birthquake

I've never run a marathon. I am not a runner. So it's amusing to me that that's the go-to comparison for the physical and mental demands of labor: It's like running a marathon.

I suppose the metaphor is intended for people who have no way of conceptualizing the stamina and perseverance required to give birth, but who could, at least poetically, relate to running a marathon. Without actually being able to compare, I'd say it may be like running a marathon, except you have no idea how long it will take, there is no predictable route, and you haven't trained for it. 

Everyone was telling me, as my due date approached, that the third time around would go so much faster and be so much easier. I'd nod and humor them, but I just knew it wasn't going to be true for me... My body doesn't do fast labor.

(OK, technically speaking, at 22 hours, this labor was the shortest of the three, but that just sounds like I'm bragging, doesn't it?)

I had a couple of false starts two nights in a row, which got my hopes (and my nerves) up, but didn't go anywhere. When contractions started again the following afternoon, I was a little skeptical, but more than anything I was eager to go. And even though I knew I was facing another whole day of utterly unpredictable marathoning, I was still surprised that it took me ages to reach 'active' labor. 

It took AGES to reach active labor. I timed contractions obsessively, trying to will myself into some kind of productive rhythm, but they were all over the map. Unfortunately, they were formidable enough to keep me from sleeping, so from 1pm on Sunday until 7am on Monday, I paced and puffed and counted and cried. The time went bogglingly slow. The true challenge wasn't the physical pain, it was in psyching myself up for the real race, which I realized I wasn't anywhere close to starting each time I called the midwife for a pep talk and she assured me she'd come when I was in 'active' labor. I went through two midwives' 8-hour shifts this way. 

After pulling an all-nighter without having made any significant progress, I felt disheartened and desperate. The next midwife came on shift at 8am, and bless her, she called me at 7:45 to check in. Still nothing to report... The kids were up, the sun was up, and I was still on the couch moaning in pain and disbelief every 7 to 30 minutes. Not long after that, though, I lost the mucous plug, and instead of feeling completely dejected that it meant I'd gone through ALL THOSE HOURS to dilate one measly centimeter, I was thrilled and relieved that something new was happening. 

I caught a second wind composed entirely of anger, and determined to ramp up the labor by pacing the living room (our living room is not big enough to pace in). I forced myself to walk through the contractions, swatting away the kids' attempts to help me sit on the yoga ball, swatting away Jason's attempt to hold me and help me breathe. JUST FUCKING GO, went my mind, GO GO GO. 

The next time I called the midwife, she offered to come over and examine me and see how things were going. Yes, I told her, come now. Is time. 

She arrived and I was still pacing, at 9:30am. We moved upstairs where she checked my dilation, and reported that I'd made it to 7cm. This was heartening. Better than heartening: I felt like a total bad-ass. I'd gone from 0 to 60 in an hour and a half. Active labor, you are MINE.

Next I took a bath, both to take the edge off the contractions, and also just to have something to do. Afterwards, things slowed down again slightly, but I was grateful for the respite, and the midwife told me that it was OK to rest a little and take this part easy. 

My water still hadn't broken, so even though I knew I was close, the waiting, coupled with the sheer exhaustion, was almost intolerable. I was practically begging the midwife to just break the water for me -- but their guidelines are that they don't interfere unless absolutely necessary, so I leaned back against Jason and fantasized about quitting entirely. After a few more contractions, the midwife suggested getting up and letting gravity help a little more, so I struggled onto all fours on the bed. The very next contraction broke the water in a heaving gush, and brought with it a terrible and involuntary push which crescendoed in a wild animalistic growl.

There is this moment of reckoning; a crazed focus and a breathless and pointed understanding: there is no way around this volcano. You have to go through it.

On my hands and knees there, I faced this moment and then let it be known I really felt:

NOOOOOOOOOOOOO! I screamed. NOOOOOOOO!!! NO!

The volcano was going to rip me in half if I stayed in that position.

I struggled again to get back to reclining, supported against Jason.

