Little Disasters (and Triumphs, Too!)

Today was filled with little disasters. It wasn't a bad day, exactly. It was the day Charlotte stood up in her playpen for the first time and got really, really excited. It was the day she and I went to Starbucks, just the two of us, shared a chair and giggled while we snacked. So, no, I would definitely not call it a bad day. Which is not to say I don't have those. Yes, I love my daughter. Yes, I am beyond grateful to have her in my life. But, no, that does not mean I am not allowed to have truly awful days where absolutely everything appears to be wrong.

Today was just one of those days where a million things went wrong, but enough went right to enable me to have a sense of humor about it all. It started early this morning. I've had trouble with insomnia since I was eleven, so it is not uncommon for me to find myself staring at the ceiling at 5 A.M. until I finally get up to eat a banana or piece of toast, go on the internet, and eventually panic about how long I've been up and how little sleep I will actually get before it's time to get up for the day. And so it happened that I totally lost my cool when Charlotte decided to get up and start her day just moments after I had fallen asleep after three hours or so of being, well, awake. I muttered some epithet under my breath, or maybe not so under my breath, as it turns out, because Chris asked me what was wrong. After enduring my diatribe, Chris, who had possibly clocked in about three hours of slumber at this point and was finding it hard to dredge up any sympathy for his whiny wife, said "Oh", and rolled away from me. Ah, how he would soon come to regret that "Oh"! We argued later in the day about sleep, compassion, and the scientific matter of how much energy it takes to utter "Oh", as opposed to "I'm sorry, honey". It was a very scholarly argument, complete with charts and graphs, but ultimately we agreed we were both tired and stressed by the ridiculous hours he's been working, and we put the matter to rest.

Our next little disaster came in the form of two babies positively screaming for my attention while I sort of stood around looking dumbfounded. See, I watched my friend's nearly fourteen-month-old baby, Leilani, this morning. I do it all the time, and she's always really great for me, heeding my "Don't touch!" commands and maintaining a pleasant countenance. Well, today, she was a little out of sorts. She was extremely tired, but responded to each of my attempts to put her down for a nap with a tearful "No!" and outstretched arms that you'd have to be blind or positively heartless to resist. The agony of it all, being forced to nap in addition to my daughter tugging on her clothes, finally took its toll and she lost it. She cried and cried. I picked her up and rocked her, trying to console her and possibly lull her to sleep. At this point Charlotte is upset that I am holding another baby instead of her and begins to cry and tug on my pants. So, here I am. Alone, trying to let Chris get the sleep he so desperately needs, while two babies scream in stereo. I tried to appease Charlotte with a snack and tend to Leilani, but Chris had woken up, and mercifully helped me with Charlotte while I got L down for an HOUR AND A HALF nap. And then Charlotte went down for an HOUR nap. Triumph!

The high of this triumph didn't last long, however. Earlier this evening, Charlotte and I were rolling around on the floor, laughing and exchanging kisses on our cheeks. Well, and my nose. All of a sudden, I notice something on my sleeve. It sort of smells like prunes, so I figure maybe she's spit up a little of her lunch. Then I notice an even bigger spot on my other sleeve. I take note of the fact that it's a little too thick to be spit-up. Yeah, it's poop. It's poop that filled her diaper, came cascading over the top, spilling onto the floor, her clothes, MY clothes, and all over her back. It was so ridiculous (and disgusting) that I had to laugh. This made my deliriously tired daughter laugh. And so we both laughed a little too hard about the fact that I was wiping an obscene amount of crap, which seemed to be multiplying in volume, off her every limb and off every surface in a ten-mile radius.

And finally there was bath time. I was very excited because it was Charlotte's first bath in the big tub. After a few daredevil attempts at standing up in the infant tub which rests in our kitchen sink and after the subsequent nightmarish visions of her plummeting to the floor, I procured a non-slip Tinkerbell mat, a rubber ducky spout cover, and some stacking/pouring cups for the bathtub. She was excited, and this would have gone well had it not been for the fact that our bathroom is not only really small and old, but also completely ill-suited for bathing children. The tub and the vanity are so close together, I'd have to be cartoonishly rolled flat by a steamroller to fit there. So, as I vowed to rip out the shower doors and replace them with a curtain, I pulled off my pants and got in the tub with her to finish her bath. The awkward angle was not ideal for thwarting her standing and grabbing maneuvers, but we made do. The plus side to this scenario was looking at the aftermath of this disastrous bath time adventure. Seeing the all the toys and baby bath paraphernalia taking over my tub made me sublimely happy.

