natured jeer from across the pool. They had been harassing us for an hour and it looked like there was no escaping the invitation. "Should we try it?" my new husband asked, eyebrows raised teasingly over his sunglasses. "Here goes nothing!" I chirped, sliding my book safely under my towel and easing my way into the water. "They don't know what they're asking us to do, do they?"

15 minutes (and some earnest yet awful volleyball play) later, the tipsy pool crew wasn't sad to see us return to our chairs - and our books.

My husband and I love sports and are up for just about any adventure. On our honeymoon, we got up early, enthusiastically poured over the day's options over breakfast and happily tackled excursions, jeep tours, waterfall swims and water sports. Yet each afternoon was reserved for a "reading party," which translated into a quiet spot in a quiet pool for a few hours of uninterrupted page-turning. Yes, we had found our version of bliss.

Since the honeymoon, reading parties have taken a variety of forms: an early retreat to bed, complete with a vow to cease all conversation and television viewing; cozy nights by a fire in oversized leather chairs, accompanied by a snoring dog; a two and a half hour read-aloud on the road to Thanksgiving dinner at my grandma's (now a yearly tradition); pretty summer evenings in rockers under the glow of the front door light, sweetened by contented swigs of cold beer; a stolen hour on patio chairs out back while a three-week old mercifully slept (we snuck covert glances at the monitor, willing those little green lights to remain still). My husband even managed to balance a book on a raft in the ocean - feet planted in the sand, arms out for tanning, book safely dry and accessible. (My family thought it was hilarious - I found it ingenious).

We have a bit of a book habit. We are helpless against the gravitational pull of Barnes and Noble and Border's entrances. (Even those pesky Walgreen's aisles are grabbers!). Amazon boxes magically appear at our door. Gift cards top our holiday wish list. (I do a little internal jig of joy when a thank you for college recommendation letters includes a bookstore gift card). As English teachers, this obsession may be a natural consequence of the job, but I think it's more than that. Books are part of who we are, of how we see ourselves and the world around us. Reading, for us, is a way to escape and connect. It's as vital to my feeling of completeness as a run, a hand squeeze from my husband, a nuzzle of my daughter's neck or a long talk with my mom.

I've created an infant version of reading parties. We have them each morning, after my daughter's bottle and Mom's situps (she lays on the floor beside me, stretching her legs while staring mesmerized at her friend, the fan). She's reached the age where she can sit comfortably on my lap and reach for the pages. (Her little back is so sturdy and eager and warm. Seeing it, I can't help but bend down to place smacking kisses on her chubby cheeks. Where did this big girl come from?). We have them at the library, surrounded by bright-eyed toddlers and tired-eyed moms at story hour. We have them at the kitchen counter while Dad takes his turn at the stove. We have them before bed, murmuring the last words as a drooping baby head drifts off for the night. I'm hoping that she will someday love her books as we do. Perhaps Mom will be invited to share in her reading parties?

Yesterday I nearly skipped out of the car when I pulled up to discover an Amazon label peeking out of my mailbox. (Bless you, UPS delivery woman!). "Mommy's book came today!" I cheered, plucking playfully at my daughter's carseat's straps. "Guess what I'm going to do when you go to bed tonight?" She beamed at me, drooling and bubbling. She knows a happy mom when she sees one.

And what made this mom so happy? My students would be shocked to learn that - gasp! - I do not read Shakespeare or Faulkner or Fitzgerald or even the Bronte sisters for fun.

I read Nora Roberts.

Her fourth and final installment in her Brides Quartet series has arrived and I plan on fully enjoying each mindless page.

In the morning, I have a date with Old MacDonald, Mary and her little lamb and Wynken, Blynken and Nod. Tonight, this reading party is for a very happy party of one.

Thing 1 and Thing 2

Our first baby weighed in at 12 lbs. He was a wrinkly, slobbery, needy little guy who turned the world, as we knew it, upside down. He was the dumbest - and best thing - we had ever done.

