The Latest Buzz

So where to start?  Much has happened since I last posted in April!  Izzy learned to crawl and stand, eat real food, make words, and sleep on a schedule.  I learned to move faster than she does (usually), clean real food from a variety of surfaces and crevices, decipher meaning from words such as "Dop" (sock) and "Dah" (dog), and let her sleep without paranoid breathing checks.  My prolonged foray into the world of breastpumping has come to an end and I did not give in to the impulse to smash the pump into tiny slivers with a hammer. That was a study in self-control.

Since my last blog, she was baptized, my husband ordained, and we moved into the parsonage within a snowball's throw from the church.  Winter has arrived again (hence, the snowball method of distance measurement) and Izzy's second Christmas is right around the corner.  She likes the lights and the colorful presents under the tree but has not been properly introduced to Mr. Claus yet.  That intro can wait until we can afford him. 

She enjoyed her first swim in the lake on the 4th of July in a star-spangled bathing suit and we have burnt through at least 8 gigabytes worth of memory cards with pictures of fine moments such as this.  We have weathered her first cold, her first projectile vomiting episode (ah, now that was picture-worthy), and we are nearly surviving the production of actual human poo (long gone are the cute little baby poos that lull you into a false sense of security that you can handle diaper changes).   Note to self:  put potty-training on to-do list.  Or better yet, on honey-do list. 

She has many accomplishments of which to be proud.  She brushes her teeth, brushes her hair, removes her own diaper (have to work on her replacement technique), feeds herself food, pine needles, and dust bunnies, and uses sign language for a variety of food-related requests ("bottle", "milk",  "more, more, MORE" and "all done").  She is also in charge of tupperware organization, wall-licking, book-unshelving, and provides a delightful phone answering service.  Okay, delightful to us, at least. 

But every day hasn't been bathed in sunshine and dipped in a honey glaze.  We have had sleepless nights, teething, and tantrums...and just try to mention the word 'sippy cup' in her presence. And then there's this...  we said a sad farewell to Izzy's Grandpa, my dad, for the last time in August.   And with him went many things including the knowledge of what, "Buzz, buzz" means.  He would say that to her everytime he saw her and we always wondered where the odd phrase came from.  Perhaps an old cartoon?  Lyrics from an old-timey song?  His vivid imagination?  We never asked and now we'll never know for sure.  My dad has been gone for 4 months and we can still elicit a knowing smile from Izzy whenever we say, "Buzz, buzz" in a sing-song voice.  She knows what it means:  "Hey, kid - you're gonna be alright.  And I'll be watching out for you."  It was all in the way he said it.

Enough of an update for now.  I'll try to be more faithful to my blog.  There is a year of new discoveries ahead and I'll keep you posted.  In the meantime, "Buzz, buzz" to you.

Babies, Bunnies, and Bees...Oh, My!

After a prolonged hiatus and with the assurance of a friend that my writings will not incite action by child protective services or land me in a padded cell,  I am back to blogging! Since my last writing, Izzy has evolved from a screaming, red-faced hourly milk depository into a charming little girl.  Not to say that she doesn't have her occasional meltdown, but now with less frequency than I have mine. 

The big news is that we are finally emerging out of our germaphobic coccoon and have begun to enjoy the social circuit with Izzy.  We started simply with a gathering of about a dozen of our healthiest friends at our house.  That was a baby step.  Then, we decided it was time to travel.  Our first big outing was 1.9 miles away at our church's Easter egg hunt (yes, our definition of "big" has sadly taken a turn for the worse).   It was a bright and gorgeous spring day suitable for a paisley cotton romper and a floppy hat (Izzy's outfit, not mine).

Car seat in place?  Check. 

Diaper bag loaded?  Check. 

Bottle, toys, and books?  Check. 

Camera?  Of course. 

By the time all the baby paraphernalia was packed, a breeze had stirred and a few fluffy clouds had appeared.  The 15 minute ordeal of the inevitable diaper change, tearful carseat adjustments (mostly her tears but a few from Dave), and an epic sunglass hunt (mine, not hers) resulted in an alarming shift from light breeze to heavy gusts.  But not to be deterred by a little tornado weather, we marched onward.  Less than 1/2 mile down our little country lane, the wind (upgraded to gale force) blew down a rather large and quite dead tree which now lay artfully arranged to block forward passage.  My husband, a hero to rabid egg hunters everywhere, leaped from the car, assessed the situation man-style, and began to tug fruitlessly on the offending tree trunk.  Which, by the way, also happened to be called  "home sweet home" by a multitude of angry bees.  Not a class of insect that likes to hold in their feelings, those bees.  Long story short, a welted and humbled Daddy, an epi-pen wielding Mama, and an oblivious sleeping beauty named Isabel reversed the car, took the scenic route, and arrived at the egg hunt just in time to see all of the kids scrambling for the church basement while worried parents eyed the ever-darkening skies. 

So I feel that this doomed outing was an omen somehow.  We had been doing just fine as agoraphobes, thank you very much.  Then, lured by the promise of a  few chintzy easter eggs and a photo op with a creepy Easter bunny on steroids(see photo) we risked life, limb, and exposure to snot-nosed kids just to show off our cuter-than-average baby (again, see photo). 