So, there it is. A day in my life. The highs and lows. Baby giggles, baby kisses, and rolling around in baby poop. And now I need to get my achey back in bed so I can get up and do it all over again.

Excuses, Excuses

It's Friday night, and I just put the baby to bed. It's early, and I'll be up for at least a couple hours. What could be a better time to write? Well, unfortunately, it isn't as ideal as you would think, and I'm not really writing a new post so much as I am offering a string of excuses as to why I can't write a new post.

First of all, even though at the moment, Charlotte is currently slumbering peacefully in her crib, she will most certainly be up soon. See, she has a cold, and her runny, stuffy nose wakes her up every so often. Besides, she usually wakes up a few times before I go to bed, not fully relaxed until I relent and pull her into bed with me. It's a problem, and it may become a bigger problem when she's a toddler and won't get out of our bed, but right now we're just rolling with it. I was so worried about getting her on a schedule and needing to know whether or not she was going to continue nursing, etc. that I realized I was missing out on making the most of this first year, the only year she gets to be a baby. So, I am cherishing our snuggle time in bed and taking my cues from her as far as nursing, which she suddenly wants to do all the time. And maybe that will change, and if it does, oh well. But, I'm not going to worry about it.

The other reason I don't have time to write a proper post is that I have homework. I'm in the last few weeks of my grad class, and I have a presentation to prepare, and a quiz to study for. I should be doing that right now.

Between all the madness of the last month involving my grandpa, Chris's insane work schedule, and visiting my grandma in Santa Monica while she recovered from surgery, finding time to write has been very difficult. Chris bought me a laptop for my birthday so I could get out of the house to write, and not once since I got it have we been able to make that happen. And now the holidays are approaching, and I need to get the house ready for Thanksgiving.

I suppose in the time it took me to ramble on about why I'm too busy too write, I could have at least attempted to broach one of the topics I've been meaning to write about in a meaningful way. So, this is just to say that I am here, and I am working on some new stuff, but it will be slow-going for a few more weeks until the quarter ends at school and Chris's workload slows down.

Thanks to those of you who give a damn whether or not I write anything. It's a great feeling knowing you're out there!

Why I Suck at Being a Mother and a Human Being

I’m just checking in to let everyone know how awful I am at this whole motherhood thing. I try, I really do. I try to be patient. I try to be careful. But, something in my brain is not clicking, and the events of these last twenty four hours read like the Britney Spears’ Guide to Parenting.

I actually have to go back a bit further to get us started. See, a couple months ago, I put Charlotte down for a nap on our bed. It’s a bad habit Chris and I have gotten into. She sleeps with us so many hours each night that she is just more comfortable there than in her crib. So, in moments of desperation, I would let her nap there just to make sure she got some sleep. On this particular day, she wasn’t quite asleep and she was fussing. I was trying to ignore her, hoping she’d fall back asleep. I was in the kitchen doing some dishes when the whiny crying turned to blood-curdling screaming in an instant. I ran into the bedroom to discover what I had feared, no knew, had happened as soon as I heard her screams. She had, of course, fallen off the bed. We have a California King bed, and she rolled all the way from the middle, to the edge, rolled over the pillow barrier, and onto the floor. She was fine, luckily. Just scared. But, needless to say, I still felt like the worst mother ever.

Everyone reassured me that not only was I not the worst mother ever, but that I was not alone. I was regaled with countless tales of babes toppling off couches and mattresses, and none were worse for the wear. When I told the story to my mother-in-law, after I vowed to never let this happen again, she nonchalantly assured me that it would not be the last time Charlotte would end up cascading off a bed: “You think you’ve learned, but you really haven’t”.