My husband, (then boyfriend) stood frozen in the doorway of his apartment, staring at the bundle cuddled in my lap. When asked what he was thinking, all he could say was, "We're in charge of a life." I chuckled at his dazed, nervous expression and planted a kiss on the wet nose peering curiously up at me. "Well, that's what you get when you buy a dog."

Fast forward six years. The nurse places our minute-old daughter in my arms and her dad kisses my forehead, then hers. Winking gently, his poor tired face lit up in awe, he whispers, "We're in charge of a life." What an awesome, overwhelming truth. Well, that's what you get when you have a baby, I smile to myself. We have a baby...

All pet owners will tell you that their furry companions are, indeed, part of the family. Our bulldog is an intimate part of our life story as a couple and as a family. He tumbled his way into our hearts on his oversize, awkward puppy feet, wagging his whole bottom in time with his uncontainable joy for everything from cookies, to walks, to a bone, to the squirrel scampering through the yard. There was something so endearing about his snoring, so lovable about his protruding belly and the twitch of his non-existent stump of a tail. He played hard and slept hard and lay down matter-of-factly in the middle of a walk when he decided he was too tired to go on. (I can't tell you how many cars have stopped to laugh at a grown woman held hostage by an upside-down-in-a-neighbor's-yard-lolling-tongue-non-walker). It's funny to us that a bulldog would be a mascot for anyone, as there is nothing fierce about our boy. The runt of his litter, this 110lb lover sees himself as a lap dog and claims as much of the couch as we do. He loves with all that he has and greets everyone with unrestrained excitement. Our dog can't have enough friends.

When we brought our daughter home from the hospital, his world changed. All of a sudden, his "mama" had something else to keep her attention. A bassinet was in his sleep spot. There were strange noises and smells and new schedules. And then there was that crying that never, ever stopped. What was a dog to do?

Over time, our little girl and our canine boy have become fast friends. He pads his way into the nursery each morning to watch her emerge from her crib and clicks his way down the hall as we put her to bed at night. He races to the front door and waits eagerly for her to be strapped into the stroller when it's time for a walk. He prances proudly and protectively beside her as he leads the way down the street. She coos at him while she sits in her swing, gurgles and waves her hands as he watches her bound away in her jumperoo. She's started to reach for him as she sits in our laps and bursts into a delighted smile when he enters the room. Soon, I'll be watching her toddle after him, bouncing brown pigtails and uncertain feet, anxious to play with her friend.

This Halloween we made a matched T-shirt/onsesie set that read "Thing 1" and "Thing 2" in reference to the Seuss-inspired nicknames we've given the pair. Posing the two of them together against the couch, I had to smile at their interactions. He, the gentle giant, sat patiently while she, the wide-eyed babe, gazed adoringly up at him. (He has to be amazingly huge from her perspective - he's like her personal pony!). They are true buds. I can't help but think of the things in store for the two of them in the years ahead...

My husband and I are convinced that our dog knew I was expecting before I did. She used to kick enthusiastically in response to his presence. They have been connected since before they met and I love the part of our story they are writing together. Life with Thing 1 and Thing 2 will never be dull.

Tonight, as I slide into bed, I will delight in the sounds of my home. With our big boy snoring in the bathroom and our little girl sighing across the hall, the nighttime surround sound of our family is the only lullaby I'll need.

Making Mom's Meatloaf

I was late to the kitchen.

Like 10 years late. When I got married at 28, I didn't bring much to the literal table. At one of my bridal showers, I received beautiful recipe cards filled with instructions for delicious creations steeped in family tradition. I was touched by the thoughtful gift - and terrified of my absolute lack of cooking experience. (Choosing cookware for the registry generated similar feelings of panic). My husband cheerfully volunteered to do most of the cooking and reassured me that whatever I did make would be great. (I don't think he expected tears when he asked what we were having for dinner as he left for work the Monday after we were married. My response? "We don't eat together on Mondays." "Well, honey we do now. We're married..."). Our first married dinner was one for the scrapbook: macaroni and cheese with cut up ham. Such a gourmet beginning!

