gearhead mama

Dear M,

How is it that more than a year has passed since I last wrote an update for you? I know the technical answer to this – I became pregnant shortly after your second birthday, and now have a 3 month old baby. Life has been busy. But I do deeply regret not finding the time or energy to do a better job of documenting your life. I am always amazed when I go back and read these updates at how many little details I’ve already forgotten. It saddens me that an entire year has slipped away unnoted, but such is life. Now … where to begin?

Today is your third birthday and you are not a toddler anymore, that is for sure. You are a little girl, with long arms and legs, tan skin, tousled hair and sinewy muscles. You are fiery and aren’t afraid to show it … three is looking like it’s going to be a tempestuous year. There have been a lot of changes in your life recently – most notably the addition of your little sister – and you have taken a while to adjust. Add in the challenges that seem to go with this age and the fact that you often don’t seem to get enough sleep, and the last few months have been, um … interesting. But it appears we have weathered the storm and are finding a rhythm again. A bumpy rhythm sometimes, but a rhythm nonetheless.

All of this is challenging me to grow and change as a parent, forcing me to find new tools to supplement the ones that don’t seem to work anymore. I admit I am not always pleased about this, no doubt due to extreme sleep deprivation and the difficulties of splitting my attention between you and your sister, but I’m starting to figure things out. It is a potent reminder that parenting is not static and there is no resting on your laurels on this job. You are going to do a lot of changing in the coming years, and I will need to change as well. If nothing else, it keeps life interesting.

Although you weaned with some encouragement early on in my pregnancy, you still liked to briefly latch on here and there, and now that my milk is back you have resumed nursing. At first it was pretty intermittent, but now you are up to about once a day, which is okay with me. I was always ambivalent about the circumstances of your weaning, since I had wanted it to happen on your terms. So I am actually pleased (most of the time) that you are nursing again. I find it is a good way for us to reconnect, and I can’t complain about the nutrition and antibodies I’m passing to you. We’ll see how I feel about it if you’re still nursing in a year, though.

You are a devoted older sister, showering Sophie with hugs and kisses and giving her toys to play with and food to eat (thankfully you seem to understand that it shouldn’t actually go in her mouth). It delights you to no end when I narrate your activities to her, and you will tell me what I should be telling her (“Tell Sophie that I jumped off the couch, mama!”). I know that you aren’t always happy that she’s here – I still occasionally hear “Put Sophie down and hold me!” or “No! I want to nurse!” – but overall you are remarkably tolerant of her presence and all of the attention she receives. Not that your anger and frustration don’t leak out in other ways, but I am grateful you don’t take it out directly on her. I would much rather have you lash out at me than hit her or throw things at her head. Although I admit I get annoyed at having to constantly manage your interactions with other younger children, since you have started taking pleasure in dominating them. Part of it is your age, but I think part of it is your frustration as well. I try to remember how you must feel and empathize with you (sometimes this means digging pretty deep).

You are incredibly strong and active. You’ve mastered practically everything on the playground, and are determined to conquer the monkey bars, insisting that I help support your weight as you struggle from bar to bar. A few weeks ago I looked up just in time to see you swing your lithe body out to the fireman’s pole and slide down, a look of triumph on your face. There is no slide too tall or swing too high as far as you’re concerned. You are a true daredevil.

Your hair is wild and crazy (doesn’t help that it only gets washed and brushed once a week), and you are getting a second growth, so it looks like you have bangs even though scissors have never touched your head. I also can’t figure out if your hair is going to be curly or not. The ends have curls, but I’m afraid they’ll be lost forever with your first haircut. But the hair growing in has some curl too. I guess we’ll just have to wait and see.

You never stop talking and sometimes I really wish you had a mute button. You have not started asking “why?” yet, but your favorite question is undoubtedly along the lines of, “What did X say when Y?” As in,
“What did Sophie say when I kissed her?”
”What did the pasta say when it went to the party in my stomach?”
“What does the meerkat say when I eat him?”
“What do the birds say when I eat the cookie?”
“What does the truck say when I go by it?”
“What do the neighbors say when we smell the flowers?”
“What did the ant say when I squished it?”
“What does the road say when I ride my tricycle on it?”
And on and on and on and on. And on.

Speaking of riding your tricycle, you have finally mastered this skill. You’ve known how to pedal for a while, but only recently decided to do it consistently. You took your papa by surprise with this change, yelling out, “Look Papa! I’m pedaling!” just in time for him to glance up and see you and the trike tumbling head over heels down the hill in the backyard. Thankfully he was right there and grabbed you before you made it very far, and aside from a bump to the chest, you were okay. You’ve dumped it a few times going around the block too, as sometimes steering and pedaling at the same time is a little more than you can handle. Combine this with the small hills in the neighborhood and you get up some speed, realize you’re heading for someone’s lawn, turn the wheel sharply, and over you go. We’ve started making you wear a helmet.

