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Naptime Narratives

What I will miss

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As the final weeks of my pregnancy wind down, I find myself reflecting on things that I will miss about being pregnant:

1. Pregnancy hair. This will probably be the fullest my hair will ever be. I have enjoyed the thickness that comes with the lack of shedding during pregnancy and can only hope it takes its time coming out (vain, I know).

2. Kicks. Nothing is as magical or surreal as feeling that first flutter of life, and while these days my stomach can move like a scene from “Alien”, every twist and and jab reminds me of the miracle my body is capable of.

3. Naps. Pregnancy gives you the excuse to nap whenever you are tired, lest you overexert yourself. I know from the first time around that once baby arrives, naps are few and far between, and are always based on the little one’s schedule.

4. Quiet. When my daughter is at school and I am alone working at home, I savor the moments of tranquility. I know these moments will still exist, but I will need to seek them out, rather than have them simply be.

5. Yoga. I have enjoyed my prenatal yoga classes and the time I get to spend with myself and my baby. While I have every intention on getting back to the mat, post-partum, it won’t be as easy to head off to class as it is now.

6. Discussing baby with my daughter. I have enjoyed sharing this experience with my 6-year-old daughter and while I cannot wait for her to fully enter Big Sisterhood, these past nine months have allowed us to bond in a very special and memorable way.

7. Eating. Who doesn’t enjoy an excuse to eat food without worrying about adding a few lb’s to the waistline? I’ve been good about eating healthy and keeping my weight in check, but that doesn’t mean that I don’t enjoy my fair share of ice cream (baby needs calcium, after all).

8. The glow. There really is something about “the glow” that attracts smiles and good energy from friends and strangers alike. I feel powerful and am not at all self-conscious. My body is growing a human being – how can anything top that?

Brothers gotta hug

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I’m about four weeks away from delivering baby number two, and the nesting instinct has kicked in, full force. I did something I have never done: hired cleaners to deep clean my house, and I can see how people get used to that. Normally I enjoy cleaning (mostly because it reminds me of all that I have, and how grateful I am to be able to take care of it) but I am at the point in my pregnancy where physical limitations are real (it’s hard to wash dishes in the sink with a belly in the way!).

Last weekend we went for a hospital tour and our daughter attended a sibling prep course. She was the oldest in the class (not surprisingly) and was a pro at answering questions and helping the other younger siblings-to-be learn how to properly hold a baby. Watching her excitement and skill warmed my heart, and made me happy we decided to add a sibling to her life.

For the past seven years, my husband and I have gone back and forth about whether or not we intended to expand our family. As the years went by, we developed a comfortable daily rhythm and built a solid relationship with our daughter. There was always a part of us that wondered what another child would add to the family, most notably our daughter’s experience having a sibling, but the urge was never strong enough to prompt us into action.

Nearly a year ago, my uncle passed away unexpectedly. My sister and our two children flew from California to Saint Louis to attend the funeral. It goes without saying that it was an emotional time, but what struck me more than anything was how beautiful and comforting it was to see my mother and her five siblings come together to tend to my uncle’s estate, and put together a meaningful ceremony that lovingly honored their brother’s life. I also enjoyed spending time with my own siblings and my cousins, along with their families. My uncle never married nor had children, but he was always surrounded by love, and that love shone through his siblings and their families. Thumbing through pile after pile of photos, sorting out his belongings, and telling stories helped put a sad situation into perspective. Even the closest of families has their fair share of differences, but it is important to come together, set aside any differences and simply be there during emotional times. I kept thinking of my grandparents, whose values helped set the tone for this particular display of familial love and support, and am grateful for their example.

Watching my daughter effortlessly interact with her extended family and swarm of cousins triggered something in me that made me want to try and provide her with a sibling experience, cliche as that sounds. My husband and I had been talking about this for a year (tick tock goes the biological clock) and we found ourselves on the same page, ready to take the plunge.

