Wonder Baby Wednesday #2

Wonder Baby Powers, activate! Form of..... an Ikea furniture repairperson.

Because what Swedish baby would be complete without an allen wrench?

...

Accidental Housewifery

I was taking my third sheet of cookies out of the oven earlier today when it hit me: "since when do I bake cookies?"

I have been saying lately that if I'm going to be a housewife, I may as well do it right. This is tongue-in-cheek, of course -- a way to explain my sudden desire to learn to make casseroles, bake cookies, put together Ikea furniture, vacuum, etc. The truth is, I have more (and less) time on my hands than I have ever had before, and I'm not sure how to organize myself.

Until my company decided that they no longer needed any of the people to continue doing my job function at my level at the end of last year, I was planning on continuing to work full-time. I was lucky enough to telecommute, so I could have someone (usually Grandpa Guy) come in to watch Eme during the day, and I could break away to nurse her as needed (sometimes during a conference call, but who else would know anyway?).

When my company tried to retain me as a full time employee by offering me different positions -- none of which were particularly good fits for various reasons, and all of which would have taken me outside of the house to work -- I thought "I can do better than this," and took the severance. This took much soul-searching as Andreas and I had just bought the new house a couple of months earlier, thinking we'd have both of our salaries to pay for it. I began to search for a job.

Combing the job boards, I realized that I probably could not find a position that would allow me to work from home full-time. I had been "spoiled" by my last job. I didn't want to give up seeing Eme during the day. What could I do?

The solution, simple and elegant, and not at all what I thought I'd be doing, was to not go back to full-time work. I took up freelancing -- writing, editing, proofreading, teaching -- all things I'd considered, but never had the desire to try given my steady income. Now, I wonder every day whether I'm going to have enough work to pay the bills. I wonder whether I should have given up so soon on looking for full-time work.

I'm also conflicted about being a person who "stays at home." I never wanted to be a "stay at home mom," or a "housewife." There's nothing wrong with either of those titles, but they are things that I don't associate with my view of me. And yet here I find myself, with no time for commuting to work, but lots of time to learn how to make casseroles, and the desire to clean and organize the house.

(To be clear about how strange this is for me, Andreas has always been the cook in our relationship. He still does a lot of cooking, but I have taken over a good bit of it too. I'd feel like I wasn't pulling my weight, like taking care of Eme, though full-time, wasn't enough. I had to replace all of the conference calls that I'm now missing with something, and it's a strange feeling to not have finite tasks to do, so I created myself some tasks.)

My biggest argument against going back full-time is that I can't imagine giving up seeing Eme every day. I have become addicted to viewing the world through her eyes. I am amazed by the things she picks up from listening to and watching me. And I love knowing that I am the most important person in her world. (Sometimes this is very inconvenient, as it means she sometimes won't behave when someone is watching her who isn't me, but it's still a good feeling to know that I am her comforter, her role-model, her superhero, her mommy. Also, I think it's true for mommies that aren't home full-time that they are still the most important person in their babies' worlds, but it only lasts for so long, so I'm making the most of it.)

Some days I think that if my old company were able to find me a position full-time that would allow me to telecommute, I would take them up on it just to have the steady work. Other days I think that if I can make it doing freelance work (meaning I can do my work after Eme is asleep and therefore spend the maximum time with her) then why would I ever give that up?

I don't know how my year will go -- whether I'll make enough money to stay home, whether I'll even be able to get a full-time job if I can't make enough -- and not knowing scares me. But I hope to discover that it was not a mistake to take the chance of not working full-time.

Either way, this invaluable time I have been spending with Eme will stay with me for the rest of my life. If it is a mistake, my time as a stay-at-home mom will still be one of the best things I've ever done.

...

The most Beautifulest, Stink-pantsiest, Sleepsing Bee Ever

Anyone whose grammar I've ever corrected, please stand up. (Yes, you too my third grade teacher. And probably my second grade one as well.)

Now that you're all standing, you are welcome to laugh at me for the title of this post.

I have always been a curve-wrecker, and a grammar (and spelling) corrector, and I have a little bit of a nerd-crush on Grammar Girl for her ability to solve those few tricky grammar issues of which I'm unsure (em dash vs en dash, anyone?). Since becoming a mommy, my grammar has seriously gone downhill. And my spelling. (And doing part-time copywriting doesn't help -- ads are generally riddled with grammar issues! For example, starting sentences with "and.")

After mentioning mommy grammar in my post on The F Bomb, I have been thinking about doing a whole post on the topic. Today I placed Eme in her stroller so I could take her on a walk to get her to go down for her nap, then proceeded to say "it's sleepsing time!" This made me realize that today is a mommy grammar kind of day.