In addition to all of your outdoor activities, you love to play pretend and will “pick” food out of a book to eat it and feed it to me. “Do you want some cake mama?” as you pinch the pretend cake off the page and lift it to my lips? “How about a sip of tea?” We also do this with your play food, concocting elaborate meals with lots and lots of condiments. You love condiments (both pretend and real). You definitely inherited your father’s taste for mustard.

But you know where to draw the line. The other day your papa was making Grover eat a fish, and you were very upset about this, insisting over and over that he was not to eat the fish. Your papa – who loves to antagonize you – just kept right at it, with Grover plaintively crying that he was starving and he needed to eat. Finally you brought your nose up to Grover’s, stared him in the eyes, and said, “You’re a doll.” Duh. Dolls don’t need to eat.

We baked cookies for the first time the other day, another thing I’m very ambivalent about. I recently made the decision to allow sweets to enter your life and not surprisingly, you can’t get enough of them. But I figure if you’re going to be eating them, the least I can do is make them myself and try to ensure they are as healthy as possible. So when I saw this recipe for chocolate chip cookies, using almond flour and agave nectar, I decided to try it (FYI, they fail to mention an oven temperature … I cooked them at 350 and that seemed to work well). You were a little confused by this process, asking repeatedly as we left the grocery store where your cookies were and not at all grasping the concept of this nebulous thing called “ingredients”. And then it was time for lunch and a much needed nap. When you woke from your nap I went in to get you. You greeted me with a huge smile and said, “Are we going to make cookies now?” And indeed we did, a process which thoroughly delighted you. You had “just a little more batter” about 50 times, but I figure that is part of the joy of baking cookies.

You will cup your hands together to tell me how small something is, or fling your arms wide to show me how big … or how big you think it ought to be. You are also always telling me what your “fravrite” color is (there’s a Brett Favre joke in there somewhere, I just can’t figure it out). First it’s red, then blue, then purple, then yellow, and so on. I used to laugh at your indecisiveness but then I realized that each time you said this you were speaking your truth. I have come to see this as a lesson for me … a reminder that nothing in life is static, and it is okay to go with the ebb and flow, to embrace change instead of always clinging to the same thing.

But change can be hard, too. You are still a certified binky addict, something which causes me some anxiety especially now that our (very holistic) dentist has warned me that it’s causing a cross-bite and needs to go. You have not slept without a binky in your mouth for nearly 3 years, and I’m not quite sure how we’re going to go about this. I think it is too soon after Sophie’s birth to take away something that gives you so much comfort, but I am not looking forward to the process.

Another thing I’m loathe to change is your sleeping arrangements. You still sleep in your crib, even though you are very adept at climbing in and out of it. Only twice have you climbed out after you’ve been put to bed for the night, and I’m very nervous about what you might do when we transition you to a regular bed. Especially since sleep is still such a precarious thing for you. You fight it with every fiber in your being, insisting right up to the last minute that you are not tired and you don’t want to sleep. Sometimes you fall asleep in my arms as you are screaming those very words. You awake during the night and start screaming immediately – something that takes about a year off my life every time you do it. The shrieks you emit make my hair stand on end, and I’m surprised you haven’t broken any of our glasses (thankfully your sister has so far slept through these episodes, although I’m not entirely sure how). This middle-of-the-night screaming has been very difficult for me, wresting me from my bed, bleary-eyed and confused. I don’t always rise to the occasion, and I am still trying to figure out a better way to handle things.

You have become such a big girl that I sometimes forget you are still a child, not operating at the rational level of an adult. You recently developed a fear of thunder, and you cower and cling to me, insisting that I pick you up. I tried explaining that it’s just the clouds bumping into each other, but you are not having it. The worst is when it happens at night, when you cry out in terror, and will not be left alone. A few weeks ago, in a desperate attempt to get some sleep during a middle of the night thunderstorm, I dragged you into my bed. Although we co-slept for the first 9 months of your life, you have not slept in my bed since. Not for lack of trying on my part, as I have invited you there when you are sick or upset or just won’t sleep for whatever godforsaken reason. But it always devolves into a wrestling match, with you jumping up and down and flinging yourself onto me. Lying down and sleeping? Nah, not so much. But we hadn’t tried it in a while, and a mama has got to sleep. So I carried you to my room after administering many warnings about having to lie down and be quiet and close your eyes and sleep. And you know what? You did it. It took about an hour, but you were quiet (mostly) and still (mostly) and we laid together and cuddled, and by the light of my nighttime nursing nightlight I watched your eyes get heavy and finally close, your thick, dark lashes dusting the beautiful curve of your cheek.