The midwife was encouraging me to push with the contractions, but I was caught up entertaining the notion that I'd do this one without any pushing... That's possible? Surely?

Finally I confessed: I'm afraid to push, I wailed.

Why? asked the midwife.

Which struck me as completely incomprehensible. Because it feels SO WRONG, I answered, since right at that moment it seemed nicer than saying BECAUSE IT FUCKING HURTS ARE YOU CRAZY.

I was so physically spent that I didn't even know how to muster the coordination to push -- to translate the concept of pushing into a muscular action with sufficient momentum to bring forth a baby. I made some attempts, against all better judgment, matter over mind; each time it felt weak and haphazard, but earned hearty praise from the midwives. 

I remained stubborn. I CAAAAANNNN'T, I cried with each brutal wave. Who wants to climb toward that excriciating summit?

And then: the pinching, searing, stinging burn, somehow high-pitched and sharp; the rim of the volcano, the molten earth.

That moment probably only lasted a minute, but had the acuity of a shard of glass, and it eclipsed everything and became The Only Moment, the only thing, the entire experience cleaved to this precipice of pain. 

But this is the deception of labor -- THE moment is actually the penultimate moment, because the next thing I knew, I could feel the head and could feel exactly how much more it was going to take to get it out. That was all I needed, to know I was just that close, and only had to manage one more massive push and then I could be done... this thought alone manifested the strength to bear it out, and, with a surging clenching screaming force, out she came, slippery and crying and whole, and I, wholly spent, holy made, gasping.

The pain and pressure vanished, and in their wake came overwhelming relief and gratitude, palpable as  gravity... everything else fell away and there she was, wriggling and human and A GIRL! Such a marvelous reward, such a terrible honor to be this doorway. 

Loïe, my new daughter, may you be as strong and determined as the labor that brought you. 

*

mmrrpjhhhhgg

And it turns out I do keep functioning after two months of the worst sleep deprivation of my life -- even after days of getting up at 5am, even after nights of waking up EVERY HOUR ON THE HOUR, even after weeks and weeks of not more than two hours at a stretch -- which is really kind of a shame because I want to make good on my threats to Go Off the Deep End. I think Jason won't take me seriously until I stop combing my hair and go a little twitchy-eyed.

But I was going to write a bunch of stuff and now I forgot what it was, so "functioning" is to be interpreted liberally, I guess.

Isla is nearly walking. WALKING. She's not even nine months old yet. She doesn't even have any teeth yet. The other day she was jamming on the "demo" buttons of Auden's keyboard (which is her favorite toy EVAR), and she raised herself to standing and then started doing a little booty-shake to the music. Of course the minute we whipped out the flip camera to document, she went all Warner Brother's Frog on us.

Auden decided to start calling me mamblah today.

...?

Oh! And I finished making Auden's costume for Halloween. I accomplished this in five-minute increments over the past six weeks. You, too, can ralize your dremz!

And, zzzzzmmppphhhhtttt.

*

my big little guy

Dear Auden,

You're 19 months old today and I am totally in love with you right now. We've got a good thing, you and I.

We've got inside jokes and special games; I know that you're going to look for the hammer in this book about trucks, and you're going to match the cement mixer on the cover with the cement mixer inside that book about trucks; I understand you when you say "wee wee" for fire trucks and "no no" for tofu and "ani" for elephants; I know just where to tickle you to get the best belly laughs.

I didn't know toddler-hood was going to be this much fun -- I was so worried I wouldn't know how to handle you that I overlooked the possibility of knowing you even better now than I did a year ago. I didn't know how delightful it would be to hear you pronounce your first words, or how rewarding it would be to observe the keenness of your memory. I didn't know how entertaining you would be, singing to your trucks and hamming it up in the tub.

You made up a sign for turtle of your own accord -- it's intuitive and perfect. You sit your stuffed giraffe on the potty as your proxy and make great farting noises for him; you also like to put your slippers (that you refuse to wear) on his feet. The other day you were eating a piece of bread and I watched as you broke off a tiny piece to feed to one of your cars... it was heartbreakingly sweet.