And right she was. Last night, I let the baby sleep on the couch when she started screaming each time I started carrying her half-comatose body down the hallway. It was like she knew I was going to take her back there and LEAVE her. So, she slept on the sofa where she could hear the hum of the television and the soft clicking of the keys on my laptop. I sat on the floor where I could see her. I reasoned that if she started to roll, I could catch her. But, instead I watched her fall to the floor while I scrambled to reach her. Again, she was fine, but the “what-ifs” involving coffee tables and broken limbs flooded my head.

So, I’m already a lousy mother, but WAIT! It gets worse. It really does. Don’t believe me? Try this on for size: I left Charlotte alone in the house. All alone. It was about 6:30 this morning. The hurricane-like winds were blowing the trash can against the house, causing a banging that was causing Charlotte to stir in her sleep. I know this, because she was in bed with me. So, I went outside to move it, and locked myself out of the house. So, to recap: Charlotte is in my bed, Chris is at a hotel for work, and I am OUTSIDE. As I’m taking stock of the situation I realize several things. First of all, I acknowledge that I am a disgrace of a mother. If there were mandatory IQ tests to determine whether or not one should be able to have children, well, let’s just say I’d be twenty pounds lighter and sleeping off a hangover, instead of standing outside my house, contemplating breaking a window. The next thing I realize is that Charlotte is on the bed, surely about to roll to her imminent doom. And finally, I remember that my brother-in-law lives a block away and has a key to my house.

Cut to me doing a combination of running and limping, clutching my chest as I make my way across the short distance. At this point I’m realizing I shouldn’t have been skipping the gym these past few weeks. Okay, years. Luckily, he was awake, as were my two youngest nieces, who, pajama clad and with massive bedheads, regarded me with confusion as I tearfully (and breathlessly) explained my situation. He calmly reassured me that she would be fine and drove me home. Before he had even pulled his key out of the door, I was down the hall and, with relief, observed her peacefully sleeping on my bed.

After telling Chris about the debacle over the phone, he heard Charlotte crying in the background. He said, “What’s wrong with her? Is she being taken away by Social Services?”

Jackass.

But seriously, I don’t know what sudden defect in my brain has caused me to let her fall off raised surfaces, or leave her alone in the house, or bump her head on the concrete slab in the parking lot of the hotel today when we came to join Chris. All I know is I will probably do something just as dumb or worse, fairly soon.

Crazy on You

Once again, it's been too long since I updated. In the past ten days or so, I learned my grandfather was sick, drove the four-hour trip to see him three times in one week, cried, reminisced, got drunk on margaritas and belted karaoke with my beautiful, baby sister, said goodbye to my grandpa for the last time, and drove my sister to the airport shuttle before heading over to see my grandma in the nursing home, then driving an hour home. On top of all that, Chris has been working nonstop all week, so Charlotte and I have been on our own most of the week, missing him. Basically, what I'm saying is that I have good excuses as to why I haven't written. And to say that isn't exactly true. When I've been able to squeeze in a few moments to myself, I've sat down to write. And nothing comes out the way I want it to, so I delete it. It's silly. But, I feel guilty for not blogging because I made a commitment to myself to do it more regularly, and I put so much pressure on myself that I am frustrated by the drivel that comes out when I'm too busy/distracted/upset to properly clear my head of these thoughts. It's just a blog, Megan.

One of my more annoying qualities is my huge guilt complex. If I'm relaxed, happy, or just having a good time, I can't shake the feeling that I am doing something wrong. Obviously, not being able to enjoy myself ever is a huge bummer for me, but it can also range from obnoxious to downright infuriating to the people in my life. Just ask my husband how he likes to constantly reassure me that I am not a bad mother or wife just because I left them to go to the movies with a friend. Or ask him how super fun it is when I overextend myself because I "felt bad" for too many people on the same day. But, I wager what he likes best is when I ask him if he's mad at me every time I'm drunk.

What was the point of all this? Oh, right. Guilt. So, I tend to feel guilty about being a stay-at-home mom whose husband is also home most of the day. I get help with the baby. I don't have to go grocery shopping alone. He makes me breakfast. And we get to go on little coffee and lunch dates at least once a week. So, I feel guilty for not having a full-time job like he does or for letting him help out as much as he does. I can't even enjoy a perfectly good situation, because our life doesn't fit into my perception of what is "normal".

