One of the little princesses has emerged as a sleep-until-noon princess, while the other is a pre-dawn-perky princess. I've gotten to see - albeit reluctantly - some very nice sunrises this fall.
And, of course, there are wonderful moments to compensate for the early reveille:
(the) Pitter pat patty patty pat pat pitty pat pat patty PAT! (of little feet)
"MAWMM!!!!" (high volume stage whisper)
"Mmf, eh?"
"You HAFF tah come wight NOW!"
Patty patty pat pat patty pat / flumpf flumph flumpf (that's me, not exactly pittypatting at 5:10 a.m.)
I am not fast enough. Never am. "Come and SEE!" she urges from the landing.
Down the stairs and patty-pat through the kitchen to the porch door we go. I blurrily note that the furnace has kicked off again.
"See! See da MOON!" she is literally hopping up and down with excitement, barefoot in the 65-degree house. Her little round toddler belly, now in its last months as she passes the 3-year mark, is pooching out her favorite pink sleepers with the donuts-and-sprinkles printed all over them.
Her hair looks like a dandelion in full blow, and her eyes are luminous as she splays both chubby starfish hands on the window and exhales, creating a little vapor-spot of delight.
I sit down next to her on the cold cold floor and she snuggles into my lap with great satisfaction. She is a sturdy warm pile of wiggles as her fluff-hair tickles my cheek. We watch the early-morning crescent moon, flanked by Venus and Jupiter, sailing high and clean in the pale cerulean sky.
"Iss sooo byooo-tiful," she whispers, eyes on her perfect moon.
"Iss so beautiful," I whisper, eyes on my perfect daughter.
Showing posts with label Dragon Girl. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Dragon Girl. Show all posts
Saturday, October 10, 2015
Saturday, December 21, 2013
Be Still, and Listen
The long winter nights this month have invited me to lie quietly in the morning, listening to the dog snore, watching the room gradually lighten . . . and grinding my molars in anticipation of Dragon Girl's first YOWL of the day.
She doesn't hold back, this second child of mine. Dragon Girl is not the super-sleeper that her sister was at this age. She has a lot to get done in this lifetime, and nobody is going to slow her down, including the Mama. Accordingly, she wakes with the dawn, and usually a bit pre-dawn for good measure. If I am lolling about in bed and not getting a head start in the Good Morning race, that first wail generates a huge flack pattern on the Mom Radar. It also jolts my adrenaline production in unpleasant ways.
So here I am, waking up cranky and/or way too early, scheming and dreaming about getting that child to sleep longer, when I ran into these Midday Mussar notes from our rabbi.
Of course, I can't make it to the Midday Mussar meditations, because . . . right . . . kids. But I think I might really need the Midday Mussar meditations, because . . . oh, right . . . kids. So -- blessings on our clergy's technophilia -- I scrape the notes when I get a chance. They are just notes, but that's good, because then my mind can go a-wandering between the notes while I wipe the highchair tray and find the Roku remote yet again.
Reb Jamie has written about grieving, but -- as his comments on duality observe -- the very same mediations are deeply applicable to all the BUSY! NOISY! NEW! LIFE! in this house. The Jewish appreciation of duality is just so spot-on:
Our sages teach that during sleep we go through a (1/60) fractal of death. Thus every morning present[s an] . . . opportunity to practice the rouse ourselves from “mourning to an ecstatic dance…that chavod might sing you out [of bed] and may not be silent [like death].” (Psalm 30) With the words of this daily psalm, a melody, a tear, a cupped hand, or the mental image of a small cave, we can begin each day with a reminder to journey through the land of humility [chinah] to engage all life with chavod, beginning with your own.
-- Rabbi Benjamin "Jamie" Arnold
The "cupped hand" reference contemplates a discussion earlier in the same entry here.
Very little silence finds its way into my world of late. Stillness is not popular, either. And some days I am patently lacking in either humility or engagement. Some days it seems that everything around here is noisy, furry, drooly, squirmy, yelly, demanding, wanting, needing, messy, hungry, and/or some combination thereof, and that I am the one-woman service industry for all of it. Some days, I need to work really hard on being present in this parenting endeavor, and not just mentally checking out while I dice up yet another peanut butter sandwich.