It is hard for me to believe that you used to be small enough to fit inside my body. My lap barely contains you now, and when you nurse it’s all arms and legs tangled up and spilling over. You are independent, opinionated, wild, loud, energetic and always on the go go go. Your language constantly amazes me, and I have come to expect that you will always be capable of expressing yourself, forgetting that there are still so many things that are unknown to you. Never mind the fact that feelings can be hard to name, even for an adult. But when I watched you that night, sleeping peacefully in my bed, it reminded me just how little you really are. You are still my baby … and always will be.

Happy Birthday sweetheart. I love you.

Love,
mama

As in, I’m getting it! Overall things have been going well with Sophie, but she’s gassy just like her sister. It’s not like she spends hours screaming in pain, but it’s just bad enough to disturb her sleep and therefore mine. Add in my own long-standing insomnia issues, and some nights I was only getting 2 or 3 hours of sleep. If I got 5 I felt lucky.

This was mind-numbingly painful for me, and my days were pretty fucking miserable. I was also an awful parent, constantly butting heads with M and resorting to tactics I really don’t agree with (punishment, bribes, coercion).

I tried everything I could think of to help Sophie – craniosacral therapy, chiropractic, homeopathy, NAET and the dreaded elimination diet (which thankfully resolved the reflux, but not the gas). I finally just quit trying. My healer thinks the universe is trying to teach me that not everything is my responsibility, that it’s not my job to “fix” things, that I can stop trying to figure everything out, stop trying to be perfect, and just be. I have to say I agree with her, but when trying to manage an infant and almost 3-year-old on 2 hours of sleep, I really didn’t give a flying fuck about lessons from the universe. I just wanted less gas and more sleep!

But I did decide to quit doing everything. I stopped making appointments and ceaselessly searching for a way to “solve” this “problem”. And about 2 weeks ago I stopped using the homeopathics because they didn’t seem to be helping anyway. I even started venturing off the elimination diet. But then I was rewarded with about 5 really hard nights. Again I started wondering what I had done “wrong” and how I could “fix” things. I know this is not a healthy mindset, but it did occur to me that the bad nights started around the time I stopped the homeopathics. Hmmmm. I started them up again, and huh, maybe they were helping after all. And things started to get better. And then things got really good, and now it seems like the gas is essentially gone, and – get this – for the last three nights, Sophie, at almost 12 weeks old, has slept for 6-8 hours straight. No waking, no nursing, just fussing once or twice, which is quickly resolved by re-binking. (Yeah, I swore I wouldn’t go that route again, but you gotta do what you gotta do.)

No way have I even started to make up all the sleep I’ve lost in the last few months, but jesus does it feel good to get 7 straight hours of sleep. I don’t think M slept 4 straight hours until she was over a year old. This? This feels decadent. Luxurious. Practically criminal.

I don’t know if it will continue, although I have to admit I desperately hope it does. With sleep like that, I can do this. I can manage, function, not dissolve into the evil screaming mother with three heads (one of which spins 360 degrees while spewing fire). It still isn’t easy, but it’s at least doable.

(Although everything is on hold while I wait for the dust to settle after my huge dietary transgressions yesterday … I ate three basil, tomato, mozzarella sandwiches (first wheat and dairy in two months) and I also had a chocolate cupcake (first chocolate and eggs in two months). Sophie seemed unusually uncomfortable about 24 hours later, although it seemed to pass (ha ha) fairly quickly. So I am crossing my fingers and holding my breath that it was an isolated incident and not related to the food. I can’t tell you how badly I want to be able to eat again.)

And I have to thank mb as well, for her mention of the Kanoe hammock on her blog. I have been eyeing hammocks since I was pregnant, but couldn’t decide what to get. With her endorsement, I made the plunge and bought a Kanoe, and I think it is also part of the reason for these long stretches of sleep. I heartily recommend it.

Now. If I could just figure out how to get her to take her naps in it, I would be happy. Right? Isn’t that how life is? I just need “this” (fill in the blank) and then I’ll be happy. Heh heh. One of these days I’ll figure out how to just be. Maybe.

And while we wait (for hell to freeze over) here are some recent pictures.

She has the most awesome smile, and we have been seeing a lot of it these days. She’s a very happy baby.

Peace man.

In my opinion, the only thing more beautiful than a nursing baby …

Is one who is sleeping on the b o o b (sorry for the spacing, but I get tired of whackos finding my site whenever I use a word like that) …

Well, things are improving. I finally broke down and went on the evil elimination diet (nothing but turkey, lamb, rice, potatoes, millet (yuck), zucchini, summer squash and pears, sigh). It made a difference – a big difference. The reflux is essentially gone, although she is still pretty gassy. In addition to the diet, we are doing chiro, CST, homeopathy and NAET. NAET uses acupressure to tell the body on an energetic level that it does not need to react to a food (or other irritant, like pollen, etc.). A friend has had very good luck using it to treat her son’s allergies, so I thought I would give it a try. The practitioner simply puts a few drops of my breastmilk (expressed after one hellish day where I ate a little of everything I could find in my house) on Sophie’s skin, then does the acupressure. She is also treating her for common candida problems – inability to absorb minerals, B vitamins, etc. We go back next week to see if she has “cleared” for that milk, which theoretically means I could go back to eating anything I ate that day. I am hoping like hell it works. In the meantime, the weight is falling off, which is about the only good thing about that fucking diet.