As the weeks go by I am still amazed at what a miraculous experience growing a person is, and have thoroughly enjoyed sharing this time with my daughter, who is old enough to actively engage in the process. The past few days she has reminded me to slow down and listen to my body (!) and enjoys reading stories to her brother, whom she can’t wait to meet. As a parent I will do everything I can to lead by example, and I look forward to watching their bond develop and grow into something rich and meaningful (for now, she is looking forward to an endless stream of poop jokes and having a partner-in-crime to help develop pranks-on-parents – I can live with that!).

Final Countdown Musings

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I received my weekly “baby report” and now that my baby is the size of a melon, I am advised to pack my hospital bag and be prepared (!) I have six more weeks to go (assuming baby stays put), which is hard to believe. This second pregnancy, as anticipated, has flown by. I haven’t had the time to sit and dwell on baby’s arrival as I did with my first, and in these final weeks find myself casually assembling items that will be necessary for baby once he makes his debut. Which, this time around, amounts to little more than diapers, wipes, a few outfits, a car seat, and a bassinet to sleep in. I am reminded how little babies need, especially in the beginning. And how much retailers and baby outlets want you to believe you DO need (conspicuous consumption, anyone?).

I am definitely doing my part to focus on what’s best for my family and I, this time around. In my first pregnancy I took great care in accommodating our out-of-town visitors but now that is not high on my priority list. Baby first, visitors second. I appreciate folks wanting to meet the baby and help out, but I am decidedly not interested in playing hostess. Adding another person to our family will be a big adjustment for my husband, daughter and I, and I want to focus my emotional energy on them, and making sure all of our needs are met first, before worrying about well-intentioned guests (I found this piece to be quite hilarious!).

It’s also been interesting to observe the differences between a second baby, versus a first (“second child syndrome” really is a thing!). When I was pregnant with my daughter, I had a seemingly unending flow of gifts being sent to my house. I had so many outfits, especially for the newborn phase, that we didn’t even get to wearing them. This time around I’ve assembled some hand-me-downs from friends, and ordered a few basics. We only have a few newborn-sized items, which is great, given he will likely only wear them a few times. As cute as infant clothes are, the reality is baby will likely live in onesies and pajamas. Fortunately I kept some gender-neutral items from when my daughter was born, so I don’t have to buy everything new. My biggest concern with the second child is that I want to do my best to make sure baby doesn’t feel like an afterthought. I spent so much time thinking about and planning for my firstborn, and while I certainly think about this baby, my mental reserves are not as vast this time around. Plus, I know we will survive just fine, with or without all the bells and whistles.

Speaking of my firstborn, she is really looking forward to becoming a big sister. Every day she reads and talks to her brother, and asks me how much longer until she gets to meet him. As the pregnancy winds down, the three of us are enjoying our time together, the last time as a trio, and anticipating the transition to a party of four. It will be here before we know it!

The (age) gap

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My husband and I are expecting our second child in September (yay!). Baby 2’s scheduled arrival is three days before our daughter turns seven. While this doesn’t seem strange to us (it’s hard to believe seven years have passed since my first pregnancy) most people, including our family, have expressed surprise at this. Here are a few common reactions we’ve received since announcing the news:

1. “Is this a joke?” Going into parenting, we didn’t have any set expectations (I was never one of those “I want four kids, two years apart, two boys and two girls” type of persons, mostly because above all I am a realist, and recognize there is limited control to all that). As such, people stopped asking us when we were going to have another about three years ago. We always said we’d consider it if the time felt right, but that we were also content to be a family of three. So no, this is not a joke.

2. “Was it planned?” Because of the time gap a lot of people assume this baby was a “surprise” or an “accident.” As fun as that would be, this baby was intentional. Did we go around telling the world we were “trying”? Nope. That’s not my m.o. and sorry, that’s not anyone’s business anyway (unless, perhaps, they were willing to cover all of baby’s expenses from ages 0-22? I may consider it being someone’s business then…).