Thus, when the factory whistle blows at 5:45 a.m. in the dead dark, I am trying to view that first baby cry as a new life that is "singing me out of bed." It helps. Sometimes it works. At the very least, it makes me feel guilty about being cranky and try hard to cheerfully greet the baby and do better for the rest of the day (my perfect synergy of humanistic Judaism and guilt-ridden Protestantism).
Tonight, at my amazing adopted shul, Rabbi Jamie is leading a Winter Solstice service. Again, in his words:
The Service will feature simple melodies, rich silences, and subtle teaching to turn our hearts to the expansion of light that is coming, enabling us to align our inner cycles (of darkness and light) with the wondrous symmetry and balance of forces in nature -- sun, moon, earth, and soul.
A perfect way to enter the Winter break -- with Shabbat, and community.
I won't go, of course, because . . . oh, right . . . kids. But I will try to honor the solstice by sleeping, waking, and celebrating on this day and this night. And maybe with a little stillness here and there.
She doesn't hold back, this second child of mine. Dragon Girl is not the super-sleeper that her sister was at this age. She has a lot to get done in this lifetime, and nobody is going to slow her down, including the Mama. Accordingly, she wakes with the dawn, and usually a bit pre-dawn for good measure. If I am lolling about in bed and not getting a head start in the Good Morning race, that first wail generates a huge flack pattern on the Mom Radar. It also jolts my adrenaline production in unpleasant ways.
So here I am, waking up cranky and/or way too early, scheming and dreaming about getting that child to sleep longer, when I ran into these Midday Mussar notes from our rabbi.
Of course, I can't make it to the Midday Mussar meditations, because . . . right . . . kids. But I think I might really need the Midday Mussar meditations, because . . . oh, right . . . kids. So -- blessings on our clergy's technophilia -- I scrape the notes when I get a chance. They are just notes, but that's good, because then my mind can go a-wandering between the notes while I wipe the highchair tray and find the Roku remote yet again.
Reb Jamie has written about grieving, but -- as his comments on duality observe -- the very same mediations are deeply applicable to all the BUSY! NOISY! NEW! LIFE! in this house. The Jewish appreciation of duality is just so spot-on:
Our sages teach that during sleep we go through a (1/60) fractal of death. Thus every morning present[s an] . . . opportunity to practice the rouse ourselves from “mourning to an ecstatic dance…that chavod might sing you out [of bed] and may not be silent [like death].” (Psalm 30) With the words of this daily psalm, a melody, a tear, a cupped hand, or the mental image of a small cave, we can begin each day with a reminder to journey through the land of humility [chinah] to engage all life with chavod, beginning with your own.
-- Rabbi Benjamin "Jamie" Arnold
The "cupped hand" reference contemplates a discussion earlier in the same entry here.
Very little silence finds its way into my world of late. Stillness is not popular, either. And some days I am patently lacking in either humility or engagement. Some days it seems that everything around here is noisy, furry, drooly, squirmy, yelly, demanding, wanting, needing, messy, hungry, and/or some combination thereof, and that I am the one-woman service industry for all of it. Some days, I need to work really hard on being present in this parenting endeavor, and not just mentally checking out while I dice up yet another peanut butter sandwich.
Thus, when the factory whistle blows at 5:45 a.m. in the dead dark, I am trying to view that first baby cry as a new life that is "singing me out of bed." It helps. Sometimes it works. At the very least, it makes me feel guilty about being cranky and try hard to cheerfully greet the baby and do better for the rest of the day (my perfect synergy of humanistic Judaism and guilt-ridden Protestantism).
Tonight, at my amazing adopted shul, Rabbi Jamie is leading a Winter Solstice service. Again, in his words:
The Service will feature simple melodies, rich silences, and subtle teaching to turn our hearts to the expansion of light that is coming, enabling us to align our inner cycles (of darkness and light) with the wondrous symmetry and balance of forces in nature -- sun, moon, earth, and soul.
A perfect way to enter the Winter break -- with Shabbat, and community.
Shabbat Shalom
I won't go, of course, because . . . oh, right . . . kids. But I will try to honor the solstice by sleeping, waking, and celebrating on this day and this night. And maybe with a little stillness here and there.
Monday, August 5, 2013
Time for the Little One
I am almost giddy with freedom, having dispatched He'en to day camp, DH to an overnight business trip, and Dragon Girl to her crib for a morning rest. I hear a few warbles from upstairs, so we will see if that last . . . well, lasts.