I want like hell to do a monthly update for my girls, but M discovered today that she can climb out of her crib. I’ve figured that she was physically capable of doing this for quite some time, but it only just dawned on her to try it today. She only naps once every week or two, but we’ve been doing quiet time in the crib for mama’s sanity. I’ve got her in there now, but I don’t think it’s going to last for long. Thankfully Sophie is a good sleeper, but I’m not sure if I’ll ever find the time to do regular updates again.

In the meantime, here are a few recent pictures at least …

No, you have not traveled back in time 2 months. It’s just that I finally received the CD with my maternity pictures (it got lost in the mail). It’s hard to believe that’s little Sophie in there. So much has changed in the last few weeks …

All pictures in today’s post were taken by the lovely and talented Teresa of Teresa Anne Photography (you can find her here and here, and yes, there are pictures of Sophie, and me and Sophie together on her flickr page (uploaded on 5/10 and 5/11) … more of those to come when I receive that CD!).

My amazing friends threw me a Mother Blessing today. The best way I can describe how I feel is that I am truly … blessed. They cleansed and purified my birth space with smudge, wove a garland of fresh flowers for my hair,

assembled beads into a birth necklace for me and a big sister bracelet for M,

henna’d my belly, soaked and rubbed my feet, brought me beautiful objects and gifts from nature for my birth altar,

endowed me with words of strength for my birth,

read me poetry and assembled a book of drawings, poems, wisdom, kindness, love and friendship.

They held candles for me to blow out as I released my fears to the wind, and brought runes for me to choose from that were a window into my heart. We bound ourselves together, and while the threads were physically severed, we each wear a reminder encircled around our wrists to symbolize the web of love and support they wove for me today.

It is hard for me to put my feelings into words. In these weeks approaching birth, I find myself sinking into a place where there are no words, just feelings, existence, being. My heart balks at the idea of trying to capture these ephemeral strands and bend them to my will, shaping them into letters and sounds, and today is no different. I am giving myself permission to be okay with this, knowing that this is a necessary place for me to be in order to birth, and so I will simply say that I feel encircled and supported by this community of amazing women; that I feel blessed … loved.

As the guest of honor, I vowed to fully immerse myself in the day instead of watching at a remove, camera in hand. As such, I have no pictures of the event itself, although my friends took some so there may be some more images forthcoming. In the meantime, I have shared with you the reminders they left for me today, as well as a picture of my birth space (imagine a birth tub in the general vicinity of that round table).

Blessings.

We had a very heavy snowfall a few days ago, and then temperatures in the high 40s today. The snow sublimated directly into the thirsty air, creating a dense fog that draped beautifully on the landscape for the entire day. I was out running errands this afternoon, but got home just in time to use the last of the fading light to take some pictures (I almost didn’t go out, but sure am glad I did). These were all taken in my neighborhood, with the assistance of my trusty tripod.

It’s hard for me to believe my eyes when I type that – I am already more than halfway to welcoming this baby to the world. Now that I am out of the first trimester, this pregnancy has been rather uneventful, gliding past me the way water slides down a mossy stream – effortlessly, quietly, peacefully … inevitably. Except for the worsening hip pain at night and the tumbling of my baby inside me, I sometimes forget altogether that I’m pregnant. I worry that this is a bad thing, because this is likely the last time I will grow another human being inside of me, and I wonder if I should be more aware and appreciative of what is happening, or if I should be doing more to prepare for the birth … reading, meditating, visualizing, affirming. And yet I keep returning to the lessons this pregnancy has held for me. Faith. Trust. Be.

I listened to a CD a month or so ago that is meant to help you communicate with your unborn child. It walks you through a chakra-opening meditation, then prompts you to open to your baby. You can ask questions if you have them, or just be willing to receive. I couldn’t think of any questions, so I sat and waited, and heard over and over that everything was okay, to relax and not stress out, that all was well. At the fourth chakra, I started to feel silly for not having any questions, but struggled to think of something that didn’t seem insultingly trivial. Finally I asked, Is there anything I can do for you? And swiftly came the reply: No mama. Is there anything you can do for yourself? I could practically see the baby shaking its head with an exasperated look on its face that said, “Haven’t you heard any of the things I’ve been telling you?” I smiled, chagrined, and thought okay, okay, I’ve got it. I need to take care of myself, think of myself. You have told me this in so many ways, and still it is difficult to believe that one can be a mother and also think of oneself. M taught (and still teaches) me to honor her, which is a necessary lesson, but I admit I sometimes go too deep. This baby is pulling me back, teaching me not to get lost in the process, to honor myself too.