As time passed, my culinary craft evolved and I found myself enjoying time in the kitchen. My husband and I rotate dinner duty by coaching season and school schedule and turn to our good friend the crockpot whenever possible. We've dug into that wedding recipe file, flipped through Kraft Food and Family magazines, earmarked Taste of Home selections and made our own discoveries and experiments along the way. I love to bake (anything that doesn't require an artistic final touch like icing) and find comfort in the smells that linger in our home long after the oven light goes off. It's been especially fun lately to put a little 5-month old helper in her bumpo seat to watch the "magic" unfold.

Though I am a late-to-the-game-less-than-confident-cook, I do have one crowning domestic achievement: my meatloaf. My mom's meatloaf to be precise.

My husband loves it. Meatloaf night is like a mini-holiday in our household. The moment that notation goes up on the refrigerator, I have a grown man doing a little dance around the kitchen island. For someone who was a bit reluctant to try that meal early in our marriage, he is now a gleeful eater of said meatloaf. (It makes my heart smile a little to hear him brag about it as he digs into leftovers the next day at lunch. It's like a little confirmation that I can cook something right. Do I get a star on the wife chart for that?)

Tonight is meatloaf night. As I stirred ingredients in my favorite white mixing bowl (even having a favorite feels like an achievement!), explaining to my cooing helper in the pink seat just what Mommy was throwing in, I felt like I was home. It has been a less than productive day, complicated by a non-napper who decided today to throw her usual schedule out the window. I've felt alternately harried and inadequate and close to tears for most of the day but putting together my mom's recipe put me back in her kitchen. I loved that I could walk through my kitchen, opening pantry and refrigerator doors, selecting ingredients without having to consult Mom's neatly written recipe. I know it by heart - literally and metaphorically. A dash of this, a splash of that, a hey-let's-try-that-today and we have meatloaf. The creative inexactness makes me feel like a cook - and makes the inexactness of the day a bit more bearable.

Tonight, as it bakes for over an hour in our fifty-five-year-old oven, it will smell like home. I'll walk in from practice and momentarily feel like that high school senior walking in the door from basketball practice to sit down to eat with my family of five at our carefully set table. As I scrub out the pan and watch my husband paint our daughter's face with her dinner spoon (she is not the most focused of eaters), I'll feel like my mom. And the connection of home - hers and mine - will be complete.

Maybe I'll do a little dance around the kitchen island now that my daughter is finally napping. After all, it's Meatloaf Night. And Mom cooked.

Girl Talk

Girl talk. As a high school teacher and coach, I live in a world of girl talk. There is no mistaking the animated chatter of teenage girls on a conversation roll - sometimes I swear I can hear it in my sleep. Listening to my daughter carry on in her crib at 3 in the morning, (she's starting to sound like a pterodactyl) I can only imagine what her version of girl talk will sound like down the hall one day.

Girl talk has become a bit of a lifeblood for me, especially now as I negotiate the new world of parenthood. I have a fantastic core of friends who have seen me through all of life's transitions and share with me honestly the stories of their own. Some can finish my sentences. Others live strangely parallel lives. Some tease me out of my quirkiness while others know just what to say or do to make everything feel normal again. Whether it's a 3 and a half minute voicemail message, a quick text, a random visit, a funny card, or a scheduled girls night in, these connections make me feel just that - connected. (That "on an island" feeling of motherhood has been surprising...)

In fact, it was an email exchange that finally pushed me to try a blog. After a particularly rough evening, I sat down to write my friends. What came out was a good-humored rant about life as I now know it and all the "poop" that comes with it:

It was a pretty productive day. We tried story hour at the library - my first time out with other moms. Claire was social and behaved. I had a decently cute outfit on. Claire got a library card. We visited family. Jeff came home from work and we went to the bank. That's went it all went to poop. Literally.

We get to the bank, sign in and wait to be called. Then someone decides she has to go. And it's bad. Like can't cover it up bad. So we go downstairs to change. We get settled at the desk and someone decides she is going to spit up (which she never does) all over her mom's lap. And drool over her cute new Gymboree fall outfit. Drool so much that she looks like she took a bath. Bank lady keeps saying how cute she is. She is actually a total flipping mess.