With Sister away on family vacay and Dragon Girl not yet eligible for any summer camps, I've enjoyed spending more time in my house and with the kids. I feel that the littlest one has been getting the short end of the stick lately, though. So often, we are running from one activity to the next, or I am circling the house trying to chip away at whatever chunk of the local chaos has lodged into my path that particular moment. And because DG is so good at playing quietly with her toys, she is most often left to her own devices to do that if we are at home.
This morning, however, was a special morning. He'en was eager to go to camp. She got up early, ate, dressed, and strapped herself into the car seat. Woot! Teeth and hair both went un-brushed, because I was not about to harsh that mellow by prying her out for personal grooming. I hurriedly put the breakfast food away and tossed Dragon Girl into the car, still in her pajamas. Per her usual, DG was fine with that, chirping happily at He'en and drinking her morning milk on the drive.
With that hasty departure behind us, Dragon Girl and I found ourselves at loose ends after dropping He'en at her camp. It is a perfectly gorgeous Colorado summer day complete with light cool breezes and sparkling sunlight. I realized that I had a change of baby clothes in the car, so we went straight to the park. After an in-car change and some sunscreen, I bundled her little warm squirmy self into the baby swings and we had a very giggly interlude of swinging. Such fun to tickle her feet when she swung toward me! Unlike He'en, Dragon Girl has loved the swings from the first moment she saw one.
When swinging paled, I toted her around the park and we landed under the play structure, where the wood chips were still pretty dry after last night's rain. I found a little purple bucket and a fat pink plastic hoe that another child had left lying around. She merrily landed and put chips into the bucket, then out of the bucket, then more into a bucket, then found some very large chips and burbled at me while waving them in the air: "See what I have?" She tried putting the end of one in her mouth, then hurriedly whipped it out with a little grin and an "uh-UH!" when she saw me watching.
"Yes," I grinned back, "I am watching YOU!" Giggle. Crawl. Giggle.
Wood chips were good for nearly a half-hour, after which we had another swing session (this time sitting in the big swings on my lap). More giggling. Then a big yawn broke up the giggles, so we headed to the car. She cheerfully accepted the carseat and a little scrap of milk left over from the morning commute. All the way home, I heard quiet sucking noises and the occasional shuffle of a bare foot on the carseat fabric.
She was dozing by the time we arrived home. I lifted her out of the seat and she snuggled onto my neck with a good strong clutch of soft baby arms. Then to the crib, where I deposited her with kisses and cuddles. She lofted her rump into the air and started to close her eyes, then opened them again and looked at me from the mattress. A big smile lit her whole face, and she floundered up to a sitting position, cooed at me, then snuggled down into her mattress again.
My littlest little bit! I am working out our fall schedules and I will have to schedule times like this with her. They are precious; she is precious. I don't want to miss a moment.
With Sister away on family vacay and Dragon Girl not yet eligible for any summer camps, I've enjoyed spending more time in my house and with the kids. I feel that the littlest one has been getting the short end of the stick lately, though. So often, we are running from one activity to the next, or I am circling the house trying to chip away at whatever chunk of the local chaos has lodged into my path that particular moment. And because DG is so good at playing quietly with her toys, she is most often left to her own devices to do that if we are at home.
This morning, however, was a special morning. He'en was eager to go to camp. She got up early, ate, dressed, and strapped herself into the car seat. Woot! Teeth and hair both went un-brushed, because I was not about to harsh that mellow by prying her out for personal grooming. I hurriedly put the breakfast food away and tossed Dragon Girl into the car, still in her pajamas. Per her usual, DG was fine with that, chirping happily at He'en and drinking her morning milk on the drive.
With that hasty departure behind us, Dragon Girl and I found ourselves at loose ends after dropping He'en at her camp. It is a perfectly gorgeous Colorado summer day complete with light cool breezes and sparkling sunlight. I realized that I had a change of baby clothes in the car, so we went straight to the park. After an in-car change and some sunscreen, I bundled her little warm squirmy self into the baby swings and we had a very giggly interlude of swinging. Such fun to tickle her feet when she swung toward me! Unlike He'en, Dragon Girl has loved the swings from the first moment she saw one.