It’s easy for this baby to do this, since it is benefiting from M’s lessons. When I was pregnant with M, the OB and I used to chuckle over her antics when she tried to catch her heartbeat with the doppler. As soon as it found M she was gone again, running away. I don’t think that’s funny anymore, and I wonder what the experience was like for her, how those waves felt as they drummed their way into her home, or if they hurt her in some way. During one of my ultrasounds I felt an uncomfortable tingling sensation on my belly and had to resist the urge to get up off the table and flee. It did not occur to me to wonder what M felt (then or the other three or four times), but I wonder now. Did she feel trapped, with no way to escape? Was the space that nourished and sheltered her suddenly uncomfortable and unwelcoming? Did she lose her trust in me? So for this baby there have been no ultrasounds, no doppler, nothing to invade or disturb the sanctuary of my womb. When the midwife pressed a fetoscope firmly against my belly a few weeks ago, she was rewarded only with a sharp kick, the percussion ringing in her ears. This baby wants to know, Why do you need to hear my heartbeat? Can’t you see my mama’s belly is growing? Don’t you feel me moving? Everything is just fine in here, thankyouverymuch.

Over and over I hear, “Yes, you must honor me, but then you can let go. You don’t need to hover or worry. You have given me exactly what I need – a safe and loving space – and now you can turn your attention to yourself. Remember you?”

And so I learn to trust, to believe, to listen to and remember myself, and in the process to let go of judgment and criticism. So when I wonder if I should be more aware of this baby, and how I might do that, I keep coming up empty. We share breath, food, body, life. Is that not enough? My baby is happy. I am happy. We flow through this life together just as we are meant to be. And so I decide that I am doing exactly what I need to do. Nothing further is needed.

And when I wonder if I should be doing more to prepare for the birth, I realize nothing needs to be done. It’s okay to trust that I already know everything, have every skill, possess all the wisdom that is necessary. There are plans of course … a wise and trusting midwife has been hired, a birth tub has been arranged, a birth kit will be ordered. But that is logistical stuff. Internally, I have everything, am everything that I need. I don’t need to read books on how to give birth. If anything, they will separate me from myself and fill my heart with someone else’s wisdom. I don’t need someone else’s wisdom. I already have my own.

Still my mind worries and ruminates and is sometimes unconvinced. But my baby and my heart whisper that all is well. When the time comes for me to open wide and let this baby out, I will spiral within myself, traveling back to a place that makes me one with the universe. I will stand at the doorway between life and death, where the great circle closes in on itself and gives birth again. I will know the way there and it will not be without pain. I will give myself up to it but I will not be consumed. I will crack myself open and melt into that space, but I will not be lost. I will have moments of doubt and indecision, but my heart will be there for me and it will know. It will take me to my baby, and I will return with an empty womb and full arms.

And so my child, know that I hear your wisdom and I make it a part of me. There are no shoulds or woulds or coulds. It’s just you and me. Being.

Sometimes I think it’s a curse to be a photographer. I’m no longer content with snapshots, but anything more takes a lot of work. Especially when it’s a self portrait. A bunch of furniture had to be dragged out of the way, pictures removed from the wall, clothing selected and coaxed into place (repeatedly), house cleared of spouse and offspring, camera mounted on the tripod, and let’s not even talk about the technical difficulties of pulling off a self portrait with a timer (such as, oh gee, setting the focus – something that will thankfully be remedied by the wireless remote I ordered as soon as I finished this session). And then there’s the trial and error. I feel so blind not being able to look through the viewfinder and see how the light is hitting my face, do I need to twist left or right, are my clothes in the right place, should I tip my head up or down, and so on. Throw in the hurried scramble to get into place and make a futile attempt at posing before the timer trips the shutter, and this was an exercise in frustration. Despite my commitment to take more belly shots this time around, it’s no wonder this didn’t happen before now.

I’ll put my least favorite first. I hesitate to include it, but it somehow feels cowardly if I don’t show my face.

The next two took an enormous amount of trial and error. Holding a dSLR over your head with a 17-50mm lens hanging off the front is no easy feat. There was lots of grumbling and cursing as I tried different angles to get the shot I wanted, only to find it hadn’t focused where I desired. The first of the two was perfect except I cut off my feet. Try as I might, I could not replicate this shot (with feet included), and finally decided that this one would have to do.

Apparently my stomach does not have enough contrast to give the camera something to focus on. I did this next shot over and over, and every time it focused on my feet or my chest. I finally held one hand level with my belly button while focusing, and removed it for the shot. No big deal, until you realize you only have one hand left to hold that heavy ass camera – and you not only have to aim it while simultaneously not dropping it, but you also have to delicately free up a finger to press the shutter button (only halfway!) to set the focus. Frankly, I can’t believe I pulled it off.