Papa taught you how to say "what?" and made a funny game where he answers "I don't know!"

You babble words and sounds in little strings of syllabic associations: mama, mommy, mani, bunny, bapi, potty, papa, bapa...

You call your grandpas "bama," and your grandmas "nana."

The sound of your voice alone makes me laugh:



I think I'm getting better at letting time pass, at allowing you to grow at the breakneck speed you employ for just about everything. But I suspect too that being a mother means always harboring an ache for these sweet uncomplicated days and all the ones that came before.

But let's charge ahead! I'm with you now and no matter what, loving you up the best I can.

Love,
mama

*

excuses excuses

I'm going to blame my lack of getting my head on straight in a timely fashion after our vacation on, oh... the toddler! You didn't see that coming!

This morning I realized that the draggy body feeling and mid-afternoon slow brain I've been experiencing the past two weeks reminds me uncannily of the days when Auden WASN'T SLEEPING. Because while we were away he was waking up every night and since we've been back he's waking up every night and over the weekend it was TWICE a night plus crying and too-short naps and then I realized whoo boy if this feels bad we're in for quite a ride come February. So just humor me while I spend my time lighting incense at sleep altars and praying to goblin kings instead of blogging, k?

Why, here's the little rascal, now, fooling you with cuteness:



I don't care what anyone says, there's Benadryl in your future, kid!

*

dance dance evolution

Either Auden followed that link to breakdancing baby, or he's been studying butoh behind our backs:



(Also, check out the new action word! That's "jump" in case you didn't hear it)

wonder of wonders

You may have guessed from the totalitarian government black-out on any and all reporting on the diaper-free front, but I have for the most part given up on that. For like, the last year.

It was so much of a pain in my ass that I didn't want to push for it anymore, but I was still reluctant to admit defeat. Oh, I had such high hopes! But I couldn't argue with a thrashing writhing screaming kid -- that message is clear enough. He Did Not Want to Sit on the Potty.

So the latest development has surprised and delighted me all the more: for the past couple of weeks, we've been letting Auden go naked-butt in the mornings and usually at some point he will stop and grab his gut or give that look of intense concentration that can't mean anything else, and we grab the potty and lo, We're In Business. Then he makes a big production of taking the poo-in-the-potty to the toilet where he dumps it in, flushes it, and we clap and cheer like happy dorks.

I'm not sure exactly how this happened, but I can tell you that it was Jason who became diligent about giving him potty chances again, because I may or may not have become entirely soured on this endeavor. Also, I got a book on construction trucks, which served as the perfect motivator and distractor.

But check it out, it gets EVEN BETTER: this morning while neither Jason nor I was paying attention, Auden sat down on his potty of his own volition and did it HIMSELF, then got up and pointed to it. Jason realized what he'd done and we repeated our enthusiastic flushing ceremony.

For some reason this only works with poo, though. And I'm sure Auden knows upwards of 30 different signs and STILL won't do the one for potty.

But nevertheless, my unwavering parenting philosophy (Take What You Can Get) applies here, and we celebrate this decisive victory in the war on dirty diapers.

*

dancing, of a sort

Auden may not be in the same league as, say, Breakdancing Baby, but he does like to boogie when the mood is just right. Mainly the dancing involves clapping. In this clip it kind of seems like he's paying attention to the actual instruments in the music, though, which I'm attributing to his unbridled genius.



The dancing continues in this next clip with Auden's signature move, The Lean. Also, at the end is evidence for why it's so hard to film him doing anything -- he sees the camera and runs toward it going "baby! baby!" demanding to see videos of himself.



(He also does this whenever we sit down at the computer, crowing "baby! baby!" until we watch the latest one over and over, making me fear for the unchecked narcissism of his entire generation.)

But damn he's cute!

*

construction

There's a big construction project going on just up the street from our house, and it's become part of our morning routine to check it out.