We know when to say when; we have retreated.  Back into the safety of our home where Burt's Bees shampoo is the closest we come to stinging insects.  Back to home where the only reportable

tree incident occurs in the tragic ending to "Rockabye Baby". 

One of these days, like the boy in the plastic bubble, we will venture outside of these protective walls again no matter the consequence.  But for now,who needs to travel for easter egg hunts or bunnies?  If we crave a little homeside excitement there is always the continuing search for the wayward sunglasses and plenty of burly dust bunnies in our midst. 

Many Wrongs Make a Right

Okay, this may officially qualify as TMI, but with St. Patty's Day fast approaching, I thought I would tackle the subject anyways.  One year ago, I was returning from an Alaskan adventure that can best be described as the most fun you can have with mittens on.  I had the privilege of working for nearly 2 weeks as a veterinarian on the Iditarod Trail during the sled dog race and it was exhilarating!  The last thing on my mind was the idea of having a kid.  In fact, by embracing the freedom of flying in a 2-seater across the vast expanse of the Alaskan range while living spontaneously in the moment briefly made me the unsung hero for childless women everywhere.  After all, once a squealing package of leaking, gurgling humanity enters a woman's world, reckless abandon is a thing of the past; previous adventure serves only as a warm spark of memory to keep one's mind lucid during an all-night scream-a-thon with the little tyke.

In hindsight, I did everything wrong.  If there had been a plan to make a baby last March, there are many things that I would have done differently.  In the over-40 set, women go to great lengths to become fertility goddesses.  Caffeine, alchohol, aluminum-based deodorants, and kitty litter are all things to be shunned like Nancy Pelosi avoiding the mirror (and truth and tact...).  Forget "sugar, spice, and everything nice":  temperature-taking, perfectly-timed trysts with the hubby, and ovulation calendars are the things little girls are made of in the real world. 

Instead, the two weeks preceding our rendevous with destiny was a whirlwind of sleepless nights, caffeine-induced hysteria, and 60-below wind-chills.  I subsisted on a sickly combination of trail mix, instant coffee, velveeta and adreneline while sleeping on cots, gym floors, and snowbanks. I logged thousands of air miles, countless back-breaking dog-straddling hours with the Iditarod teams, and covered more trail than desired with an oversized pack on my back.  The time before, after, and in-between the race was spent in serious contemplation of local Alaskan brews (Alaskan Smoked Porter forever has a place in my heart). 

Clearly, this would not be seen as an ideal fertility plan.  I flew back from Alaska after 2 hours of sleep, lost 4 more hours on the trip home, gave my wonderful dog and even better husband a big smack on the lips, said, "Happy St. Patty's Day!" and then went to bed.  Speaking now in Seinfeldese, "Yada, yada, yada...10 days later, I had a positive pregnancy test."  Whether you blame it on hearts grown fonder, Aurora Borealis, or the aphrodesiac qualities of airline peanuts (explains the Mile High club, doesn't it?), something mysterious and wonderful transpired for which I will be forever grateful. 

And you know the old wives tale that says that a baby will take on characteristics surrounding the circumstances of their conception?  Can't wait to see how that turns out.  I picture Izzy one day mushing a dog-team, drinking green beer, and wondering how she ended up in Nome.

On Reaping and Sowing

It was like a mantra as I was growing up:  "Just wait until you have kids of your own....".  This was not a flattering prediction of my promising future as a parent.  No, this was a stark warning that the little snippet of DNA responsible for my errant ways would likely find their way into my own living version of "Rosemary's Baby" (and for those of you who don't know who that delightful curmudgeon was, I suggest an addition to your Netflix queue).  My transgressions, as is usual for the truly evil, started at birth.  I took the opportunity to pee on the nurse as my first act on this earth.  I then refused to sleep through the night for the next 8 months; the contrast to my angelic older sister who had slept through the night from 2 weeks of age was obvious to the most casual observer.  Walking was not on my list of priorities until almost 2 years of age and then I insisted on walking on the top of my knuckled toes, painful as this seems in hindsight.  It was pondered whether I would ever speak as I held my tongue until almost 3 years of age; then it was pondered whether I would ever stop (and for some, the pondering continues...).  You get the picture.  T-R-O-U-B-L-E.

As the biblical writers would say, "And so it came to pass, Jen the Troubled begat a baby girl."  She is, of course, the center of my universe and holds the key to my heart, BUT...I see hints of things to come.  She began her life rather tentatively but has been picking up steam like a runaway train (which happens to have my name on its steel grill).  She doesn't just cry; she screams loud enough to violate the local noise ordinance.  When tempted this morning with a toy that she wasn't in the mood for?  Death and decapitation for the unfortunate stuffed duck.   (A bit of exaggeration given her tiny hands and lack of teeth, but she did gum him up pretty good before chucking him across the room; her intentions for destruction were clear).  And she doesn't just fill a diaper:  up and over and through the seams, to mama's lap we go.    My parents prediction about offspring revenge is coming true:  I don't believe for a minute in mere coincidence that "diaper" spelled backward is "repaid". 

