"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!
Saturday, December 18, 2010
Friday, December 3, 2010
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!
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!
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