Auden is totally ga-ga for trucks of all kinds, but especially the construction variety: bad-ass crawler back hoes with their big scoopers, hither and thither front-end loaders, and dump trucks full of gravel. He will sit transfixed, reverently watching the chain-smoking mustachioed workers, brrrrmmmmm-ing and beep-beep-ing along with the massive machines.

The other day we went with our neighbor's son, Jack (whom Auden ADORES, so it was doubly exciting). We all watched as they guided giant concrete pipes into the ground under the street.



When I was pregnant with Auden, and we found out he was a boy, this is the kind of stuff that I was terrified about. I know, right? Silly. But I felt so unprepared for the foreignness of boy-play -- stereotypical yet right on the money, as it turns out -- of trucks and trains and everything that GOES and DOES. I suppose guns and swords are next?

The funny thing is, now I'm really into it. It's not just that I love whatever brings him joy, which I do to a weak-kneed fault, but the more we hang out around the construction site, the more I appreciate all the engineering and apprenticing and skill and physical strength involved. This is a particularly big project -- they're ripping up the street to put in 8-ft sewage pipes -- and I marvel at the mountain of work before them, which they divide and accomplish in a hundred separate tasks, one after the other.

The trucks themselves are also marvelous: out-sized simulacra of our own limbs with hydraulic muscle; digging and filling, tamping and bracing, pumping, hauling, stacking, leveling... and I don't even see what's going on underground.



I mean, all this WORK so that we can have a functioning sewer system! Think about it next time you flush.


*

lemon face

signs abound

Oh, hello -- June? Is that you? I didn't even recognize you! Did you change your hair? No? Hmmm. Maybe it's the brisk 60 degree weather? Come on June, no need to pretend you're April. You're waaay warmer than her.

Okay. What I really wanted to tell you, aside from the fact that I've been too cold to blog all month, is that Auden is becoming a signing genius.

We've been watching baby signing dvd's every day for two months, and the only progress I noticed was my own increasing annoyance at the host's maniacal smiling. Oh, but she's effective. If I sing the theme song -- join in if you know it: baby, baby, baby signing time! -- he'll run to the TV, going "BEH-beeee, BEH-beeee," and insist on watching it. The other day I absent-mindedly sang the song about moms and dads, and I'll be darned if he didn't stick his little chubby thumb to his forehead and sign "dad."

His first and most vigorous sign was "dog" (an easy pat on the leg), which he does ALL THE TIME. He did "cat" for the first time on Monday while looking at a picture book, and then beamed at me, cleary pleased with himself. "Bird" is a favorite, too, I guess since we see a lot of them. He does the sign backwards, but we know what he means:



He does it when we go outside, he does it when he sees the fake seagulls hanging from the ceiling at Trader Joe's. The other morning, he did it at breakfast, totally confusing us, until we realized he was looking at this:

Genius!

Every day he pulls out a new one: Tuesday it was "shoes", Wednesday it was "truck". Or maybe it was "bus". We'll say any big vehicle that makes a loud noise.

It's so awesome to watch him put it all together and get excited to tell us about what he sees.

And here's this, only because it's totally cute:

one-act play

The scene: Friday night, 11pm, adults drifting off to sleep.

Auden: [whimper, plaintive cry]

Robin: Ahhh, crap.

Auden: [furious choking sandpaper scream]

Jason: Let's wait and see if he can figure it out on his own.

Auden: [hell-bent banshee yowl]

Robin: Ahhh, CRAP.

curtain

*

kidfest

Oh, the lure of swag.

What parent wouldn't brave thousands of square feet of fluorescent-lit warehouse crammed full of random vendors & hawkers, inflatable jump rooms, hyper kindergartners, and parents with neck tattoos just to get some free shit?

We watched a juggler in a sparkly vest, we visited an underwhelming baby section that featured a couple of deflated beach balls and some multi-colored cushion mats, we missed the Irish Dancers by mere seconds, and watched a lady in striped pants give a superbly condescending presentation on dog safety while her dog sidekick slept. We marveled at the long line of people waiting to get into the "grocery area" where it looked like they were getting free samples of Froot Loops and string cheese. Hey, times are tough.