3. Infertility. No one has come out and said it to my face, but I have discovered that an age gap leads people to believe that infertility issues are a cause of said gap. In our case, that was never an issue (even with my “advanced maternal age”), and I feel very fortunate. Newsflash: not everyone wants kids close in age. I babysat my way through high school and graduate school, and knew that I had zero desire to have two children in diapers. I love the idea of an age gap (my youngest sister and I are about 6.5 years apart, and we rarely fought with each other). It has been wonderful sharing the experience of pregnancy with my daughter, who is old enough to understand and be interested in the progression. The three of us have a tight bond, and we are looking forward to sharing the experience of a new addition to our family together

4. “Is the father the same for both kids?” I was not expecting this one, but have been asked this by complete strangers on several occasions. When I tell them yes, they seem surprised. One woman even joked (at least I hope it was a joke) that she was happy to hear someone still likes their husband enough after all that time together. No comment.

It’s hard to believe I am over halfway through. It really is true that the second pregnancy breezes by, and while the time is quickly approaching, I am enjoying the meantime of spending quality time with my family and preparing for all that is to come. This baby will be a game changer, and all three of us couldn’t be happier!

2016

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2016 was a year of highs and lows, of abundance and loss. My wish for 2017 is to find meaning in the highs and the lows, lightness in the dark, hope and comfort in the good. As I write this a bright ray of light pierces the clouds above me; its message is not lost.

First Day of Kindergarten

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Yesterday I checked another parenting milestone off of my list: my daughter’s first day of kindergarten. I spent the entire day before going over the supply list and reviewing the contents of her backpack. I set out her uniform. I filled out emergency forms and printed out immunization records.

I texted my sister and hid in the garage while my daughter played Legos, doing my best not to ugly-cry.

Why was I sad? My daughter is nearly six years old, an all-day preschool veteran and social butterfly. This summer she learned a slew of sight words and excitedly discussed the ins and outs of her new  school with her good friend going into first grade.

She was ready. She was more than ready. And yet, here I was, trying to hold it together leaning against the washing machine, texting my sister who has been in my shoes twice.

“I’m sorry I can’t help you,” she wrote. “I’m the same way.” And then a string of sad-face emoticons.

I’ve always had a tough time with transitions. The night before college I stayed up all night in my pink childhood bedroom, absorbing the dark quiet and imagining what it would be like to sleep in a different bedroom. What would I do without my parents? My siblings? My friends?

Of course, I did what I always did: I went for it in spite of my fears, and everything turned out fine. Just as it will for me and my husband and our daughter.

Today is the second day of school (first day a success in every way!) and as I type this I realize that we have graduated to the next step of childhood, and my anxiety a few days ago was not a worry that my daughter would somehow not be fine, but that I would not be fine with the natural progression of things. Preschool was one thing – you can be late if you need to be, you can go to Disneyland for a week and it doesn’t affect things. You can still make out the baby fat on your child’s cheeks and see the newborn in her expression as she takes a nap on the couch, surrounded by stuffed animals and her baby blanket.

One of the first things people tell you when you have a child is to savor every moment, because it all passes so fast. When I walked my daughter across the parking lot to her kindergarten classroom, her still-tiny hand gripping tightly to my own, a junior high student and her parents walked a few steps behind us. I heard the girl mumble under her breath, “This is so embarrassing! Why are you walking me in? I’m not a baby.”

I looked over my shoulder and met the mother’s eyes. We smiled, tears filling both of our eyes for the same reason.

 

Time marches on.

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All days end the same: I glance at the nearest clock (the oven, my computer, my phone, my wristwatch) and do a double-take. Eleven o’clock already?

Where does the time go? I muse, checking off boxes on my mental to-do list, feeling at once accomplished and deflated. The floors won’t mop themselves, dinner won’t magically appear on the kitchen table (oh how I wish that it would!). I drift into a fog of tired-not-tired, not unlike the tired-not-tired nights of my college days. The main difference, of course, is that eighteen years have passed, and while a cup of coffee presents itself in the morning of both scenarios, the cup of yore never had to be reheated three times, only to be forgotten and later remembered in the afternoon when it’s too late to dare consume anything caffeinated, lest caffeine be mistaken for a heart attack.