Because the truth is, I may have my lazy days, but generally speaking, I do a lot around here. And I am on my own every evening, Charlotte's fussiest, and for one hellish month, most colicky, time. So no matter how idyllic my day has been, my evening is sure to be full of laundry, dinner, bath time, cleaning, etc. all squeezed in between Charlotte's whining, fussing, and separation anxiety nonsense. And the drawback to our arrangement is that while everyone else is returning to their family or welcoming their spouse home, I am just starting my day. And I get really lonely.

So, I shouldn't feel guilty. But I do.

And the pressure. Oh, the pressure I put on myself to prove my own worth. Thursday is a perfect example. Chris was working the day shift and thought he'd be home in the evening to spend time with us. I was really excited because he's been so busy at work, we've hardly been able to talk on the phone, and also because he misses Charlotte so much. I wanted to make it special. So, after spending three hours in the car to visit my grandma (and sneak some Chardonnay up to the roof of her nursing home), I returned home, went to the grocery store to buy ingredients for dinner, cleaned the house, and started prepping the food. This was all very difficult thanks to Charlotte's insistence that I be in the same room as her, and preferably holding her at all times. I had to get creative in order to get anything done, by putting her in front of the mirror in the office so she could laugh at herself and talk to her reflection while I dusted, or by mashing some banana for her to play with in her high chair while I chopped onions and garlic in the kitchen. By the end of the day, I was exhausted. The kind of tired where your whole body aches, and I've pretty much felt that way since then. So, you can imagine how disappointed I was when Chris informed me he probably wouldn't be home for dinner after all. I KNOW, RIGHT?

I felt disappointment like I haven't known since I was a kid and my mom wouldn't stop and get me a soda at the gas station. You know that completely unfounded disappointment that is based more on hormones and fatigue than actual logic and reason? I cried the day I was denied that soda, and thirteen years later I cried because Chris was going to be late. Again.

I cried a lot this past week. Monday night I held Charlotte in my arms after five unsuccessful attempts at putting her to bed, and I cried out of frustration, disappointment, and mostly from a deep sense of melancholy brought on by remembering my grandparents and knowing the years of ice cream sundaes and Yahtzee were behind us forever.

Sitting here now, I'm amazed at how hard I've been on myself this week. Looking in the mirror, I see someone who is feeling the loss of her grandfather, someone who is exhausted and sore, someone whose eyes are dry and raw. Someone who yelled at herself all week like an angry football coach to keep going, push harder, do more. I need to be kinder to this person. And, I am making progress. Last night my friend, Sarah, took me to a Heart concert at the Greek. Before the show we stuffed ourselves full of pasta, wine, and tiramisu. We stood up and danced and sang along...Ooooh, Barracuda! And not once did I let myself feel guilty for being out, having a good time while Chris stayed at home with the baby. He was happy to be spending some overdue quality time with her, and I was taking some much-needed time to myself.

Thanks, Sarah, for rescuing me last night. It means the world to me.

Ready or Not

In theory, the benefit to actively seeking out a pregnancy for so long as opposed to being surprised by one, is that you can try to prepare for all the ways in which your life is going to change. It’s not like you’re snorting coke in the bathroom of a club one day and scouring Babycenter.com for info on the different colors and textures of baby poop the next. Well, hopefully not, anyway.

In the three years it took for us to get pregnant with Charlotte we did a lot of preparing. Shortly after we started “trying”, convinced as we were that we would immediately conceive, we began to prepare ourselves for life with a baby. We’d eye the couples loading cumbersome infant seats and diaper bags into their cars and giddily exchange “That could be us soon!” glances with one another. Over the next few years we would prepare ourselves for many other lifestyles. We tried to gear up for more years of infertility, wondering if we had what it took to make the long haul. We had a successful IVF and began again to get ready for life as parents. Then we had a miscarriage, ran out of fertility funds, and began to prepare for a life without children.