Auden had the most fun at a "book nook" booth that had been deserted, running through the green curtains again and again, squealing with pleasure. Oh, and the baby goat was pretty cute, too.

Here's me with the kid:



And here's the kid with a kid:



I'm not sure what we came away with... some coupons and a squishy frisbee, I think. And some cute diaper covers that were cheaper than the Thirsties I was just about to order.

I kept thinking, surely there's something cool -- let's just look over there! no, over there! maybe there? -- until I accepted that it was just a big advertisement and that the wires running to the stages were more appealing to my child than any of the performances.

Okay, here's looking forward to Kidfest 2010!

*

one year, in pictures

one year, in words

Auden, my darling son.

You are a year old today, a length of time that is as meaningful as it is arbitrary.

We like it when things come full circle; we like to point at a map and say, I was here.

And so I was. We were. A year ago I was entreating you to come out, so exhausted of sleeping on my side, and of heartburn, and of the hugeness of you inside me. I promised you lots of kicking room, I ate spicy food, I cried. And then, when you were ready, you came, and you became our son.

I had a dream a long time ago about you, except in that dream your name was Bella and you were also my lover. The telling seems perverse, but I must have known somehow that my love for you would be that fierce, so intimate and raw and consuming.

We are creatures: in the most primal acts we discover our capacity for the divine. In those early days after you were born, I smelled like blood and you smelled like blood and we were irrevocably linked, my body still your home and your body finding equilibrium among the light and the dry air.

Over these months the seed of you has sprouted -- your personality is unmistakable -- and as much as I try to teach you about words and sleeping and what not to touch, it is you teaching me how to unfold, be patient, stay open to new growth.

Sometimes I worry that I am not enjoying you enough, the way you are at this very moment, because every moment is changing. My heart aches and I can't bear to think of you as a toddler, as a teenager, as a grown man with a baby of your own. I told you all of this when you were seven months old, back when that seemed like eons since those huge bleary incomparable days of your newborn-ness.

And so I want to preserve it all, like every parent does, in words and pictures and force of will, the feeling of you being my son. The things I love:

The very boy-shape of your head, the way you point and ask "ah? ah?" and I know what you mean, the way you are thrilled with yourself for learning to blow your whistle, the way you love books now and wait for the tiger pages so you can growl, the way you are too busy to eat in your chair and so take your food on the run like a pint-sized marathoner, the pursed-lip face of concentration you get when you're screwing the cap on and off, on and off, on and off the water bottle, the way you insist on still biting my chin with affection (even though now you have teeth).

Last week you even slept through the night, three nights in a row, all on your own. I really love that.

In this past year I haven't been able to finish a book, or a painting, or most of my sentences half the time. I have felt panicked, delirious, wise, giddy, angry, and damn strong -- often in the same day. I have felt debilitated by the exhaustion, and the weight of being your non-stop everything. I have felt resentful of the marionette strings of domesticity, I have felt constricted by your nap schedule (or lack thereof), I have felt unfairly wrenched out of my former life as a book-finishing, painting-finishing, out-to-dinner going, lazy-Sunday-morning-breakfast-eating, witty-conversation-having, quiet-observing non-parent.

You changed everything.

I traded all those things for the unalloyed pleasure of silky baby skin, staggering-drunk-zombie baby walk, exquisite staccato baby laugh, the inquisitive impatient wiggling goofy gorgeous go-go-go of YOU.

So I celebrate your first year, and my having survived it. Happy Birthday, sweetness.

*

i just blinked

A trip to Grand Rapids, a trip to Atlanta, sleep schedule all messed up, computer on the fritz, and egad, a month has gone by...

I have been composing posts in my head only to have them wither into lame Facebook status updates by the time I get a few minutes to myself. But OMG, we totally took the train and saw the grandparents and I had a raging hangover after a night out with some old high school pals, and I got a facial, and then we went to Atlanta to visit Jason's sister and Auden met his cousins and it SNOWED in Georgia and Auden flirted with our neighbor on the plane and he's doing this hilarious thing where he imitates the way I throw my head back and laugh except he just opens his mouth with no laughing, and he's also suddenly copying the way we hold the phone to our ears and what's next, I'll have to stop swearing?