So I am already thinking ahead with trepidation to the teen years.  If my antics as a teenager are any indication of things to come, then perhaps I should buy extra life insurance because she will certainly be the death of me.  Not that I did anything criminal (at least not that I was charged with), but my teenaged self could best be described as a jagged bundle of bad juju with frizzy hair and acne.  Eventually I grew out of everything but the frizzy hair, but not in time to spare my parents' sanity.  Hence the "Wait until you have kids...." curse. 

Don't get me wrong.  I am not feeling punished by the presence of my little girl, just the opposite.  But she does have the double whammy of being my kid in combination with being a PK (preacher's kid) which guarantees a wild ride for all involved.  But what was I going to do with these years anyways besides enjoy my AARP discount and search for the perfect denture cream? So, no worries.  My new mantra, again quoting the biblical writers, could become, "Be not afraid."  (Of course, the Bible had a very pregnant woman riding a  donkey, a baby floating down the river in a basket, and a newborn sleeping in a feed trough.  With their history of child-endangerment, perhaps I should find a new source for child-rearing wisdom. I'm just saying.)

Anyways, in response to my parents' dire warnings,  I am glad to say that the day is here, I have a kid of my own.  I've trained for this moment for 43 years.   Bring it on, Izzy!

Revelations (but not the final chapter)

Spoiler alert! The following blog entry is sticky with sappy post-Valentine thoughts. Read at your own risk!

Just 2 months shy of a decade ago, I sauntered through the doors of the local large animal clinic and got my first glimpse of my husband-to-be. I took in the view appreciatively: tall, athletic build, wavy disarrayed hair, a smear of manure on his coveralls, and the biggest darned hands I’ve ever seen on an upright primate. Somewhere deep in the primitive part of my brain, it’s probable that I was completing a mental checklist of traits that would make him a suitable mate, but the accessible parts of my gray matter simply registered, “Cute” and moved on for the time being. What certainly did not register at the time was the thought, “Now there’s a pair of hands that could really handle a diaper!” Nope. Didn’t cross the radar at all.

As I got to know him over the course of the next few months, I discovered many facts about this fascinating specimen: he is a great short-order cook, generally hates board games, is a coffee snob, has an almost unhealthy love for his cat, and is the kindest person I’ve ever met. As I fell for him (and did I ever fall hard!), his suitability as a baby daddy was never considered. We wined, dined, skated, traveled, ran, read, and sailed through a ridiculously long courtship and then settled down into our happily-ever-after phase.

Like wives have done since the beginning of wedded bliss history, I have come to appreciate his many talents and have tried to overlook some of his more unusual quirks (for sake of privacy, I won’t list those here, but both talents and quirks are many and bizarre). What completely blindsided me was my discovery of entirely new facets of this familiar man that has been revealed by fatherhood. The entire experience has been transformational in a way that exceeds the changes brought on by extreme sleep deprivation.

Three weeks before Izzy’s arrival, our church threw an over-the-top baby shower that armed us with all of the essentials and then some. I remember the baffled look that became a permanent fixture on Dave’s face by the end of the 2-hour gift opening. (He had not shared my previous Toys R Us scare-a-thon whereby I realized the vast array of baby-related items that would soon be thrust into our world). The veteran dad’s in the room exchanged knowing glances as Dave put each new item aside with nervous comments like, “I’m sure Jen will know what to do with that.” His obvious unfamiliarity with everything from onesies to burp cloths was endearing but fleeting.

Fast forward to the present…he just took over the Izzy duty so I can go to work. Picture the scene (I’ve just removed my hands from the keyboard to form the imaginary-thumbs-together-hand-camera lens to assist with this). He is wearing painter style jeans. From the back pocket protrudes a bib; a perfectly warmed bottle of milk swings rhythmically from the hammer hook, Dr. Suess is hanging out in the cargo pocket, and a boppy pillow is fitted around his waist. This is the renaissance man ready for action. One size XXL hand expertly navigates the intricacies of baby diapering while the other tips his coffee mug in a salute to the Folger family. And he even picked out a matching onesie and ruffled pants set. He is making this look easy.

It isn’t really fair; while motherhood has lowered my expectations when gazing in the looking glass to a lifetime low (think stretch marks and dark eye circles), he is making this parent thing look…well, somehow sexy. Not only did he not have the appearance of the Stay-Pufft Marshmallow Man for 9 months, the C-section scar, or the wardrobe built-for-two, he could be the cover boy for Parenting Magazine!

But I am not bitter about him entering parenthood unscathed while I can’t find my waistline without GPS. After all, his natural ease with his baby girl combined with his fashionable daddy-on-the-go look is akin to having a pool-boy but without the guilt of voyeurism. Yep, ours is a household of lucky girls. I have a hot and capable baby daddy who loves his little girl. Izzy has an awesome dad who thinks she’s perfect (and right he is). And his original lady love? Well, let’s just say that his cat Sophie has finally found a healthier and more suitable place in the pecking order.

What, Me Worry?

A friend of mine told me, in response to yet another far-fetched concern of mine, that the worries of pregnancy are just a prep course for the lifetime of worry inherent to having a child.  Darn her for being right!  Always striving for excellence in my undertakings, I believe I have taken the art of worry to an entirely new level.  For example, rather than just reading the current literature on the vaccine debate, I have created an Excel spreadsheet to calculate her risk for contracting each of the childhood diseases versus the risk of an adverse vaccine reaction for each disease.  That way I'm not needlessly worrying, it is a calculated concern. Yep, that makes me feel sane and even justified.