A few "rules" for mommy grammar:
1. It's okay to make anything plural. In fact, pluralizing things just makes them cuter. Examples include milks ("Who wants some milks?"), sleeps ("Are you ready to go to sleeps?"), poops ("Did you make a poops in your pantses?"), etc.
2. If something is already plural, stick some extra letters at the end, but only if it makes the word cuter rather than more awkward. (see above: pantses; also, feeties, handsies, toesies, etc., but NOT fingerses -- that's just hard to say)
3. Remove any prepositions, or any parts that would normally be a necessary part of a sentence, that make the sentences cuter if you take them out. (Example from The F Bomb post: "Did you fart your pants" where the normally necessary preposition "in" has been removed. Also, "Eme want to go store?", etc.)
4. Add extra words, or rearrange the normal order of the sentence, if that makes it sound funnier. For example: "Who does goes to the outside?", "Eme is the most stinksiest baby!", etc.
5. Have fun! I had often been annoyed by hearing other mothers butcher the English language to their babies. Turns out it's much cuter and funnier to use incorrect grammar when it's your own baby.

Yes, eventually I'll need to make sure that Eme understands the appropriate grammar (though I'm pretty sure she has The Nerd Handbook 2.0 -- in fact, I think she was revising my original version while still in the womb), but for now I'm not going to worry. We'll get there.


...

The Boy at the Library

The two little red marks stayed bright on Eme's right cheek until late into the evening. I think we'd put her to bed before they went away. I don't know if she remembers it -- she doesn't behave as if she does (although, who knows what she'll do if she ever sees that boy again) -- but I can't stop thinking about it.

Eme's first "real" trip to the library (she'd been there in her stroller with us before, but it was to check out books and videos for us, not to play in the children's room; we were all very excited) was about a week after she turned one year old.

As you know, I am at home with Eme during the day most days. Even when I go somewhere for work I'm only gone for a few hours, and she has Grandpa Guy with her then. Given that she doesn't go to daycare, she doesn't meet with many other children. I had been thinking for a while that I wanted her to start getting some social interaction.

Thus, Emelie's debut in the children's room at the library.

There were a few other children there -- one baby, about 8 months old, his mommy sitting right next to him. Two boys, one about 3, the other about a year and a half, brothers. Their mommy sitting on a sofa a little ways away chatting with another mommy. One little girl, maybe 2, who belonged to the other mommy.

Eme went right up to the older boy, who was standing at the model train, and the boy handed over an engine. I said "say 'Thank You'" (reflexively; I'm trying to teach her to say thank you, but she doesn't say much at all yet, and even less when she was just a year old).

She tried to grab the other train engine from his other hand. I said "we don't take toys that someone else is playing with." (I've also been saying a lot of "we don't" sentences to help her learn appropriate behavior: "we don't hit the cats with drum sticks. Pet them gently. Geeeently. Good girl.")

The boy gave her the train anyway. The look in his eye said he was smitten with my tiny, beautiful little daughter. The mother saw this and said "that's my nice son; look out for the other one."

I didn't know what she meant, but I figured, I'm right here and grandpa is on her other side. What could happen?

Turns out the 20-month-old thought Eme was a doll. Not the way I think she's a doll, but the kind to play with. We went to the playhouse. He toddled right up to her and before I knew what was happening he had her cheek between his pudgy fingers and was pinching.

Eme's eyes opened wide with shock, maybe a little fear, and definitely pain. She let out a loud cry followed by a series of gasping sobs that broke my heart. This cry said both "How could that boy be so mean?" and "Mommy, why did you let this happen?"

Of course, as soon as I saw him reach out I was reaching for him, but it all seemed to happen in slow motion. Or maybe too quickly to comprehend.

I grabbed his little hand away. I said to the boy who wasn't mine, "No. We don't pinch people." And I had Eme up into my arms to comfort her. His mother, 10 feet away, glanced over, then went back to her conversation.

Fear. Would this scar Eme emotionally? Probably not, given that lots of kids get bitten and pinched by other kids all of the time at daycare and still turn out to be reasonable people. (See my post on Horses and Sealions, and Heartache and Love for more on this subject.)

Outrage. Where the hell was that mother? Why wasn't she looking after her own child?
Someone really needed to teach him some manners.

Frustration. Was it really my place to discipline someone else's child? I wouldn't want someone else to discipline mine.

Understanding. He probably wasn't old enough to know what he was doing. Or if he was, me yelling at him wouldn't help the situation anyway. The best I could do was what I did -- say no firmly and tell him why -- wasn't it?