I'll post more pictures soon but for now I'll slap up some videos I managed to take of Auden's emerging Evil Kneivel-ness.

From first tentative steps:



To accomplished tumbling:



To tumbling out of his crib:

[What, no video?]

Um, yeah. No.

Jason was on bedtime-duty while I was out at figure drawing class last night and when I came home he told me he went to check on Auden because he was crying and then he heard a big thunk and realized before he got into the bedroom that THIS KID IS NOT IN HIS CRIB. It's nobody's fault, just, arrggghhh, I thought to myself that morning "Hmmm, he's getting kind of taller and maybe we shouldn't leave the crib gate down anymore...like, I think the instructions say don't leave it down EVER." Don't turn us in to CPS, please.

So.

Now it's March! And in a few short weeks Auden turns 1. Egad.

I'm composing another ode to my quick-growing baby, because holy cats when did a whole YEAR go by? I can't garauntee it will actually coincide with his birthday, but stay tuned.

*

things worth noting: with colons

The paradox of the blogging life: when you have time to blog, it means there's not a lot worth noting. When everything goes gangbusters all at once, you don't have any time to write it down.

Gangbusters: first steps, first tooth. In that order. Followed by two nights in a row of 8:00pm to 5:30am sleeping.

And lest I start getting too comfortable with that: another tooth on its way. After all this time, I half-expect them ALL to pop through at once.

Also: we were making some strides with eating oatmeal and fruits other than pears, but now Auden is on a strict cracker-only diet and relegating everything else to the floor.

"Mona Lisa Smile" photo by Grandma Stoub

Oh, baby mine: how do you try my last nerve and charm my very sensibilities in the same blessed minute?

*

free to pee, you and me

It's time for a "diaper free" update, don't you think? I've been composing this post in my head for what feels like months, now, and I don't know whether it's heartening or totally discouraging that not much has changed in that time.

So.

When I was first reading about going diaper free, the book I read was full of pictures of cherubic infants, sitting by themselves on their wee pots, so happy to be peeing and pooping in this hygienic manner. The more I read, the more I loved the idea of it -- the babies WANT this! They can tell you so! -- and loved the idea of a truncated diapering commitment. Come to think of it, I loved the idea of a lot of things before Auden was born, like co-sleeping and making all my own baby food. And well, you know, it's all subject to change.

We burst out of the starting gate, eager to see if it really worked; we were mighty vigilant in those early months. We would let Auden hang out on the floor in just a cloth diaper with no cover, and would check on him every few minutes to give him a pee chance. If we took him out, we'd put a cover on him, but I was fairly obsessed with not letting him sit in a wet diaper EVER, so it took up a lot of what little mental energy I had. I was always thinking about it. We would give him pee chances at home, in the grocery store, the bushes, the park, the grass next to the parked car... I mean, we really gave it the ol' college try.

Then we moved, and he learned to crawl, and all was lost.

Okay, not all. But let's just say I've revised my expectations of being totally done with diapers by nine months. Ha! Nine months! Ha ha ha! Where did I get that number?

Instead we've relaxed and decided to work with what we've got. Which is an active baby who would rather play than give any helpful cues. Except for early morning farts -- then I know it's go-time.

I admit I've gotten lazy about the whole thing -- especially now that it's winter and Auden is usually wearing a bazillion layers, which is enough to dissuade me from offering regular pee chances -- but one thing I remember from the book was the emphasis on gentleness, and that goes for the parents as well as the baby. There's no sense in getting stressed out about it. I've talked to other folks who are doing it, and we all agree that you either do the work now, or you do it later, but either way you're going to do the work. I'm hoping that more work on this side of the Terrible Twos can only be advantageous.