But worry is a circular thing, feeding on itself like a tribe of cannibals.  I find myself hovering over her sleeping form in the crib worrying that she's not breathing.  Just to be sure, I eventually place my hand on her chest.  I think I feel her chest rising...maybe I'll just touch her hand to make sure she responds.  Oh, yes.  She's responding.  At 136 decibels, she is definitely responding.  Guess her hands are responsive too as she balls them into fists and shakes them in protest.  But now I'm worried that she won't get back to sleep; and didn't I just read an article about sleep deprivation in babies and the development of ADHD?  See what I mean?  It's a vicious cycle.

And, always the planner, I have begun to pre-worry.  A friend of ours kindly brought us a collection of back issues of the now out-of-print, "Daughters Magazine" which is an excellent resource for the many issues which plague teenaged girls.  They will undoubtedly prove to be invaluable in helping us sort out Izzy's adolescent angst and avoid parental blunders once she enters those awkward years.  In the meantime, why procrastinate?  I can worry now! I'm concerned about her not-yet-existent eating disorder, the carpel tunnel syndrome from the computer use she has not yet experienced, and the incessant and possibly inappropriate texting that she may eventually exhibit.  And that's after reading only the first issue.  Next month addresses coed sleepovers and provocative clothing.  

One of my major sources of anxiety is the fact that babies are especially astute at picking up nuances of emotion.  So what is all of this worry doing to her delicate psyche?  My overwhelming concerns that she may one day run with scissors or become a fanatical nail-biter may in fact contribute to the very behaviors I'm trying to avoid.  And trying not to worry is like trying not to picture a pink elephant with black glasses.  Ha!  You can't do it, can you?  (Part of that may be the picture I have so conveniently placed next to the text in a subliminal gesture to make my point.)

So far, despite my anxiety, I have avoided being labeled as Munchausen by proxy by our pediatrician.  The concerns that I have aired at her doctor's appointments have thus far fallen into the realm of normal.  But I also haven't mentioned my observation that her pinkie toe is longer than her other toes, the unusual width of her tongue, the irregular shape of her belly button, or the asymmetry of her ears.  Perhaps I'll mention only one of these at each of her next vaccine appointments. (You know, spread out and mask the psychotic behavior.)   Speaking of vaccines, and in case you're wondering, by my calculations she has a 1 in 600 chance of contracting one of the vaccine-preventable childhood illnesses, and an overall 1 in 2500 chance of having a serious vaccine reaction.  Divided by each of the 13 vaccine appointments, this equates to just under a 1 in 200 chance of problems at each visit.  But who's counting...

Good thing we didn't see this first...

A Piece of Work

Well, the time has come; both sanity and funds have run low and I'm heading back to the work force.  I have enjoyed the good fortune of an extended maternity leave, due in part to a lull in business at my place of employment (thank you, federal government for your timely mishandling of our fragile economy!), partially due to Izzy's initial prematurity, and mostly due to my just wanting to cling to 12 pounds of beloved offspring for dear life! 

I am terrified of walking out of the front door for 8 hours while someone less adept at deciphering Izzy's nuances takes over the helm.  I am almost equally concerned that Melanie won't come out of her coma and that Sammi will never find out that E.J. has kidnapped her baby.  That's right - I've become addicted to daytime tv during my stint as a stay-at-home mom.  Gone is the gal who hustled to work whistling 9 to 5 under her breath donning a pressed pair of scrubs and ready to take on the veterinary world at large.  Now it's pajamas until noon, a splattering of spit-up on my shoulder, and intoning with zombie-like fervor, "Like sands through the hourglass, so are the Days of our Lives..."

But all good things must come to an end.  And there are furry critters out there who need me, right?  Instead of creeping into Izzy's baby-powder-scented sleep space in an attempt to cut her miniscule (but deceptively sharp) fingernails, I will return to wrestling bent-on-destruction rottweilers for an action-packed mani/pedi. And Pampers, who needs them?  I'll spend my days with latexed fingers probing the north end of many a south-bound animal to retrieve lost items, take samples, empty glands, and just really tick off a variety of pampered pets. 

There are many more similarities between infant care and veterinary work than might be evident to the casual observer.  Prior to motherhood, I stared in disbelief when a client would march in toting their balding, farty, toothless poodle, plant a lipsticked kiss on their wart-infested skin (smelling faintly of old lady perfume) and claim to love this creature more than life itself.  But now I think I can relate; after all, my mostly bald, frequently farting and still toothless Izzy tugs on my heartstrings in ways I never imagined possible.  And I will admit to a previously low tolerance threshold for the jewel-encrusted dog carrier which typically housed a  ferocious chihuahua dressed in a pink boa accenting a sequined hoodie.  But I can no longer throw stones as I obsessively match pink bows and ruffles from head to toe on poor, hapless Izzy. 