We finish at the bank. Jeff gets her all strapped in and she's happy. I decide to drop him off at home and go to the bookstore because I have a new gift card. A Halloween book for Claire would be nice, right? Because I'm all about literacy today. I decide to be go-with-the-flow-mom and take Claire in on my hip instead of in the heavy car seat. I grab Jeff's Diaper Dude because it is easier to have on over the shoulder. I walk to the store door and realize that Claire has gone yet again. And it's even worse than before.

So I'm in the bathroom and I'm wishing I could just put her in the shower. I strip her down and search his bag (why the hell did I leave mine in the car????) for an extra pair of clothes. All he has is pants so after we're all said and done, she's in pink pants and an orange owl top with no socks. I wanted to tell the lady at the checkout YES, I realize that she doesn't match but NO, we did not leave the house this way. I'm also falling out of my own top because I'm holding her and my boobs are bigger (not in a desirable way) and my shirt (the cute one) just doesn't quite fit right. (The muffin top - that wasn't in the What to Expect books!)

I walk out of the store and my phone falls out of my open purse and on to the street, where it is almost run over by a car. A nice woman saves it and comments on the precious cargo in my arms - "That's a lot for Mom to carry, isn't it?" I get to the car and proceed to hit Claire's head on the inside roof of the car. Delayed cry. The-maybe-she-didn't-even-notice-pause and then-all-out-mad-at-Mom-scream.

I just sat in the driver's seat. The self-assured mom-about-town this morning was gone. And right now, the how-in-the-world-did-I-get-here-mom is sitting here typing this while Claire waits for her bath and bottle and....thank goodness...bed.

Later, after I put my daughter to bed (my husband and I always slap five after she's settled in her crib - another successful day of parenting completed), I listened to the bings of my inbox, sipped at a glass of wine and laughed at the responses. It felt great not to be alone. Our girl talk has definitely evolved over the past 10 years but now it feels more important than ever.

Girl talk just might be one of the best parts of being a girl. My daughter is learning that early. You should hear the conversations she has with her dog!

Coloring Outside the Lines

My need for order started early.

I was the little girl who worried when her crayons went outside the lines of the coloring book. There was something so definitive about the the bold black outline around a picture that made me too nervous to cross it. I wanted my teacher to like my work. I wanted my work to be refrigerator and contest worthy. I needed to stay inside the lines.

I've always tended to stay inside the lines. While friends dove into the college search with a gusto, I had my dad draw a 3 hour drive ring on the map and concentrated on options well within the circle. When I started college, I taped a carefully sketched daily schedule to the dorm wall next to my bed so that I could live each day with a plan. While studying abroad in Italy or England sounded exotic, I marched determinedly through my no-more-than-8-semester collegiate design. As time continued, I kept my crayons far from life's bolded edge. An out of state teaching job in the beautiful West? I eagerly embraced a high school opening at my alma mater. A home with acreage in a little town down the highway? My husband and I set up a life in the heart of our hometown. Bold orange on the walls of my home office? How about a comfortable cream?

As a line follower, I'm also a list maker, agenda creator and life planner. Our shopping list is on the refrigerator, next to the meal plan for the week and under the calendar for the month. The day's tasks are on a post-it note on the kitchen counter next to the pen that crosses completed items off with triumph. My more spontaneous husband is patient...he has learned that there will be a momentary panic if he suggests something that isn't yet on my radar screen. He doesn't laugh at the typed lists that line the dining room table before a party. He knows that "we" need to "study" all options before making a final decision (the poor guy and his wedding and baby registry experiences!) and that there is an art (and a "right way") to cleaning the house. (Ah, the pleasures of a refrigerator that has all labels facing neatly outward...).

I'm learning that life doesn't always allow for neat lines. My 110 lb bulldog will track muddy paw prints in from the backyard and his short hair will inevitably find its way all over my home. A mom raccoon will somehow wiggle her way into our attic to have her babies. The dishwasher will billow smoke during a routine morning run. I will have a baby two weeks early and end up grading final exams in my hospital room. My daughter's nap schedule will fluctuate weekly and it will take me three hours to do one simple task. And that kitchen counter post-it? It might not have a single thing crossed off at the end of the day.