So here's what we do:

• For pees, we offer him a chance if we think of it, especially if he's just eaten; offer him a chance if we go to change his diaper and it's still dry; offer him a chance to go in the shower or the sink if he ain't havin' the potty; and let him stand up to pee, like a big boy. (We also let a "no" be a "no" -- there's nothing like trying to force a baby to relax and pee while he's writhing and pulling your hair. So what if he goes the second you get that diaper on; you tried.)
  
• For poops, we hold him against our stomach, clench our muscles, and grunt (warning: if you do this it will also make YOU have to poop. You and your baby will synchronize your poop schedules. It will be weirdly gratifying).
• Yell "hooray" and clap like maniacs whenever we get it right.

On the down side: we used to catch a pee whenever Auden woke up, it was the one sure bet. Now he eats after naps instead of before, so that's off.

On the up side: we've started signing with him, and I think he's catching on. It's hard to say, though, because no matter what we sign, he waves his hand the same way. The same wave as hello and goodbye. Poor kid's going to think everyone has to go potty all the time.

Maybe once it warms up we'll let him run around with no pants and redouble our efforts, but for now I'm happier if I'm not thinking about it like we're training for the Great Diaper Free Marathon of Aught Nine. I don't mind saying, though, that I had to interrupt writing this to get him up from his nap and feed him, several minutes after which I handily caught a pee. Hmph.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to make a huge batch of baby oatmeal and buy a lottery ticket.

*

domestic tranquility

While Jason is spending a few days with his family, I'm holding down the home front and doing the baby wrangling on my own. It's decidedly less scary than the day that Jason went back to work and my mom flew home when Auden was just four days old, but I still needed to psyche myself up for it. My strategy is this: BE LIKE A SHARK AND KEEP MOVING. Here are some highlights.

The good:

• Auden actually cuddled with me for a few minutes after his afternoon nap today. Anyone who has seen this kid in action knows how rare this is.
• I made a delicious tofu moussaka for dinner yesterday, some amazing chocolate no-bake bars (per my mom's recipe... Fenna + energy = fennergy!) AND still had energy to work on some collages after Auden went to sleep. I rock.
  
• A positive visit to the doc on Monday, who gave permission for Auden to eat just about anything. Suddenly, he's showing marked interest in Veggie Booty, oatmeal, and crackers.
  

The bad:

• I'm feeling a wee bit cooped up in the house, running out of ideas and configurations of toys.
• Also, endlessly picking things up and being on crankiness management/damage control.
• The flip side of cuddliness is clingy-ness.
  
• We miss papa.

The ugly:

• Because of the sudden increase in, um, Veggie Booty, there have been some unscheduled blow-outs of distinct barnyard quality around here. Oof.
  

But on balance I'd say we're doing pretty well. We are both fed and clothed and the house is not a disaster. Tomorrow: art museum!

*

unpredictable baby genius

So, Auden is walking and talking these days. Such an active and intelligent toddler! Oh wait... it hasn't really been that long since I last posted. Ahem.

But it's not too far from the truth, if by walking you mean this:



And if by talking you mean "da da da" and other syllabic mimicry.

Lately when people ask how old Auden is, I have to pause and think about it. Uhh, 10 months? Give or take?

No, only 8. But holy crow, really? 8 months? I'd always pictured 6 months as the pinnacle of babyhood, especially when I was pregnant and six months of baby seemed epochs away. (But then, I was a little obsessive about keeping track of time at that point, too, ie: "I'll be 28 weeks in 2.5 days. Well, 2.75.") As a result, I knew a lot about what to expect during those six months, and not so much about what happens after. Maybe this is why Auden is utterly bored with all his toys -- I'm trying to give him a rattle and he wants a Rubik's Cube or something.

We've been going to some play groups during the week, and aside from relieving the walls-closing-in feeling of being in the house all day it gives me plenty of chances to see how the other humans are doing it: how often food? how many nap? what time bedtime?