This one was rescued by the crop …

I hope to do a lot more of these as the weeks pass. It may be frustrating, but I imagine it’s a good exercise and will force me to stretch my skills. Plus it’s the best method I have for documenting my pregnancy in pictures. I really regret not making more of an effort with M. I was so caught up in feeling fat and ugly; this time I am determined to capture the beauty of my pregnant form.

To my beautiful daughter,

You turned two years old … well … ahem … about a month ago (cough , cough). Sorry about that. I’ve had a lot on my plate, and frankly, I like to include nice pictures of you in these updates, and that is getting harder and harder to do (no thanks to your habit of fleeing every time you see the camera).

The other night we watched movies from when you were 3 months old. I am still trying to reconcile the fact that the running, jumping, hanging, climbing, swinging, compassionate, loving, practically-talking-in-full-sentences toddler that I live with is one and the same as that adorable little baby who cooed and squawked and tried with every fiber of her being to wrap her tiny fingers around a ring and navigate it to her mouth. You were pretty fascinated by the whole affair too.

Your grasp of the English language has revealed a whole new side of you, in addition to providing a constant source of amusement. When a simple “No!” isn’t getting your point across (as it often doesn’t with your father, who takes great delight in teasing you), you follow it with “Nope!-ope!-ope!-ope!” When you accomplish something, you proudly exclaim “Did it!” or “There you go,” and when you are intrigued or entranced by something you say “Look at tha-at” with a beautiful, lilting sing-song in your voice. When your frustration with a toy reaches a boiling point, you screech “Do it! Do it! Do it!” at the top of your lungs, except “Do” is said more as “Dewww”, which always brings a smile to my face. When you leave a room you wave and say “Bye-bye, see you later, be right back.” I tend to say “thank you” when you hand me things, so now you say “thank you” when you hand me things. Close enough.

You’re still confused by a few things – primarily the difference between “me” and “you.” When I need to go to a different part of the house, I’ve gotten into the habit of saying “Do you want to come with me?” But it still took me a second to figure out what you meant when you howled “Come with me!!!!” from your high chair as I left the room the other day. When I put you to bed I usually massage you for a few minutes, so I ask “Do you want me to rub you?” and now, without fail, you command “Rub you!” And trying to clear this up takes us to “Who’s on first” territory every time. “No M, do you want to come with me?” Stops and scratches head. “I mean, you need to say ‘Come with you,’ okay?” I pause while mentally reviewing the sentence for accuracy. “And if you want me to rub you, you need to say ‘Rub me,’ got it?” We look at each other in confusion, and then get on with our day. You’ll get it eventually.

Your memory simply astounds me. Your father took you for a walk the other day, and as you strolled past the house a few doors down, you said “Water all gone.” He didn’t know what you meant until he remembered that a week or two before their sprinkler had been running when you walked by. You learn new words and phrases like no tomorrow. Your father took great delight in teaching you to say, “I demand it,” the other day, and I just about peed my pants laughing when I heard you muttering it under your breath while playing yesterday.

You love your father’s mom and dad so much, which absolutely thrills me. His mom is Swedish, so we call her Farmor, and his dad is Dutch, so we call him Opa. When I ask “Guess who’s coming over today?” you practically explode into the air and squeal “OPA AND FARMOR!!!!” Your Farmor dotes on you like no other, and it makes my heart melt to watch the two of you together. If I try to get into whatever it is you’re doing together, you give me a stiff arm. Sometimes I think you like her better than me, but then I remember that you refuse to go to bed at night for anyone but me, crying, “mama, mama, mama, mama,” over and over until I am summoned home to sit and rock with you, after which you are finally willing to fall asleep (after grousing for a few minutes first, of course). I can’t say I’m exactly thrilled with this habit, but at least it serves to make me feel indispensable.

You latched on to a friend’s doll a while back, so I bought you a suitable replacement. I guess I was saying things like, “Where’s your new doll?” all the time, because now her name is “New Doll.” You are doing a lot of imaginative play, feeding your stuffed animals, nursing New Doll, nursing from New Doll, washing her hands, and carting her everywhere in the little stroller you got for your birthday. My god do you love that stroller – almost as much as you love going for walks in your own stroller. One would never know that you were an AP baby who was almost constantly worn in one kind of carrier or another for the first 9 months of your life.

Your Farmor and Opa saved many of your father’s toys from when he was little, and he recently dragged out all of his Little People and their town, airplane and camper. I discouraged him, saying you were far too young, but I was wrong – you love the Little People. You will sit for the longest time, carefully arranging little chairs around little tables, and trying to set the little people into place. But your favorite thing by far is to wear them on your fingers. Perhaps not what the designers had in mind, but hey … imaginative play, right?