When swinging paled, I toted her around the park and we landed under the play structure, where the wood chips were still pretty dry after last night's rain. I found a little purple bucket and a fat pink plastic hoe that another child had left lying around. She merrily landed and put chips into the bucket, then out of the bucket, then more into a bucket, then found some very large chips and burbled at me while waving them in the air: "See what I have?" She tried putting the end of one in her mouth, then hurriedly whipped it out with a little grin and an "uh-UH!" when she saw me watching.
"Yes," I grinned back, "I am watching YOU!" Giggle. Crawl. Giggle.
Wood chips were good for nearly a half-hour, after which we had another swing session (this time sitting in the big swings on my lap). More giggling. Then a big yawn broke up the giggles, so we headed to the car. She cheerfully accepted the carseat and a little scrap of milk left over from the morning commute. All the way home, I heard quiet sucking noises and the occasional shuffle of a bare foot on the carseat fabric.
She was dozing by the time we arrived home. I lifted her out of the seat and she snuggled onto my neck with a good strong clutch of soft baby arms. Then to the crib, where I deposited her with kisses and cuddles. She lofted her rump into the air and started to close her eyes, then opened them again and looked at me from the mattress. A big smile lit her whole face, and she floundered up to a sitting position, cooed at me, then snuggled down into her mattress again.
My littlest little bit! I am working out our fall schedules and I will have to schedule times like this with her. They are precious; she is precious. I don't want to miss a moment.
Sunday, February 3, 2013
The Four-Minute Shirt
This probably will be a four-minute entry about the four-minute shirt. You know those speed writing exercises they give you in college? Yeah, come to my house for the "two kids under five" exercise. As my NANO-winning sister will attest -- for three years running, people! -- this place ups our game by factors of magnitude.
Anyway, the four-minute shirt. When your little bundle of joy arrives, you cannot conceive of the laundry it will generate. Pound-for-pound, they generate laundry at a minimum 3:1 ratio. For example: baby pees through a onesie, which soaks the bedding and later the changing pad. Here's what you have to swap:
1. The onesie, duh.
1.a. Any pants that accompanied the onesie.
2. Crib pad.
3. Crib sheet.
4. Changing pad.
5. Blanket on top of changing pad,
and, if you are like me and cannot securely hold a baby without getting all scrunged up yourself,
6. Your own shirt.
This last necessitates putting down the baby so you can change with two hands, and there is a risk of starting the whole thing over again.
The four-minute shirt happened thusly: I was going about my day wearing a nice comfy black sweater that puddled nicely over my Mama-belly. I bathed Dragon Girl and the sleeves got sopping. It was too wet to wear, so I changed it out for a black T-shirt.
I didn't like the black T-shirt because it was tight, but I figured I would not wear it long. I was right. As soon as I went down to the kitchen, I moved a dish in the sink and splashed half a baking bowl full of chocolatey water onto my Mama-belly. Then I shook up a warm bottle for Dragon Girl and sprinkled formula all over my sleeve. While still sighing over that, I picked up a hollering Dragon Girl and fed her. Seconds thereafter, I hoisted her onto my shoulder where I heard a liquidy little "glurp" followed by a cascade of the same formula, now at baby-belly-temperature, onto my left shoulder.
Four minutes. Seriously. And people wonder what a Mama does all day.
Anyway, the four-minute shirt. When your little bundle of joy arrives, you cannot conceive of the laundry it will generate. Pound-for-pound, they generate laundry at a minimum 3:1 ratio. For example: baby pees through a onesie, which soaks the bedding and later the changing pad. Here's what you have to swap:
1. The onesie, duh.
1.a. Any pants that accompanied the onesie.
2. Crib pad.
3. Crib sheet.
4. Changing pad.
5. Blanket on top of changing pad,
and, if you are like me and cannot securely hold a baby without getting all scrunged up yourself,
6. Your own shirt.
This last necessitates putting down the baby so you can change with two hands, and there is a risk of starting the whole thing over again.
The four-minute shirt happened thusly: I was going about my day wearing a nice comfy black sweater that puddled nicely over my Mama-belly. I bathed Dragon Girl and the sleeves got sopping. It was too wet to wear, so I changed it out for a black T-shirt.
I didn't like the black T-shirt because it was tight, but I figured I would not wear it long. I was right. As soon as I went down to the kitchen, I moved a dish in the sink and splashed half a baking bowl full of chocolatey water onto my Mama-belly. Then I shook up a warm bottle for Dragon Girl and sprinkled formula all over my sleeve. While still sighing over that, I picked up a hollering Dragon Girl and fed her. Seconds thereafter, I hoisted her onto my shoulder where I heard a liquidy little "glurp" followed by a cascade of the same formula, now at baby-belly-temperature, onto my left shoulder.