Disappointment. But if it wasn't my place, then why wasn't the responsible party taking charge? As Eme starts socializing will I be doomed to one irresponsible parent after another raising children who don't know not to hurt my tiny, defenseless angel?

Caution. Is this what it will be like for me if I have a second child? Will I become less watchful, and take more breaks than I do with the first? Will I rely on the first to pass manners down to the second rather than taking the time to do it myself? And what if his mother really had been trying with him, and my choice not to draw her attention just set her progress back?

Minutes later Eme was back to playing. She wouldn't get near the boy (good for her), and when he tried to come close to her (to do something else nefarious, I'm sure) she would edge behind my legs and hide from him (good for her again). She still played with the older brother, who kept trying to give her toys, and later played with a friend of hers who came to visit us, so that boy hasn't made her scared of all boys.

Those two little finger marks, though. I felt like they were staring at me all day. I told Andreas about it when he got home and he said he would have pushed the little boy away (rather than my slightly more gentle "pulling away of his hand and chastising" method). Would that really have helped matters?

My experience with Emelie is that she learns from everything we do. We model eating with a fork, she figures out how to eat with a fork. We model affection towards eachother -- lots of hugs and kisses in this house -- and Eme is affectionate towards us. Even if she doesn't know what the words mean, we have to model that it's not okay to hurt others.

What did Eme learn? Did my modeling of how to behave to a bully teach her the good manners that I'm trying to impart, or did the bully's behavior teach her that you have to pinch first or risk being pinched? What did the boy's mother's non-intervention teach him? That it's okay to just pinch whomever you want?

And if she had pinched him back, would I have stopped her?

Yes. No matter how satisfying it would have felt to let her make good on those two little red welts he gave her, I would have stopped her. I like to think I would have stopped my conversation and come over and told her that "we don't pinch." Granted, this is a fantasy -- I might not have even seen it happen and so wouldn't have known to do this -- but it's my fantasy and I choose that this is what I would have done.

I'm sorry, boy at the library, that your mommy, for whatever reason, wasn't able to do this for you. I'm sorry, mommy of the boy at the library, that you come out so badly in my story when you might not be bad at all. I'm sorry, Eme, that there are boys at the library who don't know manners, and that there will be lots of boys and girls, men and women, whom you will meet throughout life with the same problem.

I'll do my best to make sure you're not one of them. We can each only do our best.

...

Horses and Sea Lions, and Heartache and Love

(I know it's been a while since my last post -- the perils of being a mommy, I guess.)

Over the weekend, Eme saw a horse up close for the first time. A total happenstance where we happened to be near the Stow Community Gardens and a couple of guys with horses happened to be plowing the ground with an old-fashioned horse-drawn plow.

The smell, the feel, the sight of such a different animal than she was used to must have been overwhelming, but she took it in stride.

I brought her right up to the horse, and tried to get her to pet him (his name is Cody, by the way). Fear was evident in her eyes, so I showed her that "look, mommy pets him!"

She allowed me to bring her a little bit closer, but still wouldn't touch his muzzle. "He's so soft. Mommy pet's the horse's nose. Nice horse, nice Cody."

She tried to pet him with her feet, kicking out to touch his nose. I pulled her away so that she couldn't reach far enough to actually kick him. "No, no kicking the horse. Do you want to pet him?"

By this time, the guys were ready to set off with the plow for another round, so we waved the horses away. The further away they got from us, the more excited Eme became. She squealed and waved and wanted to run after the horses.

As they came back down the line, getting close again, she again became apprehensive (or was that me?). Again, they stopped, and again we walked over to pet Cody. We finally convinced her to touch him briefly on the nose, but she kept trying to wiggle out of my arms.

I recently read a book called Wit's End by Karen Joy Fowler (the author who wrote The Jane Austen Book Club). The only thing about it that is important to this story is one tiny little scene. One of the main characters remembers witnessing her uncle, who was as close to her as a father and was a fisherman, shoot a sea lion. The animal seemed friendly to her, and she is horrified that he has killed it. To him it's perfectly natural -- if he hadn't killed it, it would have eaten his catch and destroyed his net. This experience deeply affected her view of her uncle.

What does this have to do with Eme's visit to the horse? I have been thinking about how many things I take for granted that might be shocking, amazing, incomprehensible to little Eme.

What must it feel like to be so small, and confronted with an animal that is so large, and smells like a horse, and your mommy (whom you are pretty sure you trust, though we'll just see how this horse turns out before we decide for sure) is trying to get you to touch it?