You have turned into a downright monkey, tackling all of the big kid equipment at the playground. You love to stand at the openings of the structures that are designed so someone can climb up or down on some type of ladder, pole, monkey bars, etc. But you are not content to just stand and gaze, oh no. Your little hands grip the vertical bars on each side, and with a joyful “Wheeeee!” you lift your feet and swing out into empty space, making my heart flip-flop and the hands of any nearby parents rise involuntarily to catch you. You have only fallen once, and it was a fairly controlled fall (I think you were mostly hurt when my camera bonked you on the head as I rushed to catch you), but it scared me enough that I now follow you faithfully up onto the structure so I can stand behind you with my hands an inch beneath your armpits (invisibly of course, because any obvious attempt to spot you is instantly disdained). I prefer this method to standing below you, because you move from opening to opening so quickly, I often can’t get around fast enough if I’m on the ground. This leads to another problem, however. Your next favorite thing to do is go down a slide and then head straight for some ridiculously huge climbing contraption, while I’m stranded up on the structure, searching frantically for a way to get down with at least some of my dignity still intact. Let’s just say that going to the playground is always a workout for both of us.

You started doing somersaults last night. You are very proud of this. You have yet to learn that it’s always best to first examine the terrain your ass will be landing on, though.

With the help of both sets of grandparents, we got you a Learning Tower for your birthday. You did not immediately understand the whole new world this opened up to you – the kitchen counter. But you’re onto it now, and love to take your meals there, in addition to “helping” me cook. I was making a marinade the other night, so you helped me squeeze the lemons (you ate them), and measure the lemon juice, olive oil and soy sauce. Then you started eating it. I added freshly crushed garlic, and you picked it out and ate it. Then I added a teaspoon of powdered ginger. Before I could mix it in, you grabbed a pinch and shoved it into your mouth. You stood stock still for a moment as an alarmed look came over your face, then you raised your lips to me and urgently said “Kiss! Kiss!” I gave you a kiss, and then a drink of water. After which you tried to pick up the bowl and drink the marinade. Thankfully your father arrived home right as I needed to add honey (have I mentioned that you haven’t yet been exposed to sweets?), so we did a surreptitious switch, replacing the “real” marinade with another bowl with small amounts of lemon juice, olive oil and soy sauce. Which you also tried to drink. Sometimes your eating habits drive me nuts (mostly the fact that you run hot and cold on things, so I never know what to give you), but how can I not be thrilled with your sense of adventure and fearlessness when it comes to food? Even when it means you pick up a mug of hot coffee when we’re not looking and take a swig.

My dear daughter, it’s easy to list all the funny and endearing things you do, but in the end, I really don’t know what to say about you … to you. I don’t know how to describe who you are with the inadequate tools at my disposal – pictures and words. They don’t even come close to capturing your vibrant spirit, magical laugh, and the way you sometimes just stand in a moment and watch every single thing around you with absolute concentration, hardly moving your body, oblivious to whatever is in your hands, utterly entranced by the spectacle of life. Other times you fling yourself in headlong, taken up by the thrumming energy as you run and laugh and play with complete abandon.

Not a day goes by that I don’t stand in complete awe of you; of how you’re growing and changing and learning. But more than that, it’s really just who you are. You are a happy and joyful child who still hates going to bed, but other than that, I simply can’t complain. You are incredibly compassionate and loving, clamoring to hold and kiss the new babies that have recently cropped up in our life, and quite simply far exceeding any expectations for empathy I would have for a two year old. You accidentally hit me in the face with a toy the other day, and when I yelped in pain your face was so stricken with remorse I found myself comforting you, even as I held my hand over the throbbing lump forming on my head.

I also love that you trust me, and know that I will keep my word. And I will, my sweet girl, I always will. I want that trust and faith to grow, so I nurture it with every word I speak. There are moments when it’s tempting to lie to buy a moment’s peace, but I’ve promised myself – and you – that I won’t do it. I want you to know that I’ll always mean what I say, because in the end that trust is worth so much. And it even helps with the daily minutiae of our life – we’ve bypassed countless tantrums because you believe me when I say you’ll get what you want, even if it isn’t at that exact moment.

I think it is this trust that allows you to give yourself so joyfully and selflessly to the world. Sure there are times when you’re mad because you can’t have someone else’s toy, but more often than not, you’re content to hand it over or swap it for something new. The other day, you and your friend were passing dolls back and forth, and no one was happy – you wanted her doll and she wanted whatever doll wasn’t in her hands – and in the end, you were both fussing and kicking in your strollers as we walked. There was no solution to satisfy all parties, so in an effort to soothe you, I handed you a pacifier, which you promptly stuck in your mouth. Your friend continued to whine and complain, and do you know what you did, my beautiful, angel child? You leaned across the small gap that separated you, and handed her the pacifier. That was one of those moments of awe – that you are able to see outside yourself, see your friend’s unhappiness, and try to help her. At times like those, I am so overwhelmed by your sweet, gentle nature, I want to gather you in my arms and hold you close to my heart and soak you in. If you would only let me (yes, despite being sweet and gentle, you are still the anti-cuddle toddler).