Four minutes. Seriously. And people wonder what a Mama does all day.
Wednesday, December 5, 2012
Sweetly Tangled
Dragon Girl is overdue for a post. She's staying with her wonderful auntie, so I even have time to do the post. With Child #1, I had lots of time to send detailed emails to my family outlining when Child #1 napped, what she wore, how much she was eating, &c., &c. Poor Dragon Girl, Child #2, just gets some formula whenever she cries, a clean diaper, a cute outfit if I'm exceptionally well-organized that day, and away we go again.
But, at 4 months, she is now doing stuff.
The 4-month mark is my biggie. Some plump for the 3-month mark, but I can't say that was a milestone around here. At 16 weeks on the planet, however, Dragon Girl is a delight. We're through the floppy alien-eyes stage and she is "home" nearly all the time now. There is very little eye-rolling and much more focus. There's a little person looking out of those eyes, in fact. I figure she has at least as much processing power as the average housecat and probably much more than our famously stupid dog. She knows that the microwave "beep" means imminent milk, and she greets me with a smile from her crib in the morning. She will even giggle at a funny sound or a tickle on the changing table.
Of most interest, she is making her hands work for her. I can tell that she enjoys it. She will reach for her Ladybug toy and handle it for a long time with a satisfied little dolphin smile on her plump face. We passed through the swatting stage pretty rapidly; she is now reaching and grasping with pretty good accuracy. I forgot that they don't develop 3D processing for a while. She will try to pick up the tree branch printed on my coffee sleeve. We got a lot of mileage this weekend out of the crinkly envelope window on a piece of junk mail.
And, best of all, she gets all tangled up in Mama. Often after feeding her, I will get ready to put her down and find that her arm is stretching like a strand of mozzarella, because she's fallen asleep clutching a little handful of my shirt collar or bathrobe. She is happy. I am happy. I love being sweetly, sweetly tangled with this little Dayenu girl.
But, at 4 months, she is now doing stuff.
The 4-month mark is my biggie. Some plump for the 3-month mark, but I can't say that was a milestone around here. At 16 weeks on the planet, however, Dragon Girl is a delight. We're through the floppy alien-eyes stage and she is "home" nearly all the time now. There is very little eye-rolling and much more focus. There's a little person looking out of those eyes, in fact. I figure she has at least as much processing power as the average housecat and probably much more than our famously stupid dog. She knows that the microwave "beep" means imminent milk, and she greets me with a smile from her crib in the morning. She will even giggle at a funny sound or a tickle on the changing table.
Of most interest, she is making her hands work for her. I can tell that she enjoys it. She will reach for her Ladybug toy and handle it for a long time with a satisfied little dolphin smile on her plump face. We passed through the swatting stage pretty rapidly; she is now reaching and grasping with pretty good accuracy. I forgot that they don't develop 3D processing for a while. She will try to pick up the tree branch printed on my coffee sleeve. We got a lot of mileage this weekend out of the crinkly envelope window on a piece of junk mail.
And, best of all, she gets all tangled up in Mama. Often after feeding her, I will get ready to put her down and find that her arm is stretching like a strand of mozzarella, because she's fallen asleep clutching a little handful of my shirt collar or bathrobe. She is happy. I am happy. I love being sweetly, sweetly tangled with this little Dayenu girl.
Saturday, September 1, 2012
Party Girl
I have promised DH that I will not expose the children to hip-hop or rap. Stated mildly, DH does not care for these genres of entertainment (he will not deign to call them music). Even though He'en writhes in her carseat protesting she does not "yike" the classical music on the radio, he persists. His kids are going to get some decent cultchah come hell or high water.
In this, I fear, he finds me a sloppy ally. For several years now, I have been carefully avoiding the issue of whether "club" falls into the "hip-hop or rap" category of child-poison.
Poor DH. When he met me, he thought he was getting a refined intellectual type who would be a fit mother to his heirs. I had a reasonable command of current events, a bluffer's knowledge of opera, several years of ballroom dance experience, a basic ballet vocabulary, and enough classical music moxy to prove acceptable to a man who had grown up with the kids of Philadelphia Orchestra musicians and had studied piano at a conservatory in his youth. Little did he know that, ten years down the road, his wifely prize would disintegrate into a 40-year-old hip-hop-loving mall rat.