And so it was that just like most people on this planet, we were completely smacked-upside-the-head-shocked by the extra blue line on my pregnancy test. I was nursing a slight hangover from too many martinis at Cinespia the night before. I was annoyed that morning because I wanted nothing more than to sleep off the Bombay buzz, but I was lured out of bed every twenty minutes or so by my stupid bladder. It wasn’t until later that afternoon, while discussing a possible weekend in Laughlin with a friend that my morning pee marathon raised any kind of red flag. I remembered that early in pregnancy, hormones can be a catalyst for frequent urination. Then again, anyone who knows me, knows I have a bladder the size of a walnut, so I reasoned it was probably nothing out of the ordinary. But I had that feeling. You know the one. The one that nags you all day in a whiny, high-pitched voice until you finally throw up your hands and say, “Fine!”

So, I decided to take a test. We were having friends over that evening, and we had been at Chris’s work all day. I dropped Chris off so he could hastily tidy the house, and I ran to the store for beer and a pregnancy test. You can imagine the look on the cashier’s face.

What followed was a moment I never could have prepared for. I felt doubt. Doubt, which caused me to reread the instructions to my pregnancy test, as if three years of practice wasn’t enough. I felt, of course, extreme happiness, giddiness even. I felt fear. Fear that it wasn’t real, or that it wouldn’t last. And, perhaps most surprisingly, I felt a twinge of disappointment that I wouldn’t be able to drink the beer I had procured earlier in the evening.

The pregnancy was more or less what I expected: crippling exhaustion, mild nausea, too many pounds, and not enough alcohol. Oh, and a ripe batch of hormones that caused me to get a soccer mom haircut after years of growing my hair long. It was a mostly uneventful pregnancy; tedious, but smooth. Labor and delivery, too, were about what I expected. Water broke, went to hospital, had epidural, had baby. The whole thing took eight hours. But the second Charlotte entered this world, and every moment since, I began an amazing and difficult journey, and the experiences and feelings I’ve encountered along the way have all come as a complete surprise.

Intellectually, I knew there would be little sleep. But I couldn’t have fathomed the sheer delirium of those first few weeks or the general sluggishness I would still feel six months later after nights of sharing my bed with a restless bed hog of a baby. I knew there would be boredom, but I didn’t know I would spend hours and hours on my couch, breastfeeding and watching bad television. I knew I would feel emotional, but I didn’t anticipate the staggering highs and soul-crushing lows I would come to know or the frustration and anger I would feel at myself, my husband, even my poor, defenseless daughter.

You know what’s coming next. Because it’s what all mothers say after complaining about their children. And I say this because it’s true and because I would mean it even if I wasn’t obligated to say it…I wouldn’t trade it for anything. Sure, I’d make her sleep more, cry less. If it were up to me, she would be more cuddly instead of flying out of my arms to get to her dad, the dog, the floor full of toys. I would like more energy, more time, a cleaner house. And I guess while I’m at it, I’d take a gym fortified body and more money, as well.

This whole experience caught me totally off guard. And there are countless surprises in store for me, for us. There are fresh frustrations ahead, but there are also countless joyful moments. Moments that make me feel like I’m living in a cheesy movie, like the time I found myself singing and dancing around the house with my husband and daughter, or the time I realized I had taught Charlotte to clap. I’m ready for it all. Well, as ready as I can be, anyway.

To Sleep, Perchance to Dream

So.

Once again it has been much longer than I ever intended since I last wrote. If only this were the only element of my life being neglected! But, as I type, I can feel the dust from the computer desk accumulating on the palms of my hands and my kitchen floor is so filthy, I won’t walk on it in my bare feet. And I will walk ANYWHERE in my bare feet.

The reason for all this neglect and abandon is simple: no sleep. Oh, I know. You’ve heard it all before. We people with kids think we have the market cornered when it comes to sleep deprivation. The truth is, many of you out there (and by you, I mean all 7 of my readers) might not be getting any sleep either. And it might have absolutely nothing to do with a restless, clingy baby. Maybe you are worried about an assignment or presentation, or maybe you share a street with one of those annoying yappy dogs that won’t shut up all night. And if that’s the case, I’m not going to try to make you feel bad for me. At least I have something cute to look at when I’m up at 3 A.M.