How does it change your feelings about your mommy when mommy lets you pet the cat and the cat scratches you? Are you betrayed by your mommy, the cat, or both?

What must it feel like when mommy seems to disappear for a minute in the library -- you can't see her (she can still see you, but you don't know that) but she was just right there?

It's both amazing and humbling to know that everything I do, even the things that seem inconsequential, can shape the way Emelie looks at life.

What keeps me from being frightened every moment of every day that I will accidentally do something that will damage her permanently? It's the knowledge that there are few things that can permanently damage her when all of us provide her with enough love to get over life's little heartaches.

She will learn that horses don't have to be scary because mommy (or DaDa, or Grandma) holds her. She will learn that sometimes you just have to be cautious around cats. They're sharp. (In fact, she's well on her way with this lesson; if Milky Cat looks sideways at her, she pulls mommy over to have me pet Milky instead.) She will learn that mommy goes away, but always comes back.

Still humbling, though. Even with love in my pocket, on my sleeve, and exuding from my every pore, I feel humbled every day.

And blessed. More than I ever thought possible.

...

Wonder Baby Wednesday #1 (I wonder what baby will do next?)

Wonder Baby Powers, activate! Form of ..... Olivia Newton John.

Let's get physical, physical..... the only thing missing is the pink tights.

(sorry, meant to post this last night and forgot; I'm leaving the title, though, because "Wonder Baby Thursday" doesn't sound as good.)

...

Because of....

For anyone who is counting, today is Andreas' and my 6 year wedding anniversary. That makes it the 12 year anniversary of our first date. (Yes, we did that on purpose. Too cutesy?)

Back at the very beginning I created a phrase that described how I wanted to love and be loved, and Andreas and I have subscribed to this philosophy ever since. I said that I wanted someone who would love me "because of, not in spite of" the way that I am, and I'd do the same in return.

If I were to love everything about him except the one or two things, then I'd constantly be trying to "fix" him. If he were to love me "even though" I am one way or another, then he'd wonder when I was going to change. Instead, we try to accept each other exactly as we are, and love all of those things that are the hardest to love.

Andreas has loved me because of my big heart, my love of animals, my joy of life, but also because of my (occasional) sharp-tongued jabs at his expense, and the way I smell (stinky) after two days of not showering because being a mommy sometimes means I forget to be a (clean) wife.

In return, I have loved him for the way he sees humor in everything, his ability to keep me calm and sane, and the way he can make friends with anyone, but also the (sometimes maddening) way that he volunteers out his time to anyone who needs help even if I need him at home, and how he (usually, but not always, correctly) thinks he knows the best way to accomplish any task.

Now we have Eme (whose 14 month "birthday" was yesterday) in our lives. There are days (though they are very few) when we might wish that she would be different than the way she is (please, please, PLEASE sleep through the night). But we love her. Just as she is.

We love Emelie because...

she is very good at making us laugh.
she is amazingly smart.
she almost never lets us take naps.
she learns new things every day.
she gets excited by anything that moves by itself (trucks, cats, leaves, whatever).
she says "mama" and "dada" and means us.
she loves us.
she sometimes stinks.
she knows how to spit her food out (see Cuffs and Peaches).
she enjoys singing and dancing.
she enjoys spinning around in circles until she falls down.
she enjoys doing very unladylike things even when we're in public (see The F Bomb).
she's usually sweet and gentle.
she's sometimes not sweet and gentle.
she's awesome.

For all of these reasons and more, we love our beautiful, stinky angel.

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The "F" Bomb

I wasn't sure if this was a topic that I should really discuss here. In fact, I hope it doesn't cause anyone to become uncomfortable.

I feel like it's a topic that all mommies have to address sooner or later, though, so here goes...

The F Bomb.

I don't mean the one you may have thought of right away, but I am talking about one of my least favorite four-letter words: Fart.

It just sounds gross. And in general terms, it is gross. Yes, a necessary bodily function. But when adults who should be able to control themselves let loose out in public (like your dad or grandpa) it's a little bit embarrassing.

I agree that it's natural. And that everyone has to do it sometimes. Don't get me wrong -- my husband knows that I have some pretty stinky moments myself and he loves me anyway. Everyone knows that it's better to overlook someone's stinkyness for the good of humankind, even if they do it in public.

In fact, when we got "crop dusted" (a walk-by farting) at Home Depot the other day, we did not follow them into the next aisle to get a closer look at the people who would do that when they obviously saw us there. We rather let the matter drop. Like adults.

Now to the mommy side of things: when my baby farts, it is one of the cutest things I've ever heard. Not so great on the smell side, but she's a tiny, cute baby so it doesn't really matter. I've begun calling them Angel Farts because I think that if angels do fart, that is what it would be like.