When I put you down for your nap on your birthday, I stroked your back and said “Happy Birthday” for the umpteenth time. You replied “Happy Birth” and suddenly my throat caught and tears welled in my eyes as I remembered just how unhappy your birth likely was for you. I had already thought of the long and difficult labor we shared together, how your head was tipped and you were probably frightened and in pain, how we were separated and you were suctioned and the trauma it caused. And I thought also of all the work I’ve done in CST with my own birth; that I still carry remnants of it with me to this very day, and the sadness – and yes, guilt and regret – I feel when I think of what you must carry with you still. But when you said “Happy Birth” I remembered too the way I have been re-making my birth, reimagining it the way I want it to be, and how this helps my body, mind and spirit let go and move forward … heal. And as the tears slid down my cheeks I wished with all my heart that you will be able to do the same … to take your birth and make it your own, to dream a happy birth for yourself. You deserve nothing less my beautiful child, and how I wish I could do it for you; but it is out of my hands now. That is your journey, although I will always be with you, ready to stand at your side when you need me.

I feel so lucky to have you in my life. Thank you for choosing me. Happy Birthday my beautiful daughter … and Happy Birth.

Love,
Mama

(To get the last picture to fit on the page, I had to shrink it so much that her eyes look a little weird. That’s not how it really looks … you can see a bigger version here.)

I have loved photography for so long, but historically have only applied myself to the art sporadically. My journey into motherhood has finally taught me to carve out a little precious space for myself, so I have been working much harder on my hobby these last few months. But sometimes I feel so dejected. It’s so hard to photograph M; she is a blur of motion, and seems to positively loathe the camera. It’s near impossible to get her to look at it, and when she does it’s so fleeting that I rarely capture it in time. I get so few pictures that I really like, sometimes I wonder if I have any talent at all. What’s that saying about all the monkeys and typewriters and the works of Shakespeare? If I take enough pictures, at least some of them are bound to come out good; but it would be luck, not talent, right?

So it was with excitement and also trepidation that I looked forward to the photo shoot I’d scheduled with a pregnant friend this past weekend. Finally – a model who would do what I said and hold still! I could actually place her where the light was good, instead of stalking her and hoping she would pause for the briefest second at just the right time. I could take my time choosing the right exposure, and I could even bracket! And focus – the bane of my existence – I could take all the time in the world to try and get the focus correct. I was nearly giddy with anticipation. But. I also knew there would be no excuses. If these didn’t come out good, I had no one to blame but myself. I was putting the last few months of work and study to the test. Would I pass?

We went first to a small wooded lot near her home. It was so incongruous … a riot of trees and bushes and wilderness plunked into the middle of a suburban tract. There was an amazing fence made of small tree trunks, and two big doors for a gate. And a no trespassing sign. Which we ignored. The gate and fence faced south, and I commented as we approached that we would definitely shoot some fence shots, but only on the street side, as it would be all shadow on the inside. We could do that on the way out. We slipped through the gate, picked our way through the muddy, swampy ground (both in flip flops!), and I started scouting for locations while the blood-thirsty mosquitoes mounted an attack. It was mid-afternoon – not the best time to shoot, but when child care is available, one gets to work.

Chelsea was an absolute dream. She is so beautiful – and even more so when she’s pregnant. She was a trooper for the shoot, standing still for minutes at a time while the mosquitoes dive-bombed her exposed skin; wading through muck to get to just the right spot; twisting her body to catch the elusive sun. I hemmed and hawed, pushed her this way and that, composed and shot, and composed again. Finally I could think of no more places, no more poses, although I always feel like the work is undone, that I’ve left something important out.

We turned to leave, and as we approached the gate, I noticed that one door stood slightly ajar, leaving a tiny crack that was illuminated by the glowing sun. I paused, my mind whirring. I plunked my stuff on the ground and told her to go outside, and then peek back in. I have a vision. I don’t know if I can make it work. But I have a vision.

I am amazed by this photograph for so many reasons, but what I really love is how it symbolizes the step she is about to take. She is going from mama of one to mama of two, just weeks from walking through those big doors, never to return. But look at that glow! She is an ethereal angel, taking that beautiful light with her wherever she goes. She will do fine; I am sure of it.

We returned to her house to take some more pictures, which were sadly interrupted by the onset of a migraine (me). We still got some good shots, and we plan to get together again in the near future to try for some more. Here are a few, and come check out my flickr site to see the rest. I will probably add even more in the coming days, as I’m still not done proofing everything.

As far as I’m concerned, I passed the test.