Then again, not getting enough sleep sucks, no matter how chubby and lavender-scented the reason. My bleary eyes ache, I'm forgetful, and have gained about five pounds due to the sugar fixes I need to get me through my day. The funny thing is, we thought we had it made for a couple months there. When Charlotte was about two-months-old, she started sleeping through the night. I’m talking down at nine, up at seven. It was glorious. And we knew how good we had it. We appreciated it and silently congratulated ourselves when we heard tales of our friends’ sleepless babes. Ah, those were the days!

This lasted for a couple months. She even slept all night in her playpen while we were on vacation in San Francisco. It was when we returned from our trip that the trouble began. We figured since she was outgrowing the bassinet, and she’d already adapted so well to sleeping in a new place, that this would be the perfect time to move her to the crib. So, we nervously and tearfully (okay, the latter was just me) put her in her room, switched on the monitor, closed the door, and hoped for the best.

Predictably, she woke a few times. It was new. She also always seemed to have this psychic ability to sense when I was in the room with her, and she always slept better when I was, so this came as no surprise. But, since then? Since then, not a night has gone by that she hasn’t ended up in our bed. I realize that we make the choice to submit to her whims, it’s just that rocking her back to sleep every twenty minutes was starting to make us just a teensy bit INSANE. Though, also maddening is the fact that we have to deal with her pounding her fists on the bed when she gets restless, spitting her binky out and demanding it be put back, and rotating until her feet are right around one of our heads. Oh, and she likes to scratch her nails against the mattress and sometimes babble her baby nonsense at a perfectly obscene hour of the morning. And who can forget the super fun game wherein she turns to her side to slap Chris in the face a couple times, before flipping back over to give me a few good whacks? And so it is that one or both of us can usually be found pinning her arms to the bed with one arm and holding the binky with the other. But at least we don’t have to get out of bed!

And every time I mention this problem to anyone, the answer is always the same: “You’re going to have to let her cry it out”. And then I’m bombarded with stories of sleepless, scream-filled nights, sometimes one, sometimes two or three, sometimes more than a week. But then? After the screaming? Invariably, after all the screaming the kid was sleeping through the night. I recently watched a Momversation video on this very matter. I never realized it was such a heated topic. I just figured you either had the fortitude to listen to your kid cry for an unspecified amount of time, or you didn’t. But apparently, there are people out there who think you are torturing your baby by not rushing to scoop her up at the first sign of a whimper. And there are also people out there who feel that you are spoiling your child by running to their aid.

I honestly don’t have strong feelings on the matter. I agree with Heather Armstrong of Dooce.com (she’s in the video) who says that parents should just do what’s best for their family. Every time someone told me of their “cry it out” success story, I would mention it to Chris, and every time, he shot the suggestion down with a , “But, she’s just a baaaaby”. I was pretty sure I didn’t have the stomach for it, anyway, but I was getting desperate. But, when I really started to think about the realities of letting her cry, I realized it wasn’t something I was willing to do.

If Charlotte cried for ten minutes, then fell asleep or merely whined before knocking back out, I could see this working. But she cries so hard she has to catch her breath. She turns bright red. She makes the most blood-curdling and heart-wrenching sounds, and I just don’t think I can let her do that for any significant period of time. But mostly, Chris and I agree that we just aren’t ready to send her that message. The message being that we won’t be there to rescue her when she needs us. Even if it’s true that she doesn’t actually “need” us and is just being a brat. Eventually, she will have to learn that. And say what you will about us. Call us wimps or overindulgent parents. I just know that even though it’s annoying as hell, I need to be there when she cries. Even if it means not sleeping or having a social life for now.

I’m sure to many people this means we are creating a clingy, co-dependant monster, who will be in our bed till she’s in kindergarten. And they might be right.

Oh, God. They might be right…

Bad Baby!

For Charlotte’s first Halloween, my mom is going to turn her into a devil. Growing up, my mom always made costumes for my sister and me, and she graciously offered to do the same for Charlotte. Why a devil? Well, it’s a pretty typical costume for kids. In fact, my little sister was one for her second Halloween (She was, like, weeks old for her first Halloween). There is a rather famous picture in our family of Allison all bedeviled, with a mouth full of candy, looking at me like, “Dude! Why didn’t you tell me how awesome this is? We get to do this EVERY year?"