I really do think that the baby experience will make me a kinder, more empathetic veterinarian (although my frequent calls home might make me a less-than-desirable employee).   I am going to strive for balance between these two job descriptions.  I have pledged to myself that I will not fret about Izzy while listening to a client describe, in agonizing detail, the shape and color of her cat's hairballs.  Conversely, I will attempt not to worry about the outcome of the tennis ball swallowed by an intellectually-challenged Golden Retriever while Isabel is urgently and persistently telling me something that sounds like, "Aflac, gurgle gurgle, Oh boy" (her favorite phrase to date). 

It is an impossible and age-old dilemma:  we fickle humans always want to be where we aren't.  And I know that there will be times while I am cuddling Izzy that I will be thinking about squeezing a kitty tumor or dissecting a ruptured spleen.  It's human nature - or maybe I'm a genuine freak show.  Either way, I will charge ahead ready to continue my work life as if nothing has changed when, in reality, everything has. 

I've Got the Music in Me

It is a universal truth:  every expectant parent, within minutes of the positive pregnancy test (and after the smelling salts have kicked in) start imagining the accomplishments their little embryo will someday achieve.  As those first tentative fetal flutters progress to relentless kicking, the hopeful parents anticipate the Heiseman trophy with their progeny's name on it.  When the ultrasound technician informs them that those three little lines on the screen mysteriously translates into, "It's a Girl!", the Heiseman trophy dream evaporates only to be replaced with some equally-unattainable-but-gender-specific bragging right. 

In my case, I started searching for subtle hints from inside my belly that she had somehow inherited the prodigious talents of Yo Yo Ma, Mozart, and Carrie Underwood all rolled into one.  In other words, I was hoping that she didn't get the Grandpa Goodman gene that has left him hopelessly tone deaf and with the inability to carry a tune in a bucket (sorry, Dad). While I was pregnant, I sang to her in the shower, car, and while shopping to encourage her musical development. Her Daddy even sang soulfully to her the Paul Robeson version of "Lullaby" in his rich baritone while she was parked in the NICU.  And as a final bid for her musical development, while walking in the metropark, I had the inspired idea to put one earphone in my belly button (I retained my innie) and the other in my ear so we could share my musical selections as we enjoyed some hands-free exercise. Bet you'll never ask to share my IPod.  But I digress.

But what if she doesn't share my love affair with music?  It has always been a large piece of who I am - whether live or recorded, hummed or strummed -I can't imagine an existence that doesn't have a stream of music running through it.  But an almost worse thought: what if she does love music, but her tastes are so contrary to mine that we can't stand to be holed up in the same house with each other's CD's?  Think about it - Lady Gaga is most likely someone's daughter (although it is possible that she was created in a laboratory from some very life-like silicone - I mean, really...Mother Nature does not grow hair like that).  And does Lady Gaga bond with her mom over lyrics like, "I want your ugly, I want your disease....?"  I'm a bit skeptical.    Another example is the life and music of Ozzy Osbourne, but that's a whole 'nother blog.

Well, I guess I won't worry yet.  Hopefully we will be able to share the passion and language of music.  And it is likely that she will develop a talent or interest that I can't even fathom yet.  Who knows, she might want to collect umbrellas or carve wooden shoes; it's all still in front of her.  One thing I know for sure is that whether she decides to become President of the United States or President of the PTA, I will be a fan.  And so that I still stand a chance for the feeling to be mutual, maybe I won't tell her about the whole earphone in the belly-button thing.  

Dream Big, Izzy!

Time in a Bottle

Over the past year, my mind has loitered around the subject of time like a buzzard circling fresh road kill. Looking at the big picture, I have felt the passage of time in terms of what I am no longer likely to accomplish.  For instance, I am no longer eligible to compete for a spot on American Idol due to my advanced age (well, my singing voice might be a contributing factor).  And it is highly improbable at this point that I will qualify for the Olympics due to my current state of antiquity and delapidation (and lack of a sport, fitness, or a sponsor). 

On a smaller scale, time has lately been compressed and then doled out in baby-sized increments.  Nearly 9 months of pregnancy was sweated out in tiny, week-to-week achievements. I read every book and website that described what to expect at each moment of incubation.   Gradually, as I tracked Izzy's progress, the excitement of her graduating from the size of a flax seed to a kidney bean and beyond gave way to the thrill of her first kicks which occurred right on time at 17 weeks.  Once she emerged on the other side of my protruding abdomen, time was measured on another scale:  12-hour NICU nursing shifts, 9 a.m. doctor's rounds, and the daily run between hospital and home. 

Now that Isabel is home and we have established about as much routine as possible in the insanity that we are loosely calling life with our new baby, time is measured by yet another formula.  We live in the small windows of time that open briefly between feedings, diaper changes, wardrobe malfunctions (usually in the form of The Little Diaper That Couldn't), rubber-ducky time, and my personal favorite, cuddle time. 

The large blocks of time we once reserved for luxuries such as using the bathroom, showering, and changing the litter box are things of the past.  And of course, we've come to realize that sleeping is for sissies. To think we once felt the need to slumber for more than four hours at a stretch seems almost decadent.  With the amount of time we save by truncating our sleep, as well as the absolute neglect of personal hygiene and housekeeping, one would think that the days would just yawn, stretch, and drift slowly by.  But to our amazement, entire days and weeks zip by in a blur of milestones reached and baby clothes outgrown.  By contrast, when functioning (or not) on 2 hours of sleep, the emptying of a 4-oz bottle of milk can seem as long and painful as the Clinton years. 