I am much reassured to have such company, of course, and also slightly bemused to discover I've become one of those poor saps in the play area at the mall, tethered by slobbering offspring and sippy cups. Turns out the view from the inside isn't so bad, eh? Why, just the other day I caught myself cheerfully going about the trifecta of domestic duties (you know, diapers, dishes, dinner) with a feeling akin to pride that would have appalled my post-punk pro-revolution radical-womyn San Francisco self.

So most of the time I feel like I'm navigating without a map, making it up as I go -- especially in the baby food department -- but for all my dramatic casting about for A Plan and How to Follow It, I have discovered quiet moments of success:

• Auden was not interested at ALL in solids. I thought for sure he'd be the only kindergartner with a lunch box full of breast milk until one day, finally, he willingly opened his mouth and ate.
  
• The other day I was buckling him into the stroller for a walk, and realized his crying wasn't the usual why-are-you-always-buckling-me-into-SOMETHING-restrictive? fussing, but a hungry cry. I could tell the difference!
• A couple weeks ago I put him into his crib, fed and sleepy but awake, and he just rolled over and went to sleep without a sound.
  

I'd heard tell of these things, from beyond the hills, where all parents are patient and all children are cooperative...

All the things I read, all the things I "knew" about babies, while not useless, were perhaps staving off the inevitable realization that your baby teaches you in a hurry, and we're all learning as we go. Nothing goes according to plan; predictability is a fantasy best tossed aside with the bedclothes when you wake up. At 5:30. Or 6, or 7:45, or whatever.

I mean, of course, right? Auden is smart, he's learning, but he's not programmable. He's not a baby-bot. And if he were, it would probably just be a phase.

*

seven months

Dear Auden,

It's been a busy couple of months, huh? That's nearly a third of your life! We uprooted you from our little apartment among the eucalyptus trees and never-ending sunshine, visited all the grandparents in a whirlwind, and slept in enough different beds to confound your little sense of direction. Then we landed in a new house, a new city, a new way of doing things that involves sleeping alone and being entreated to swallow foods of perplexing flavor and texture and not being allowed to grab at all those lovely speaker wires.

Sometimes I forget that you are just a baby. Sometimes I get so caught up in wanting you to take a nap, or lie still for a diaper change, or to stay out of the garbage can for crying out loud, that I forget to honor the gorgeous spark of curiosity in you. You! The you that you are becoming, separate from me, with your own will and your own way.

You are ticklish under your chin. You giggle when I shake my hair in your face. You put everything into your mouth and test it with slobber (plastic kitchen funnel, okay; cell phone, didn't make it). You like to hold my fingers while you fall asleep in the sling, and I marvel at how warm and silky-soft your little hands are. You have a sense of humor now -- you laugh at papa's funny faces, you squeal with delight when I magically reappear from behind a door. You blow a mean raspberry.

You have been crawling for over a month, and are now a pro at pulling yourself up on anything -- steady or not. You have also mastered the one-hand-assisted stand, which lends itself to grabbing at yet more (wires, buttons, books, CDs, plastic bags) toys, and is also useful for crouching down to retrieve dropped things. You are an intrepid adventurer, and have no patience for my limitations, and no regard for danger. Or gravity.

You have discovered the joy of your own voice: you can make it yell, you can pitch it high in an eeeeeeeeee of pleasure, you can do a syllable that sounds like blah blah blah blah. You have also discovered the strangeness of water, and watch with wonder when I pour it on you in the bath. Then you slap it with your hands. Then you flail your legs and splash furiously and breathe in excited huffs when it gets all over your face.

My heart aches at how quickly this time goes. Every day you do something new, adding tiny layers of experience and recognition to your world. And while I celebrate your growth -- what choice do I have? -- part of me wants you to stay small, to always fit in my arms, to always burrow your fuzzy head into my neck when you're tired. Even on days that are hard (and there have been plenty of those), I find solace in the fact that this is the only day like it that I have with you. That doesn't exactly make me less tired, but it makes me more grateful, more attentive, more painfully open to the fleetingness of your infancy.

My sweet, beautiful son, I love you full to bursting.

love,
mama

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