I asked my husband one night over a glass of wine how I had changed since becoming a mom. He smiled at me and said, "You actually sit down." While I feel like I run around like a crazy woman even more now than I did before, I knew what he meant. Having her showed me - quickly - that I couldn't have it my way all of the time. Her needs and her schedule are going to be the priority. And that has been a fantastic realization.

Tonight, I did the unthinkable. I literally colored outside of the lines. My husband brought home fingerpaint and blank canvases and we did a little family art project - our first. Our baby girl happily plopped her hands in the paint and scratched and slid and patted her way across each frame. Paint streaked her face, tinted her hair, splattered her little white onesie, and spotted her chubby thigh rolls. She giggled, she kicked and she played, throwing color everywhere. Delighted by her chortles, I scooped her up and helped her dance across a canvas, sliding her toes and swirling her feet through her handpainted designs. Hugging her post project, her rainbow toes left streaks on my shirt while her tiny fingers traced tracks on my shoulder. Watching her ride downstairs in her dad's arms to her bath, babbling all the way, I grabbed the Windex bottle to clean up the counter and smiled at the four sweet "art" canvases lined up to dry. She did her first art project and she colored with glee, not a care (or a line) in sight. I can't wait to hang her pictures up.

Tonight, I colored outside the lines - and I loved it.

Maybe tomorrow, I can do without the post-it.

Chicken Baby Poop

My mom can still remember clearly my first day of school: "You were so sad because someone called you chicken baby poop. I was upset, your dad was upset - it was our first taste of the real world touching our smiling little girl."

I've always laughed -albeit gently - at the story, wondering just how the innocuous phrase "chicken baby poop" could have sent a 4 year-old and her parents into a tizzy. Aren't there worse things in the world? (In fact, of all the insults I've encountered in my life, "chicken baby poop" seems almost cute.)

Yet today, as a brand new mom of a five month old little girl, I am beginning to understand how my mom must have felt when her pigtailed preschooler came home in tears. My daughter smiles with such complete abandon and unabashed joy that my heart breaks a little each time she babbles in my direction. And I know, fiercely know, that I would break someone in two for introducing even a hint of cruelty or judgment into her innocent experience. Intellectually, I understand that we cannot keep her from the world and I already know that my spirited imp of a daughter will gladly tackle all that life brings her way. (How is it possible for an infant to have so many opinions?) But to see the trust and wonder so clearly in her eyes...yes, I would do just about anything to keep them there forever. The first child to call her "chicken baby poop" doesn't have a prayer against this mama bear.

I wasn't emotionally scarred by my first day of school. If it weren't for my mom's story, I wouldn't have a memory at all of that encounter. And yet, "chicken baby poop" seems to be an appropriate theme for this particular time in my life. Not only because poop seems to govern most of my waking moments (pre-baby, my husband and I never imagined that so much adult conversation could center on poop) but also because it's time to stop being "chicken" about some aspects of my life. Motherhood does many things, not the least of which is stripping a woman to her core. Never have I felt so vulnerable or exposed. Never have I felt so inadequate or inexperienced. Never have I felt such fear, worry or uncertainty. Never have I felt so powerful.

Because now, it's not all about me.

There's a little girl watching and she deserves a mom who lives as she teaches. If I want her to be strong, independent and passionate, I need to be the model my mom has always given me. I've coached girls cross country for years but have been hesitant to do much racing in my adult life. Perhaps it's time to strap on the shoes, set an earlier alarm and face the watch. Maybe I can cross that marathon finish line to face a cheering, chubby face in her stroller. Perhaps it's time for this high school English teacher to step out of her comfort zone and let her fingers do the talking, sending her words out there in the world without fear of the response. If I want my daughter to value her voice, her mom needs to start sharing her own.

Perhaps it's time to drop the "used to" tag I tend to overuse, ("I used to race," "We used to travel," "I used to have so much to show for my day," "I used to fit in those jeans") and embrace an active verb like "am."

I used to be called "chicken baby poop." Now I am Mom.