These comments about time are not a revelation; everyone knows that an hour spent reading a novel does not equal an hour rocking your colicky baby no matter what the clock face tells you.  Time is most definitely a relative dimension.  As a friend of ours likes to say, "Life is like a roll of toilet paper - it goes faster as you get towards the end."  And while most people will agree with that profound statement, the following anonymous (and much sappier) quote comes closer to describing the effects of a new baby on our perception of time and all the ways we spend it:

A baby will make love stronger, days shorter, nights longer, bankrolls smaller, homes happier, clothes shabbier, the past forgotten, and the future worth living for.

Feeling Listless

When my husband and I were first dating and started revealing to each other the innermost workings of our minds, I confessed to him that I make lists. Not just your ordinary lists such as shopping, to-do, or books to read this summer. No, I make Lists, with a capital L. With “pro” and “con” columns and an objective numerical ranking system, these psychotic masterpieces allow me to function in a world where indecision and forgetfulness are lurking everywhere.

What this obsessive list-making reveals about me is a need to control things before they occur; I like to get all of my ducks in a row so that I can predictably control outcome. And perhaps I am delusional, but I think I was doing a commendable job. Then into my neat and orderly world entered a baby girl. Control and order exit stage left. While I am still able to rule my immediate environment with an iron fist (evidenced by the alphabetized baby products in Izzy’s changing table), I am suddenly helpless as a fish on land when it comes to the present and future actions of this new child of mine.

My mind is consumed by the disconcerting concept that she might not follow a predictable or controllable (by me)course – from potty-training to choice of her future marriage partner, I cannot reliably prioritize and manage her choices! I urgently realize that I must arm her with all of the knowledge I have accumulated in the four decades of my trial-and-error living. This is the only shot I have of avoiding chaos and anarchy.

As soon as she has mastered some rudimentary conversational skills, we must discuss, in no particular order: the power of tequila, the longevity of tattoos, credit card use, the futility of lying to authority figures, keeping the gas gauge above ¼ tank, and boys who drive vans. Not to overwhelm her with my vast knowledge in one sitting, another session will be in order which covers body image, the use of the word “Love” (use it often when you mean it and be skeptical when it is spoken by boys who drive vans), and the evils of tanning. But wait, there’s more..! I envision many long-winded sessions during which I explain my experiences with the world at large.

Oh, boy. I’ve got some shplainin’ to do. An insurmountable amount. I can probably detail to her all of my failures, successes, and observations and it won’t amount to a hill of beans . I get that. She has to make her own way and I will have to lead by example; show her not just by my words but also actions the kind of person I hope she’ll become. For example, with my experience to guide her, when she encounters the opportunity to replace her band camp roommate’s shampoo with Nair, she might pass (that one really backfired.) Conversely, over the course of my life I have faced my fears and acted in ways that, with a little embellishment, I can be proud of and may actually be a source of inspiration for her.

I guess the next list I need to make will be titled, “Jen’s Not-To-Do List” and will start with the entry: Underestimate the power of a parent’s example.

Nothing New Under the Sun

No sane person is alone in worrying that they are indeed becoming their parents.  Prior to having a kid, this particular piece of truth was whispered only in the dark recesses of my mind.  But now, it is out in the open screaming louder than a cat walking across a lit 4-burner stove. It hit me at 3 a.m. this morning as I attempted to calm Izzy with the most famous line from the universal parent playbook: "This hurts me more than it hurts you."  This was in reference to the blue bulb syringe I was using to vigorously suck snot from her poor little rudolph nose.  As I uttered this pronouncement, it conjured images from my own childhood:  toddler-me in the doctor's office getting a shot from the world's biggest needle; tearful-and-contrite-me receiving a multitude of well-deserved spankings for my latest transgression; and tomboy-me having a Louisville Slugger splinter extracted painfully from my throbbing finger.  And, in tandem with these images, my parents droning this same unbelievable phrase:  "This hurts me more than it hurts you." 

But now I am a believer.  The sound of her pitiful cry was viscerally painful to me, the bearer of the syringe. It really did hurt me worse than her!  But then I had an epiphany...if I'm going to embrace the "hurts me more" mantra, then what about all of the other parental treasures?  Am I expected to say, "One of these days, you'll thank me" with a straight face?  Or how about, "If all of your friends jump off a bridge, will you?"  And in the acerbic category: "Do you want me to give you a reason to cry?"; or "If I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times!" and, or course, "Do you think money grows on trees?"

I don't really have a conclusion about my recent verbal vomit; I'm just waiting to see which archaic phrases from my childhood surface and trip off my tongue as Izzy grows.  Am I doomed to admonish my child with, "Close that door...were you raised in a barn?!"

Thanks for listening to my rantings.  And you'd better get back from that computer or you'll ruin your eyes. 

Running Amok

Since well-meaning friends who remember Jen, B.C. (Before Child), and the associated running obsession, have inquired tentatively if I've been "getting out", I thought I would dedicate today's thoughts once again to the subject of running.  They ask kindly in the tones reserved for the recently rehabbed alcoholic; as if bringing up the subject conversationally is somehow crass or insensitive and may propel me into the fetal position clutching my running shoes to my chest.  It is true that I miss the old running me with an odd brand of intensity.  Gone are the carefree days of flouncing out the door at the drop of a hat to run whatever distance my legs are willing to carry me.  It currently takes me longer to plan the outing than it does to actually cover the ridiculously short distance over which my postpartum body is willing to withstand the forces of gravity before collapsing into a quivering heap.