In fact, Eme has been one of the fartiest babies from the day she was born. (Our friend Joe used to call her "windy.") I've never been afraid to eat anything I wanted while pregnant or nursing (broccoli, a good burrito, you name it) and the first solid food Eme was willing to eat was broccoli, so I don't think it has hurt her any. We've never had problems with her crying because of gas, she just lets loose. And she doesn't worry about whether she's in public.

When she is sitting in her high chair at dinner and the characteristic grin appears to let me know she's about to break wind, I'm not grossed out at all. In fact, it makes me smile. I even say things like "are you farting your pants?" (not "farting in your pants" -- my grammar has gone out the window since I've become a mommy.)

I've started occasionally using words, both in conversation with other adults and with Eme, that I would have avoided before. Fart, for one. Toot. Stinky. (As in "making a stinky, are we?") Stinkypants. (As a single word.) Stink bee. (I mean, really? "Stink bee?" Since when can bees be stinky?) The list goes on and on.

Even this thing that grosses me out -- by deed and by name -- is made cute when Eme does it. How does it happen? What is the magic that makes anything a baby does 9 million times cuter than it would be if an adult did it?

If I could bottle it.... I'd have an angel fart in a bottle.

...

What is the "perfect" number of children?

I know, mom (and anyone who thinks like my mom). The "perfect" number of children for any given family is the number that is right for that family.

I've always thought I'd want to have two, but I've been thinking a lot about it lately and I'm starting to reconsider. I'd love to get some opinions.

Have you thought about how many kids you'd like to have? If you've already had as many as you intend to, what made you stop where you did? Or what decided you that you wanted more? Is it the number you thought you'd end up with?

If your answer is that you don't have or don't want any, that's cool too, and I'd also love to hear why.

If you've never thought about it before, here's your opportunity.

What's the right number of children for you?

...

Cuffs and peaches

I am short. I don't consider it to be a big issue, but it's important that you know this about me.

Being short means that pants never fit me right. Even the "short" jeans are too long for me. I always have to roll the cuffs. I know, I could get them tailored, but I don't know how to sew and I don't really want to pay someone to do it, so I take the easy way and just cuff them.

This presents few problems. I don't think I have to wash them more often than other people -- I mean, when I go hiking and get a bunch of twigs and leaves caught in the cuffs I have to wash them (even if I've only worn them for the hike), but so does everyone wash their pants after wearing them into the woods, right?

Since becoming a mommy I have found more strange things in the cuffs of my jeans than ever before. My daughter has a way of dropping toys at the right angle and velocity so that I'll find a little Elmo finger puppet in the cuff of my pants. Or a block. Not that they stay in there for long, nor that it's a problem, but it's a funny side effect of being a mommy.

This morning, my daughter discovered the most beautiful word in a toddler's vocabulary. She's been testing the word out over the past few days, but today she really nailed it.

It's something like "fffpphhhthhhh." (I may have added an h too many, but this spelling pretty much captures it.)

What made it so beautiful today, and what caused a fit of giggles in my daughter to rival those when mommy tickles her belly with mommy's sock-covered feet, was that her mouth was full of food at the time. Cottage cheese, to be precise. You may think you know where this is going, but I assure you that there was no cottage cheese in the cuffs of my pants.

Just all over my shirt, hands, glasses, table, the high chair tray, and my daughter. It's not breakfast if she's not covered in cottage cheese, so that last one is actually pretty usual.

She innocently -- wide eyes and all -- opened her mouth when I again offered a spoonful of cottage cheese. I was thinking "now that's out of the system, she'll be hungry enough to eat some of it." Silly me. You can tell I'm a first time mom, can't you?

Again the word, but this time more like "pppfffffffthhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh."

The books say not to laugh at "bad" behavior. I tried not to laugh. I did not succeed.

By this time I had determined that I'd best stop feeding her as she was clearly too enthralled with her beautiful sound to want to eat. I took her out of the high chair and hosed everyone off, cleaned my glasses, changed my shirt. We went to play with something non-food-related.

Later, what do I find in the cuff of my pants? I already told you it wasn't cottage cheese. It was a piece of the peach I'd given her to go with the cottage cheese.

This begs the question: exactly how cunning is my girl? Did she distract me with the show in order to slip a peach into my pant cuff? When did she drop it off the tray? How did I not notice it? All I know is that I have never laughed as hard in my life as I've begun to laugh since having a baby.

Stinky baby. Stinky, beautiful, wonderful angel baby.

...