I felt the urge to write today. It's 3:54 and I've been home for 15 minutes. In those 15 minutes, I've attempted to settle Claire in for a late afternoon nap, sorted the mail, let the dog out, started the dryer, emptied bottles and arranged them carefully on the top row of the dishwasher. I should change clothes and prepare for dinner, should tackle the bulging file folders in my school bag, should dig out coupons for the shopping trip I need to tackle when Jeff gets home, should start the myriad of small tasks associated with my sister's upcoming bridal shower and bachelorette party this weekend.
I should do all of my shoulds in the 15 minutes that follow this moment and the 15 minutes that follow that.
But I need to write.
I haven't blogged since I went back to school, though it's been on my list of things to do. I have a notepad scrawled with possible titles, jotted down as life and emotions hit. I blog in my head often, though those internal writings read more like a strand of Facebook status updates: "Some mornings, opening the car door in the school parking lot is the biggest challenge of the day" or "At times, I feel like the babysitter, not the mom" or "It's an odd, out-of-body-feeling opening your birthday presents with your daughter watching" or "I'm tired of poop. The literal, the metaphoric, the dog and the baby. My life is full of poop!" Part of the reason for "all quiet on the blog front" (Holy literary allusion!) is a packed schedule and overloaded brain but I have a feeling the silence is a little more complicated than that.
Perhaps it's that I don't want to read my thoughts or see my emotions so starkly placed in print.
Because putting them down - and out there - means acknowledging them fully. Sometimes that list of things to do is a convenient cover for the quiet heart tugs of the day -
I hate that my sitter (I hate that word) is the one to tell me what Claire is now doing in her day.
I died as I picked her up today and saw her become a little unnerved when I put her in the carseat. Died even more when her sitter's hand calmed her and not my own.
I feel a bit undone by the sweet picture my sitter's son made for Claire. Its bright flowers and message scrawled by five-year-old hands point to a life for Claire I don't know fully. I love her full face smile and her obvious delight in the day she shares with my sitter's children but I'm torn by the mystery that is my child's day.
I am happy when she visits morning library hour - yet my stomach wrenches each time I see that notation in the day's planner and imagine her eager little head and clapping hands, her bouncing bottom keeping time on someone else's lap.
I hate the up and down feelings that come in those first 15 minutes at home as I trade the world of teaching for the world of Mom.
I love our mornings, cuddled in bed, playing in the high chair, wrestling with clothes. 4:30-7 is a whirlwind of Mommy and Daddy and Baby time. I love the afternoons, witnessing the enthusiastic Baby and Dog reunion, playing on the floor, patting our way through books. I love the evenings, splashing at bathtime, rocking with the final bottle, relishing the sweet, drift-off-to-sleep-in-footy-pajamas-bedtime.
But I miss our days.
I think that's what pulls at my heart, what I've most avoided putting in print.
There's so much good in our life and I'm thankful for those blessings. Our daughter is growing and happy and active and confident and sweet and funny - really funny. We're making new memories each day as a family - and learning what it is to be a family. Life is really better than we could have ever imagined.
It's just that my heart plays tug-of-war a lot. Maybe that's what being a parent is all about?
It's now 4:35. My 15 minutes are way past up. There's a little girl upstairs who decided the afternoon nap wasn't for her. And we have a whole day to catch up on.
Glad I had a chance to write - here's hoping that I make it back to blog land soon. It feels pretty good here, typing away at the kitchen counter.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Saturday, January 8, 2011
Only One Way Off This Ride
I'm cleaning closets like a madwoman.
I haven't really sat down in the past few days. I have an obsessive need to get things in order - the pantry, the dog's cabinet, my daughter's drawers. The garage. Our office. The front coat closet. That drawer where all the bills get tossed.
I'm compulsively making lists in my head and running around crossing off and adding things to notepads scattered throughout the house. Even when I slide into bed, my brain whirls with to-do's. I'm a busy woman - because I can't quite handle being the girl who cries.
The flurried activity in our home is a blatant attempt to ignore the calendar on our newly scoured refrigerator. Monday is a day away, the day when I go back to work and our daughter goes to an at-home daycare. I hate Monday.
We did a dry run earlier this week with an "immersion" experience of a few morning hours. She smiled at her caregiver, eagerly responded to her son and daughter and came home as happy as she left. In the weird-home-without-my-child-window, I made my husband tackle his closet and drawers, his loud complaints a welcome distraction from the somersaults my heart was doing in my chest. We survived the dress rehearsal and I'm preparing for the real deal. The lists are all in order. I just don't know if the emotions will follow the plan.
My friend, Sarah once compared the end of pregnancy to a roller coaster: once you're in it, there's only one way off, no matter how much you don't want to face what's coming. The same feeling holds true here; the up-the-hill clicking of the car is loud and rumbling and the fall is just around the corner, whether I want to face it or not.
At least I'm going to face it with one hell of a clean house.
I haven't really sat down in the past few days. I have an obsessive need to get things in order - the pantry, the dog's cabinet, my daughter's drawers. The garage. Our office. The front coat closet. That drawer where all the bills get tossed.