It goes like this.  First I feed Izzy and place her soundlessly into her crib.  As I tiptoe away, her eyes pop open into full interactive mode and the rocking, feeding, and off-key singing cycle begins all over again.  Repeat 3 times.   Then I pump, strap my, um, assets to my body, dress in triplicate layers (it is winter in Michigan, after all) and then...what was that?  It is the discreet sound of the pacifier popping from Izzy's little rosebud mouth and onto the sheet (amazing what my newly acquired Mama brand spy-ears can pick up).  This tragedy seems to happen in slow motion like a scene from a bad spy thriller.  If she is not stirred by the air currents created by the falling pacifier, I'm good to go and Daddy is on the clock.  If not, back to step 1.

Eventually, I am on the road.  I have progressed from huffing and puffing a run/walk distance of 1 mile to now running 1.5 to 2 miles at a decent clip (by my new, lowered standards) and with minimal air sucking.  I even covered a 3 mile run a few days ago. A far cry from my glory days of marathon training.  But I was feeling pretty pumped about hitting my stride yesterday until a pickup truck pulled up beside me and asked if that was my car kissing the telephone pole a mile or so back.  Geez, I don't look like a runner, I look like a criminal fleeing awkwardly from a car crash!   Well, I am nothing if not stubborn.  I will continue to cram myself into lycra tights and a sporty hoodie to grunt out my daily miles, Izzy willing.  And feel free to ask openly about my progress: My name is Jen, and I am a runner.

Paper or Plastic?

I'm not necessarily one of those hemp-obsessed crunchy earth moms, but I do love our planet and intend to live here for the forseeable future.  And with that plan in mind, I really don't enjoy the notion that Izzy's diapers will outlive her by several centuries.  So we have entered the strange fourth dimension known only as the "Cloth Diaper Zone" (cue eerie music). 

Like everything baby, purchasing and using cloth diapers is not as simple as one might think.  I really thought I would be slapping a piece of cloth at the appropriately spewing end of the baby and pinning it in place.  Not so.  There are more methods for applying a cloth diaper than Tiger Woods has mistresses.  Even the lingo is intimidating:  all-in-ones, Chinese certified organic prefolds, Snapis, angelwing folds, and microfiber terry inserts to name a few of my new vocabulary words.  With the time I have dedicated to reading diapering blogs, I could have earned an advanced degree online. 

CDM's (cloth-diapering moms - see how casually I can insert the lingo?) are truly passionate about the wardrobe that covers their babies' bottoms.  It is considered a badge of honor to swirl dirty diapers in the toilet or to scrape poo with a spatula before dropping it into the toxic waste zone of the old-fashioned diaper pail.  But I am not knocking it.  In fact, I may even be a convert to this time-honored ritual.  And with the latest technology in textiles and diaper closure apparatus, even dad has professed his willingness to abandon the plastic landfill fodder that is disposable diapers. 

So Izzy's bum is swathed in an organic, non-bleached Chinese prefold and she closely resembles a sumo wrestler.  But Mother Earth is a happy lady; and when Mama is happy, everybody's happy.  Now off to hug a bunny...

Here and Away

Yesterday was a red-letter day.  We left Isabel in the capable hands of my sister-in-law, Jane, and went galavanting off to church together.  There was a sense of freedom in trading in my ratty sweatpants for outside-the-house clothes and pulling out of the drive to mingle with other adults.  And I felt surprisingly little guilt in this action. 

As I sat through the church service (with cell phone on vibrate and placed strategically by my side), I would receive occasional and random bits of visual input from my overactive imagination.  Images of Izzy suffering a slip and fall would surface to my cerebral cortex only to be quashed by the adept actions of Jane.  The imagined choking via pacifier?   Countered by a speedy but calm Heimlich maneuver.  And the house fire that never happened....of course thwarted by the resourceful hand of Jane.  As my unfounded fears were met by a rapidly growing image of my sister-in-law's total invincibility,  I began to relax and enjoy my outing.

But once on the road toward home, my sleep-deprived and coffee-addled mind began to swirl.  I raced into the house with the expectation that my home environment would bear the scars of the many dramas that had played out in my absence.  But instead....utter tranquility.  Izzy was sleeping peacefully in Jane's arms in a dry diaper and a clean onesie. Her rosy cheeks looked a shade pinker and her state of contentment a little deeper.   Even the dog looked happier. 

I won't go as far as to say that I wanted Jane to suffer one of Izzy's infamous meltdowns, but this serenity in my absence was almost more than I could bear!  It would appear that almost anyone could step into my shoes and fulfill her needs.  "What is wrong with me?" I chided myself.  This should be a dream-come-true! We survived our first babysitting experience (albeit with a family member), I didn't succumb to the speed-dial trigger finger, and Izzy was no worse for the wear. 