The warning signs were there, of course. During our early dating days, we had some stellar squiffs over my tendency to be unavailable on nights when a good drag show hit Fort Lauderdale.
"You can come," I cheerfully invited him by phone between applications of black-cherry lipstick.
"Go there with you? I can't believe you would go to those . . . things!" he huffed. "What if you want a judicial career someday? Someone might see you!"
"If they see me," I would counter, holding the phone with my chin to tighten my leather dog collar choker, "It would be because they were also there."
Well, we never did really resolve that issue. We just moved away from the scene, settled into quiet coupledom, and then I got too old and too busy for such delicious pursuits. Days turned to weeks, then months, then years, and along came Offspring #1, which permanently ended any chances for such foolishness.
When Offspring #1 was about six weeks old, I wistfully noted that the last time I saw such early-morning numbers on the clock, I had been clubbing in Miami.
From my mouth to God's ears: Offspring #2 was inconsolable tonight until I moved her into the kitchen and put fired up my "Shakira Channel" on Pandora. As soon as the dance beats began, she quit thrashing in her lounger, spit out her pacifier, belched peacefully, and settled into a blissful sleep.
That's my girl, my little party girl.
In this, I fear, he finds me a sloppy ally. For several years now, I have been carefully avoiding the issue of whether "club" falls into the "hip-hop or rap" category of child-poison.
Poor DH. When he met me, he thought he was getting a refined intellectual type who would be a fit mother to his heirs. I had a reasonable command of current events, a bluffer's knowledge of opera, several years of ballroom dance experience, a basic ballet vocabulary, and enough classical music moxy to prove acceptable to a man who had grown up with the kids of Philadelphia Orchestra musicians and had studied piano at a conservatory in his youth. Little did he know that, ten years down the road, his wifely prize would disintegrate into a 40-year-old hip-hop-loving mall rat.
The warning signs were there, of course. During our early dating days, we had some stellar squiffs over my tendency to be unavailable on nights when a good drag show hit Fort Lauderdale.
"You can come," I cheerfully invited him by phone between applications of black-cherry lipstick.
"Go there with you? I can't believe you would go to those . . . things!" he huffed. "What if you want a judicial career someday? Someone might see you!"
"If they see me," I would counter, holding the phone with my chin to tighten my leather dog collar choker, "It would be because they were also there."
Well, we never did really resolve that issue. We just moved away from the scene, settled into quiet coupledom, and then I got too old and too busy for such delicious pursuits. Days turned to weeks, then months, then years, and along came Offspring #1, which permanently ended any chances for such foolishness.
When Offspring #1 was about six weeks old, I wistfully noted that the last time I saw such early-morning numbers on the clock, I had been clubbing in Miami.
From my mouth to God's ears: Offspring #2 was inconsolable tonight until I moved her into the kitchen and put fired up my "Shakira Channel" on Pandora. As soon as the dance beats began, she quit thrashing in her lounger, spit out her pacifier, belched peacefully, and settled into a blissful sleep.
That's my girl, my little party girl.
Friday, August 31, 2012
The Power of "Gleep"
Early this evening, I bathed poor scrungy Dragon Girl*. There isn't much of her. It takes about six minutes, once everything is set up. (I don't know why baby-bathing was an hour-plus project with infant He'en. I guess I am reassured this time that a postage-stamp-sized washcloth is unlikely to harm a critter that's built to pass through a birth canal.)
After her bath, I brushed her auburn hair with the little plastic brush that the hospital sent home. With each feathery stroke, I sang a tuneless "brush, brush, brush."
And darned if she didn't smile at me, not once, but three (3) times! Plus, she expressed her appreciation with a little "gleep."
This is a huge deal, because I mostly handle night shifts while Sister Mine handles day shifts. I am not sure how such a tiny scrap of humanity can keep two competent adult females in a state of near-total collapse, but she does, so that's the division of labor.
On the night shift, Dragon Girl often is less than delightful -- although in fairness, I probably am less than delightful myself -- and our conversation is limited to:
DG: "MILK! MILK! MILK!"
Me: "Blurg..."
or, sometimes:
Me: "...mumble...diaper time."
DG: "ARRRGGGHHHHHHHH ARRRGGGHHHHHHHH ARRRGGGHHHHHHHH!"