I'm compulsively making lists in my head and running around crossing off and adding things to notepads scattered throughout the house. Even when I slide into bed, my brain whirls with to-do's. I'm a busy woman - because I can't quite handle being the girl who cries.
The flurried activity in our home is a blatant attempt to ignore the calendar on our newly scoured refrigerator. Monday is a day away, the day when I go back to work and our daughter goes to an at-home daycare. I hate Monday.
We did a dry run earlier this week with an "immersion" experience of a few morning hours. She smiled at her caregiver, eagerly responded to her son and daughter and came home as happy as she left. In the weird-home-without-my-child-window, I made my husband tackle his closet and drawers, his loud complaints a welcome distraction from the somersaults my heart was doing in my chest. We survived the dress rehearsal and I'm preparing for the real deal. The lists are all in order. I just don't know if the emotions will follow the plan.
My friend, Sarah once compared the end of pregnancy to a roller coaster: once you're in it, there's only one way off, no matter how much you don't want to face what's coming. The same feeling holds true here; the up-the-hill clicking of the car is loud and rumbling and the fall is just around the corner, whether I want to face it or not.
At least I'm going to face it with one hell of a clean house.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
The New Mile High Club
Well, I did it.
I tackled the airplane bathroom.
I successfully changed a poopy diaper - twice - all while scrunched into the inhabitable space that is an airplane bathroom.
Flying with our daughter for the first time was a source of restrained panic for us. We were prepared, having researched the airline's suggestions, consulted with our pediatrician and polled our friends for advice. We wanted to be progressive parents, easily flexible enough to take the challenges and nuances of air travel in stride. Freak about the uncontrollables? Not us. Our daughter is cosmopolitan enough to handle anything. A simple two hour trip at 7 months? Piece of cake.
Except for the inescapable worry that we would be that family. The family that causes an inward groan from all passengers as they board a flight. The family that has people clutching their tickets, praying they don't have seats anywhere near that baby. The family that everyone talks about at baggage claim and vents about in rides from the airport. The family of the - gasp! - screaming child.
The beautiful thing about babies is that they're just that: babies. They express themselves without restraint and are innocent, honest and pure. They're also terrifyingly free to do whatever they want or need to do at any given time. They can screech happily during church. They can exercise loud (and smelly) bodily functions during a party. They can have a meltdown at the grocery store. And they can cry on a crowded flight.
After all of the worry, our daughter did relatively well on her first flight experience. On the outbound flight, she decided to fill her diaper with about twenty minutes to go, just when the captain had illuminated the fasten seat belt light. Her relaxed emission prompted every mom in our area to check her child's diaper while we scurried to bury her in blankets, hoping to muffle the evidence. On the inbound flight, our exhausted child needed two changes and a some soothing before she could sleep. We thought she did remarkably well but my husband and brother came close to decking the annoyed businessman in front of us. At least she has personal bodyguards to defend her honor.
As the plane touched down at home, my husband looked at me with tired eyes and slowly extended his hand for a fatigued high-five. "Well, we did it. But you know what? We're driving to our next vacation."
No argument here.
I tackled the airplane bathroom.
I successfully changed a poopy diaper - twice - all while scrunched into the inhabitable space that is an airplane bathroom.
Flying with our daughter for the first time was a source of restrained panic for us. We were prepared, having researched the airline's suggestions, consulted with our pediatrician and polled our friends for advice. We wanted to be progressive parents, easily flexible enough to take the challenges and nuances of air travel in stride. Freak about the uncontrollables? Not us. Our daughter is cosmopolitan enough to handle anything. A simple two hour trip at 7 months? Piece of cake.
Except for the inescapable worry that we would be that family. The family that causes an inward groan from all passengers as they board a flight. The family that has people clutching their tickets, praying they don't have seats anywhere near that baby. The family that everyone talks about at baggage claim and vents about in rides from the airport. The family of the - gasp! - screaming child.
The beautiful thing about babies is that they're just that: babies. They express themselves without restraint and are innocent, honest and pure. They're also terrifyingly free to do whatever they want or need to do at any given time. They can screech happily during church. They can exercise loud (and smelly) bodily functions during a party. They can have a meltdown at the grocery store. And they can cry on a crowded flight.
After all of the worry, our daughter did relatively well on her first flight experience. On the outbound flight, she decided to fill her diaper with about twenty minutes to go, just when the captain had illuminated the fasten seat belt light. Her relaxed emission prompted every mom in our area to check her child's diaper while we scurried to bury her in blankets, hoping to muffle the evidence. On the inbound flight, our exhausted child needed two changes and a some soothing before she could sleep. We thought she did remarkably well but my husband and brother came close to decking the annoyed businessman in front of us. At least she has personal bodyguards to defend her honor.
As the plane touched down at home, my husband looked at me with tired eyes and slowly extended his hand for a fatigued high-five. "Well, we did it. But you know what? We're driving to our next vacation."
No argument here.
Saturday, December 18, 2010
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!
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!
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!
Monday, November 29, 2010
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.
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.
Sunday, November 21, 2010
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.
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.
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