But honestly, we didn’t randomly pick a standard baby costume for our daughter. We picked a devil because it is so appropriate. Oh, relax. I don’t actually think my daughter is the anti-Christ or a spawn of Satan. Although…

All I’m saying is we picked the costume because our child is such a pain in the ass. If you’re offended by my choice of words, you have not met my daughter. To know Charlotte is to adore her, but it is also to wonder aloud why she’s SO BAD. In some ways she is very much like her mother. I, too, am a pain in the ass. Just ask my husband. I’m restless, impatient, don’t sleep well, and I’m spoiled. Charlotte, Charlotte, Charlotte, and, oh yes, Charlotte. We are willful creatures who usually end up getting our way with Chris. She does it with tears, and I do it with…well, let’s just say I keep him happy. I would pity my husband, but he actually seems rather satisfied with submitting to the batting eyelashes of his wife and daughter.

Like many first-time parents, Chris and I spent Charlotte’s first day on this planet marveling at what a good, quiet baby she was. She slept most of the day, and when she was awake, she just stared deep into our eyes. We thought we had it made. Of course, that lasted all of twelve hours. Soon she began screaming every time we changed her diaper, screaming whenever she wasn’t attached to my cracked and bleeding nipples, and screaming because, well, screaming is fun, right?

After a few days in the hospital, we decided to take her home despite all the screaming. Over the next couple of months we were treated to even more screaming: in the car, when anyone besides Chris or me held her, and of course every night at six until midnight during her colicky phase. Soon, she and I would come to blows over breastfeeding, but I’ve already covered that here. So, I will only say this: I have read about a breastfeeding mother and her child as being referred to as a “nursing couple”. Well, if Charlotte and I are a couple, we’re the Odd Couple. We’re Sid and Nancy. We’re star-crossed.

I think part of the reason Charlotte is so difficult is because, in some ways, she’s so independent. At six months she would rather drink from a cup than be cuddled and fed a bottle. She has decided that she will eat her vegetables and rice cereal, but only if she can hold the spoon. She is also eager to move and has been scooting across the floor since she was three-months old. If you pull her to a sitting position, she’ll do you one better and pull herself to a standing one. Now that she is a bit older and can do so many more things on her own, she is a much happier baby. In fact, most of the time now, she is more likely to be found smiling, laughing, or growling like a monster than screaming, which has been nothing short of my miraculous rescue from the brink of insanity.

In a way, I am proud of her independence. I beam when she grabs her sippy cup and clumsily tilts it to her face. I am happy to clean up the extra mess she makes while eating because I want to encourage the autonomy she shows by feeding herself, quite handily, I might add. But, like everything else, my feelings on this are complicated. When I look into the future, I see a bright, capable girl. One who takes initiative and conquers obstacles. I want this for my child, but I also want her to need me. I suppose this is the Achilles heel of all mothers. Our job is to create self-reliant and functional adults. So, we should delight in anything our children can do without our help. It means we’re doing something right. But, so much of our identity is wrapped up in being caregivers for our children. Who are we if we aren’t boo-boo fixers, arms to sleep in, a source of nourishment or comfort?

Obviously, I am getting ahead of myself. Charlotte is a baby, and needs me for almost everything. In fact, with her current refusal of the bottle, I can scarcely leave her for a couple of hours without her screaming bloody murder. There’s also her need to be close to us at all times. She would have me hold her in my arms the entire time she sleeps if she could. Instead she settles for sleeping in bed with us. It’s the only way she’ll sleep through the night, and even though ultimately I’d like her to sleep in her own bed, I am happy to be her teddy bear for the moment. And I adore watching her smile when she wakes up and sees she’s not alone. I’m just trying to prepare myself for the inevitable heartache of watching her learn to do more and more things without my help and eventually flat out refusing my assistance or even presence. But, I guess the best thing to do is to enjoy every minute of her neediness now, while still encouraging her independence. Which reminds me, it’s time to go hand her a spoon and watch her shove some squash into her mouth. Or her eye. She doesn’t care. As long as she’s doing it herself.