It's not what you'd call a great date.
But, oh, tonight, one precious "gleep," and a promise of more to come. Those are the moments that keep a new mama together. Thanks, Dragon Girl.
=====
*The baby is so nicknamed because she was born in the Year of the Dragon. Marvelous Tess at Tree Top Thai says that children born in the year of the dragon demonstrate vim, vigor, and lots of go, because, she says, they have hands . . . and feet . . . and wings. With this one, I believe it. I had to pause this entry's development about six times to dance the child around the kitchen. Bless you, Pandora. She particularly likes Depeche Mode.
After her bath, I brushed her auburn hair with the little plastic brush that the hospital sent home. With each feathery stroke, I sang a tuneless "brush, brush, brush."
And darned if she didn't smile at me, not once, but three (3) times! Plus, she expressed her appreciation with a little "gleep."
This is a huge deal, because I mostly handle night shifts while Sister Mine handles day shifts. I am not sure how such a tiny scrap of humanity can keep two competent adult females in a state of near-total collapse, but she does, so that's the division of labor.
On the night shift, Dragon Girl often is less than delightful -- although in fairness, I probably am less than delightful myself -- and our conversation is limited to:
DG: "MILK! MILK! MILK!"
Me: "Blurg..."
or, sometimes:
Me: "...mumble...diaper time."
DG: "ARRRGGGHHHHHHHH ARRRGGGHHHHHHHH ARRRGGGHHHHHHHH!"
It's not what you'd call a great date.
But, oh, tonight, one precious "gleep," and a promise of more to come. Those are the moments that keep a new mama together. Thanks, Dragon Girl.
=====
*The baby is so nicknamed because she was born in the Year of the Dragon. Marvelous Tess at Tree Top Thai says that children born in the year of the dragon demonstrate vim, vigor, and lots of go, because, she says, they have hands . . . and feet . . . and wings. With this one, I believe it. I had to pause this entry's development about six times to dance the child around the kitchen. Bless you, Pandora. She particularly likes Depeche Mode.
Thursday, August 30, 2012
A Long Night's Journey Into Day
This will happen:
One night, you will tenderly feed your offspring in the usual way, at the usual time. You will then blunder to bed (couch/cushion/futon/nest of your choice) and tumble into your usual non-REM sleep of black and utter exhaustion.
[N.B. - of late, I've been waking every two hours for feedings with one eye dry and itchy. This means I've been sleeping with an eye half-open. Yes, that tired. Grossy-gross.]
But this will happen:
When you wake, it will be light outside. Birds will sing. Traffic will rumble. You will look at your clock. A blast of adrenaline will momentarily paralyze you, utterly, utterly. Oh, God, it's morning. You are the world's worst mother. You have slept through all the night feedings. Your offspring has starved, pitifully crying, abandoned, alone, in the cold dark hours.
You will then levitate yourself into furious action and rush to your offspring's side (leaping stairs four at a time if you have stairs in the house). Whereupon you will find said offspring . . .
. . . probably with a pretty squishy diaper . . .
. . . peacefully sleeping . . .
. . . not missing you one little bit.
Behold, a new era has begun.
This hasn't happened yet in this house, either. But it will happen. Hang tough, mamas everywhere.
One night, you will tenderly feed your offspring in the usual way, at the usual time. You will then blunder to bed (couch/cushion/futon/nest of your choice) and tumble into your usual non-REM sleep of black and utter exhaustion.
[N.B. - of late, I've been waking every two hours for feedings with one eye dry and itchy. This means I've been sleeping with an eye half-open. Yes, that tired. Grossy-gross.]
But this will happen:
When you wake, it will be light outside. Birds will sing. Traffic will rumble. You will look at your clock. A blast of adrenaline will momentarily paralyze you, utterly, utterly. Oh, God, it's morning. You are the world's worst mother. You have slept through all the night feedings. Your offspring has starved, pitifully crying, abandoned, alone, in the cold dark hours.
You will then levitate yourself into furious action and rush to your offspring's side (leaping stairs four at a time if you have stairs in the house). Whereupon you will find said offspring . . .
. . . probably with a pretty squishy diaper . . .
. . . peacefully sleeping . . .
. . . not missing you one little bit.
Behold, a new era has begun.
This hasn't happened yet in this house, either. But it will happen. Hang tough, mamas everywhere.
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