Later in the day, I put it all into perspective.  I stared into her baby blue eyes which remind me of my dad's.  Her mouth is definitely my mom's, but when she smiles, it looks more like my hubby's.  And her long fingers and disproportionately big feet - those all belong to her dad!  As she grows, it will be me who tells her these things.  I will provide her with love only a mother can give and I will fill her in on the details of the fine ancestry she has inherited (ok - a little sarcasm there). 

It shook my foundation a little yesterday, but I'm solid today.  Secure in the fact that I'm Izzy's mom - no one else, no matter how capable - and I will be the center of her adult therapy sessions.

Autofeed - I Can Relate

On Training a Parent

She is so adorable....starting at her perfect little toes, upward to her pudgy sunny-side-up belly to her slightly crossed blue eyes and topped with her fuzzy little head, she draws you in.  And although her basic repertoire consists predictably of eating 10-12 meals a day before batting at a few overpriced toys, then drifting into a series of luxurious, worry-free power naps, she is endlessly fascinating.  Yes, my siamese cat is really something. 

Who did you think I was talking about?

The parallel between the life of my baby and the life of my cat is eerie.  Besides the apparent coordination in the scheduling of their days, they are both very comfortable in their perceived roles as the idle rich.  Their Tuesdays are no different than their Saturdays.  The state of the economy, the weather on the other side of the window pane, and the fate of late night talk show hosts have no place in their daily paradigm.

Despite the outward appearance that they could be twins separated at birth, one major difference is that there are no expectations placed upon Messy Kitty (who lives up to her name on a regular basis).  Izzy, on the other hand, is under a level of scrutiny usually reserved for an airline passenger with an "I *heart* al qaeda" tattoo.  Every little gurgle, squeak, and grunt is interpreted as having great meaning, perhaps riveling the infant babblings of Shakespeare.   And the camera records each thoughtful (Einstein-esque?) expression that crosses her face. I'm almost certain that her notably long fingers will eventually bridge two octaves on the piano (wasn't that also true of Van Cliburn?)  And though I know that this behavior is lunacy, I  just. can't. stop.

But back to this baby-cat connection.  I think there is a lesson in this observation.  A few years ago, I brought home a precocious 12-week-old kitten, housed and fed her, loved her, and made her feel welcome in our happy but somewhat dysfunctional family.  I simply allowed her catness to slowly unfold instead of being molded into my idea of the kind of cat I wanted her to be (you know, the no-shed, always hits the catbox, willing to eat off-brand food kind of cat we all dream of). 

I think that some of this loving simplicity may be as good for Izzy as it has been for Messy Kitty. While I don't intend to embrace a benign neglect sort of parenting style, I do think that I will put the camera down, talk a little more baby talk, and let myself be amazed by my daughter.  Good kiddy.   

Running with the Snails

   It has now been three months since the arrival of our daughter, Izzy.  If I were Heidi Klum, Jessica Alba, or Kate Hudson, I would be approximately 6 pounds lighter than my pre-pregnancy weight and ready once again for spandex and a micro-bikini.  But since I have banished my personal chef, trainer, and nanny back to fantasy land, I guess I am on my own to fight the Battle of the Bulge. 
   The fitting room should bear the words, "Abandon hope, all ye who enter here" but I am, perhaps foolishly, not discouraged!  The reason for this unfounded hope?  I went running today.  I wasn't quite propelling myself quickly enough to stir the perception of the wind in my hair, but I was out there!  My wonderful baby daddy is making a great effort to get me back on the road to fitness (I think he caught a glimpse of the semi-nude post-pregnancy body that I'm sporting) and took the Izzy duty for some daytime action.  Granted, I only actually ran 1 mile - and a slow one at that.  But considering that the longest distance I've traveled recently under my own power has been between the couch and fridge, this is progress! 

   I have discovered the secret weapon for breastfeeding moms who want to run without incurring black eyes:  the Enell bra.  With (I kid you not) 18 eyehooks and the profile of a bullet-proof vest, it is designed to keep everything compressed and in it's place during aerobic endeavors.   Donning this monstrosity feels akin to Scarlet O'Hara tightening the corset to achieve her 19-inch waist with a little help from some friends.  Just like the words  episiotomy, cerclage, and Braxton-Hicks which were unknown snippets from another language prior to pregnancy, Enell has made its way into my vocabulary to stay.  And, no, I have not been paid by the makers of this fine product to hawk it to unsuspecting women with extra large mammaries.  I am just one happy mama eagerly awaiting my next opportunity to put my sneakers back on the pavement and perhaps have a shot at wiggling into a one piece at the very least this summer.

This Sums It Up

Lessons for the Uninitiated

I admit that I was unschooled and naive when I entered Babies R Us.  Not so upon exiting.  I was 6 months pregnant and, with a list of practical essentials, about to register for my upcoming baby shower.  I was your typical knocked-up idealist with dream-fuzzed images of peacefully tending to my cooing baby dressed in all white (and myself of course dressed in a fetching size 4 number just weeks after delivering my wee one).

What a Baby is Not

I remember well the curious feeling of my face contorting into an unbidden and  unfamiliar expression when I saw the word "Pregnant" on the home test.  It could best be described as somewhere between the "Oh No, Mr. Bill!" expression and the perpetual smirk worn by the Geiko gecko.