Did I mention that soon I’ll be thirty-six? For the first time in my life I feel the way I imagined someone my age to feel.  The creases around my eyes are more defined, the spots dotting my arms are no longer cute freckles, but reminders of past lapses in judgement (whatever made me think that a person of Irish/German descent would ever stand a chance at a tan?), each dot a timestamp.

Aging, in its physical manifestation, does not yet bother me (and I hope that it never does). It’s the lightening-speed pace with which my days seem to pass that give me reason to pause.  My daughter is three-and-a-half. Each day with her is a gift that I make a point to acknowledge, though sometimes the daily grind (not to mention general preschooler stubbornness) take an emotional and physical toll where my only desire at the end of the day is to change into sweatpants and pass out on the couch.

Make no mistake, there are times when I do this, at the expense of a tidy family room or borderline sanitary kitchen. I will never be a model for Good Housekeeping, and that is fine by me. The type of clutter, I’ve learned, that is best to take care of is the stuff that clogs your emotional head space. For me, that includes worrying about things I cannot control. The reality is that when I strip away all of the elements that spark anxiety (guilt over choosing to live in a different region of the country than the majority of my family, worry whether or not I am making the right choices in my daughter’s childhood experience, insecurity at X, Y, and Z) I am able to recognize how fortunate I am in what I have been given, which is more time.

The good part about turning thirty-six is that I am self-reflective enough to know what works for me and what doesn’t, and even though I may sigh as the clock strikes eleven each night, I am really grateful for the opportunity to do it all again.

 

 

 

 

 

We are dust.

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My daughter and I met some friends at the zoo today, and as we entered the building housing lizards and bright colored frogs I bumped into a mother chasing her son, who escaped through the child-size door and was headed toward the sea otters. The woman had a large ashen cross on her forehead and I was reminded that today was Ash Wednesday. I thought back to all of the Ash Wednesdays of my past, hands folded in prayer in a darkened church, the familiar music and refrain to a song sung only on that day:

We rise again from ashes,
from the good we’ve failed to do.
We rise again from ashes
to create ourselves anew.

The lapsed Catholic in me does not want to publicly admit that it has been years since I attended an Ash Wednesday service, but it is the truth. Lent was always my favorite season, so to speak, as I was (perhaps morbidly) drawn to the story of crucifixion and resurrection. Not because I actually believed it happened (I’ll save that for another day) but because of its imagery and symbolism.

Growing up I was surrounded by Catholics. Wearing an ash on my head all day at my Catholic grade school was no big deal, as everyone else had ashes on their foreheads; ashes were as familiar as the navy plaid of our uniforms. Sporting (for lack of a better term) an ash on my forehead at a giant public high school full of kids of all religions was harder to do, and instead of attend an early morning Ash Wednesday service I always opted to go to church with my father in the evening, where I wouldn’t have to feel awkward or explain myself to my classmates in the middle of geometry or badminton.

The point in all this is to say that today, seeing the mother with a large ash on her forehead at an ordinary place like the zoo, startled me, as though I had seen a ghost. It caused me to pause and reflect on its symbolism, which I think is relevant and important to remember as we go about our busy lives, religious or not, which is that we are made from dust, and from dust we will return.

The simplicity in this message is refreshing, and while I do not intend to practice Lent through a religious lens, I do intend to use the season to practice mindfulness. To me, ashes have always symbolized the reality of our  being. As humans we are here, and then we are not here. How we choose to live our lives while we are here is a very personal decision and one that benefits (in my opinion) from healthy doses of regular self-reflection.

It’s so easy to go through the motions without even contemplating what these motions mean. As I apologized to the mother rushing toward the sea otters, I focused on my daughter’s excitement upon seeing the neon frogs hopping in the manufactured rainforest, and in that moment my own “being” was as clear as the raindrops beading on the leaves.